“With the moratorium, they were essentially shutting everything down until they could come up with a new process, but for whatever reason, a lot of pieces within the legislation weren’t done, so it languished for several years,” Williams says. “It was picked back up again in 2005, just before I started, when a demonstration zone program started up that allowed for a study to begin as to how to create site agreements.”
The result was that the city decided to grandfather in existing vendors, giving them first crack at a site-specific permit for spots that had been mapped out throughout the city. Most chose to remain where they had been for twenty, thirty, or, in some cases, forty years, but some took advantage of information the city disseminated through ongoing vendor orientations, shifting to areas with less competition and growing need. There’s still a moratorium on curbside vending, meaning no new cart licenses, but food truck licenses are available to anyone who can get an operation up and running, a feat made just a bit easier through the city’s zero-asset loan program aimed at would-be vendors. There are still very particular laws regarding truck size (related to parking space dimensions), and an old ice cream truck law that says that there must be a queue of customers waiting in order for a truck to make a stop. But thanks to a change in the food code since the days when trucks were almost all limited to selling hot dogs, vendors can now sell just about any kind of food they’d like, as long as they pass their health inspection.
As messy as the regulation overhaul has been (and this is just the abbreviated version), the issue of what’s actually being served on D.C.’s streets seems to the hardest obstacle to tackle. Even a person with only a vague interest in food couldn’t help but be disappointed to discover cart after cart selling nothing but chips, soda, hot dogs, and that D.C. signature, the half-smoke (a chili-slopped dog of debatable origin that could best be described as a Polish sausage). “The irony … isn’t just that it’s vegetarians selling hot dogs, but it’s that the majority of these people would never conceive of eating the product they’re selling,” Williams says. “Many of our vendors are Ethiopian, some Eritrean, and a lot are living hand to mouth, with a tremendous amount of fear of trying something new. Plus they have these decade-long relationships with the cart depots, of which there are now only three that run everything, and those three have a stranglehold on the community.”
To attempt to dismantle this monopoly, the city is encouraging new vendors to start their own depots, and at the same time keeping a closer eye on the Big Three, doing what they can to prevent strong-arming. And to give the vendors a little push to start serving their native cuisine, Williams and the Department of Health even held a course called “You Don’t Have to Serve Hot Dogs” as part of a recent vendor orientation fair, which nearly five hundred people attended. “I would—and I know residents would—love to see injera and curries and all different types of food being sold from carts, not just to add a cultural element to the city, but the vendors might take more pride in their business if it’s a product they grew up with,” Williams says. “But so far, aside from a few new trucks embracing social media like Fojol Brothers, I haven’t seen anybody do it. I can’t think of one Ethiopian-owned cart selling Ethiopian food, but as long as we continue to improve our hand-holding, it will happen.”
Fojol Bros. of Merlindia
KEEP UP WITH IT: www.fojol.com or twitter.com/fojolbros
Once upon a time, in the fantastical faraway land of Merlindia, four friends set out to change the landscape of D.C.’s street food scene. Inspired by the new leader elected in the land of America, Kipoto, Dingo, Gewpee, and Ababa-Du carefully dressed in their turban and neon-jumpsuit best, waxed up their moustaches, and loaded up their traveling culinary carnival with all the traditional Merlindian foods: Ababa-Du’s spicy cyclones, mango lassipops, palakpaneer, chicken masala, and more. As millions filled the nation’s capital on Barack Obama’s inaugural day, the Fojol Bros. of Merlindia took their first lap around the city to a marching band soundtrack blasting out of their 1965 Chevy step van, selling their foods and spreading their message that it was indeed a time for change.
Nearly two years later, the Fojol Bros. are beloved by Washingtonians, probably more than the man they shared their own inauguration with. Now operated primarily by Kipoto (Peter Korbel) and Dingo (Justin Vitarello), the whimsical Indian-inspired food truck is welcomed with a line of loyalists every time it pulls over to set up shop. In fact, D.C.’s laws mandate that the truck must have a queue in order to park, so the Fojol Bros. have made something of an interactive game out of the regulation, encouraging customers who want to purchase food to stand on the corner and twirl like whirling dervishes, and giving a free meal to the first one to start the party. Don’t laugh; it works. The sight of a bunch of suits and ladies rocking the business skirt–pantyhose–sneakers combo spinning like blindfolded kids at a piñata party is something, but then again, folks will do anything for free food.
