Food trucks grinding to halt

Pandemic breaks back of already close-to-bone operations

WASHINGTON — In midMarch, as the pandemic was just beginning, Red Hook Lobster Pound owner Doug Povich spent $1,000 to service one of his food trucks.

He thought he’d be able to recoup the expense quickly, relying on brisk spring and summer sales of Maine lobster rolls out of his two trucks and sidewalk cart.

But four days later, Povich learned that the District of Columbia would be more or less shutting down because of the coronavirus. He paused his operations indefinitely. Meanwhile, the $1,000 in food truck repairs was added to more than $100,000 in loans he routinely takes out to allow his business to survive every winter, when sales are low.

He didn’t consider taking out small-business loans under the federal Paycheck Protection Program — they would be forgiven only if he spent 60% of the money on employment costs. With only five full-time staffers, most of his budget went to food and overhead.

By April, Povich came to a difficult conclusion. He decided to sell the business he had spent more than a decade building.

“For us, the timing was as bad as it could have been,” Povich said of the pandemic shutdown. “If it had happened in September, it would have been no problem.”

Red Hook Lobster Pound’s closing has shaken much of the D.C. region’s food truck industry, which sees Povich as one of its founding fathers. He helped organize the DMV Food Truck Association 10 years ago, as one of D.C.’s first food truck owners.

For many owners, operating a food truck already required working 80- to 100-hour weeks just to break even.

But with the pandemic canceling events, keeping office workers at home, and drying up large crowds and foot traffic, food trucks have suffered. Experts estimate their revenue has been cut in half.

From Scratch food truck owner Branislav Pavic wakes up at 5 a.m. to start prepping the Balkan dishes he sells, and then drives up to an hour to his location for the day, where he spends three hours cooking inside his cramped truck, stoves raising the interior temperature to a blazing 115 degrees.

Wearing a mask as he interacts with customers from the window, he sells cevap, his signature mix of ground beef and pork topped with kajmak, a buttery milk spread, or a chicken sandwich covered with ajvar, a roasted pepper and eggplant mix — and then drives home, where he wipes down everything to start prepping for the next day.

And that’s assuming nothing in the truck breaks down along the way.

“The successful ones fought really hard to figure out the first things that worked for them,” said Ross Resnick, the founder of Roaming Hunger, a national organization that connects 18,000 food trucks, including hundreds in the region, to events that want to host the trucks. “And covid just takes all of it and shakes it all up.”

Muhammad Badah, who started District Falafel and Holy Moly Hummus five years ago, said 2019 was a “perfect year.” He invested $100,000 into his food truck business. He bought a house in Rockville, Md., with his wife and two children. He hoped to open his own bricksand-mortar restaurant.

The day in June when he reopened his food trucks after months of them sitting idle, he made just $80. With about $2,000 in monthly expenses, from paying for permits, insurance and basic maintenance, he, too, closed up shop indefinitely — and abandoned the idea of renting a storefront. But the expenses remain.

“It’s a mixed feeling between depression and anger. I was really counting down,” Badah said of starting the restaurant. “If you ask me if I have hopes, I don’t. It’s hopeless.”

Badah, like many other entrepreneurs, saw starting with a food truck as the easiest way into the industry. This low barrier of entry means many of the owners might have fewer reserves to weather the storm, said Kimberly Severt, the director of the hospitality management program at the University of Alabama.

“Many owners start with a food truck to see if a concept works,” Severt said, adding that many rely on a loyal customer base to survive, especially at the beginning.

Pavic didn’t start making money until last year, his third year after starting his food truck.

Though he said he’s seen up to 50% in revenue losses this year, he’s been able to stay afloat because of a loyal base of mostly Balkan immigrants. Last week, when Pavic set up in Tysons, Va., he had a nearconstant flow of customers, many of whom drove 30 minutes and parked right in front of his red-and-white food truck when they arrived.

“We come here every time he’s in the area,” Sasha Rajic, an information technology worker in Tysons, said as he and two co-workers waited for their orders. “At this point, Branislav is like a friend. And we want to support him.”