It helps when the food is good. While the Fojol Bros. are ambitious twentysomething guys with good business sense, oodles of creativity, and a million-dollar (okay, maybe a couple-thousand-dollar) idea, they also realize they’re a bunch of white guys looking to serve Indian food out of a truck while wearing turbans. Peter, er, “Kipoto,” points to his theater background as the culprit for some of the shtick, and he defends the getups as being “the farthest thing from racially insensitive,” pointing out that the guys have always been greeted with smiles and understanding that their headdress, like their Crayola-colored jumpsuits, gloves, and fake moustaches, is all part of a costume. What is authentic is the food, created by a consulting chef of Indian descent who wishes to remain anonymous—Peter simply calls their business partner “Suku” and says he has been in the Indian food business in the D.C. area for years.
Suku’s Indian standards are perfectly designed to be prepared ahead of time in a commissary kitchen, then loaded onto the truck for finishing (after all, it’s the same principle behind the success of Indian buffets, perhaps the only buffets worth eating from). The cinnamon-tinged dark meat chicken in turmeric-yellow gravy is a hot commodity, right up there with the silky spinach dotted with cubes of paneer cheese. The truck always travels with two vegetarian and two meat options, assembling combo plates on fluffy basmati rice steamed on the truck. Crunchy, salty snack mixes made from an assortment of potato sticks, puffed rice, toasted nuts, and traditional Indian spices are sold under names like Wingo’s Sweet Sticks, Gewpee’s Garlic Ribbons, and Kipoto’s Fortune Curls. But perhaps the cleverest concoction is the lassipop, a frozen take on the classic yogurt lassi, and flavored with fresh ginger, rose water, or mango pulp. The snacks, the lassipops, and even the bottled water are all packaged with the Fojol Bros. trademark carnivalesque logo, primed for placement in a supermarket near you—assuming the FDA accepts “Product of Merlindia” as sufficient labeling.
Fojol Bros. Butter Chicken
Serves 4
1 pound boneless chicken breast
1 pound chicken thighs
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 teaspoon red chile powder (Kashmiri preferred)
1 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted, plus extra for basting
MARINADE
1 cup yogurt
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon minced garlic, smashed into a paste with the back of a spoon
½ teaspoon garam masala
1 teaspoon red chile powder (Kashmiri preferred)
2 tablespoons minced ginger, smashed into a paste with the back of a spoon
2 tablespoons lemon juice
2 tablespoons mustard oil
MAKHNI “GRAVY”
3½ tablespoons unsalted butter
1 teaspoon whole green cardamom pods
½ teaspoon whole cloves
1 teaspoon whole black peppercorns
1 (2- to 3-inch) cinnamon stick
1 tablespoon minced ginger, smashed into a paste with the back of a spoon
4 or 5 green chiles, chopped
14 ounces tomato purée
1 tablespoon red chile powder (Kashmiri preferred)
1 teaspoon garam masala
2 teaspoons salt
1 cup water
½ teaspoon ground fenugreek
2 tablespoons honey
1 cup cream
Rice and naan or paratha, for serving
Cut the chicken breast and thigh meat into equal-size hunks suitable to skewering and grilling. In a small bowl, combine the lemon juice, red chile powder, salt, and 2 tablespoons butter to make a paste. Rub the paste into the chicken pieces. Place the chicken pieces in a bowl, cover, and refrigerate for 30 minutes.
Meanwhile, make the marinade. Line a colander with muslin cheesecloth and drain the yogurt for 15 to 20 minutes to remove the excess water. Transfer the drained yogurt to a bowl and add the remaining marinade ingredients. Apply this marinade to the chicken pieces and refrigerate for 3 to 4 hours.
Prepare a moderately hot fire in a grill (Fojol uses a tandoor) or preheat the oven to 400°F.
Thread the chicken pieces onto skewers and grill them just until the juices run clear, about 4 to 5 minutes, being careful not to overcook. Baste the chicken with butter during the last couple of minutes of cooking. Remove from the heat and set aside.
To prepare the gravy, melt the butter over medium heat in a medium to large sauté pan. Add the cardamom pods, cloves, peppercorns, and cinnamon. Sauté for 2 minutes, then add the ginger paste, garlic paste, and chopped green chiles and stir to combine. Cook for 2 minutes. Add the tomato purée, red chile powder, garam masala, salt, and water. Bring the mixture to a boil, then reduce the heat and simmer for 10 minutes. Add the fenugreek and honey, then add the cooked chicken to the gravy. Simmer for 5 minutes, then add the cream. Stir and let simmer for just a couple of minutes, then serve hot with the rice and naan or paratha.
( SIDE DISH )
If you see a crowd of suits clustered around Arlington, Virginia’s, Ballston Metro station just past quitting time, it’s not a sale on ties—it’s resourceful locals stopping to bring home the best pizza in the area. Under the guidance of Naples native Enzo Algarme and his partner Anastasiya Laufenberg, Pupatella (twitter.com/pupatella) uses all of the ingredients required by Neapolitan pizza snobs: Caputo 00 flour kneaded with water, yeast, and a touch of salt; San Marzano tomatoes; fresh mozzarella; perfect basil leaves; and a drizzle of Italian olive oil. The only difference between this and a pizzeria in Naples? Pupatella is on wheels. The candy-red cart was a way for Enzo and Anastasiya to get their business up and running with little cash, and it’s been a hit since they pulled the first pizza out of the propane-fired oven in the fall of 2007. So much so that investors stepped up to put Pupatella in a brick-and-mortar restaurant in May 2010, complete with an imported wood-burning oven that fires up pies at over 800°F. Still, the cart remains, with the duo splitting time between spots while keeping customers on their toes by topping the bubbly crusted pizzas with ribbons of bresaola, roasted eggplant, or wild mushrooms under gobs of Brie. No one ever makes it home without a missing slice.
Food Chain
KEEP UP WITH IT: www.foodchaindc.com or twitter.com/foodchaindc
For the suits and ties walking on autopilot from the subway station to the office each morning, the battered battalion of aluminum food carts lining their route become a blur of monotony and coronary-inducing junk: chips, candy, soda, hot dogs … chips, candy, soda, hot dogs … chips, candy, soda … jerk chicken wrap with coconut rice and mango salsa? What the … ? That’s the reaction Coite Manuel is counting on to make his Food Chain project a success.
When D.C. started reevaluating its street vending rules in 2007 and loosening restrictions on what could be sold from these decades-old carts, Coite took that as an opportunity to approach a few weathered vendors with a plan to help them invigorate their businesses. “My model is I operate like a small catering operation, looking at how I can work with existing vendors to do something different,” Coite says. “These are longtime, first-generation immigrant hot dog vendors that don’t have the financial means or restaurant savvy, and they’ve been selling all prepackaged food because for years that’s all D.C. allowed.”
Coite approaches vendors like Asefash Gebre, an Ethiopian immigrant who has spent every day for twenty years at her spot on 17th and M, selling the exact same lineup as every cart within a coin toss, purchased from the same mega-facility where the carts are stored for the night and restocked in the morning. If they agree to it, as Asefash did, Coite helps the vendors retrofit their carts, installing steam trays that will hold the food he prepares in his commissary kitchen, and offers training on what exactly a jerk chicken wrap or a Caribbean taco is and how to assemble it. He affixes new signage to their metal warhorses, stocks the coolers with Honest Teas, and gets on his Twitter account to let followers know the location of the newly Food Chain–ized cart. And in return, Coite takes a minimal fee, just enough to cover food costs, labor, and the kitchen space. So why does he do it? You could say he just came up with a smart business idea at the right time, or you could say the thirty-three-year-old Georgia boy just has a kind heart—after all, he volunteered in Guatemala for a couple of years before working at a D.C. nonprofit encouraging economic development in lower-income areas. “I’m glad to find him. He’s a nice guy and I only like honest people,” Asefash says. “I did hot dogs for twenty years, but we need money to pay the bills, and everywhere there are hot dog vendors, so I say to Coite, ‘Okay, let’s try your jerk chicken.’ ”
And how’s business? “I get people who say, ‘Oh this is great,’ but they don’t come every day. Still, I give it a chance. It’s better than hot dogs.”
Food Chain Chimichurri
Makes 1½ cups
This classic Argentine condiment gets a bit of a Southwestern spin, making it ideal for brisket barbacoa tacos.
½ pound ripe tomatillos, husked and chopped
½ cup chopped Italian parsley, stemmed
¼ cup chopped cilantro, stemmed
2 cloves garlic, minced
Juice of 1 lime
1 tablespoon ground cumin
2 teaspoons dried oregano
1 tablespoon kosher salt
¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil
In a food processor, pulse the tomatillos, parsley, cilantro, garlic, and lime juice until finely blended. Add the cumin, oregano, and salt. Turn the food processor onto its slowest speed and slowly add the olive oil until the mixture is emulsified and a uniform consistency.
( SIDE DISH )
It was only a matter of time before the fro-yo craze went mobile—after all, it isn’t that far removed from soft serve—but it’s surprising that Pinkberry or Red Mango wasn’t the first to do it. Three Georgetown grads turned a senior-year entrepreneurship class project into reality in 2007 when they launched Sweetgreen, an eco-minded fast-casual eatery specializing in salads and frozen Stonyfield yogurt. Two years after opening their first location on their alma mater’s campus, the business has grown to include six stores and SweetFlow Mobile (www.sweetgreen.com/sweetflow.php or twitter.com/sweetflow mobile), a roving fro-yo truck that turns college students into dollar-wagging kids chasing the ice cream man all over again. The truck follows the same “green” mantra of the stores, from compostable cups and spoons to a pulley system that runs off the spinning turbines of the battery-powered engine to power the yogurt dispenser, cutting down fuel emissions by 80 percent. The tangy snow-white fro-yo is pretty similar to the cult-favorite big boys, with the usual lineup of fresh fruit, granola, and crushed cookie toppings, but when half the people standing in line are texting and Twittering that the truck has arrived, you could say the buzz factor just got a leg up.
Sâuçá
KEEP UP WITH IT: www.eatsauca.com or twitter.com/wheresauca
When Farhad Assari is standing at the Sâuçá truck, the
re is no doubt he is the owner. Not only is he the most well-heeled guy around—sporting designer shades, a custom-tailored suit, buffed wingtips, and slicked-back salt-and-pepper locks—but he walks around like, well, like he owns the place. With his sunflower-yellow food truck parked on the George Washington University campus, Farhad is examining every element of his creation, as well as the students’ reaction to it. “Why aren’t all of the sauces out?” he asks a worker inside the truck.
“We have twenty-two, you know,” he continues, turning to me to explain. “And we plan to sell them eventually, but I’m in the process of figuring out how I’m going to display them. We’re going to have a sauce mixology thing where you can mix and match. And we have this amazing music system. That’s a satellite TV antenna up there,” he says, pointing to the roof of the truck. “We’re going to show the World Cup, images from around the world. And we do karaoke with four microphones. And we have a phone that sits right here,” he says, patting the silver counter jutting out from the truck’s side. “It’s called Token Time. And we give a token after the purchase of each Sâuçá, and every two tokens gives you a minute anywhere in the world to talk on the phone. It’s for people to connect to the world.”
He says this last part with a dramatic flourish, waving his arm to suggest “the world” before he goes on to explain that one of the four cameras mounted to the truck is a live webcam, inspired by a juice stand in Iran where people would line up to see themselves broadcast on the video screen mounted to the cart. Farhad is Iranian himself, but with a father who worked as a diplomat for the Iranian embassy, Farhad came about his wanderlust moving around from place to place before heading to Switzerland for boarding school. It was NYU for college, Wharton for business school, then two decades of investment banking that bounced him around to London, Kuwait, Geneva, Dubai, and Hong Kong while making him plenty of money doing it. He wound up back in D.C. when his mother became ill, moving in to care for her, and it became clear “that the sexy life as an investment banker wasn’t going to work anymore,” he says. “I had to think to myself, what do I really love? Other than making a lot of money, investment banking is not that gratifying. So my criteria were four things: whatever I do has to fit in my time schedule, it has to be something new and exciting, it has to be in the food world, and it has to do some good. And what is it about food that’s interesting? It brings cultures together. All of us are the same other than our sauces. The protein, the carbohydrates are the same. It’s the sauces that make the difference. And that is how I came up with Sâuçá.” Originally, Farhad wanted to name his business Sauce, but his lawyer told him he couldn’t trademark a common English word. “And I thought, so what? I’ll just change the last letter and make it international. It’s nothing language. It’s nothingness. I wanted to put the two dots on the ‘u’ as well, but that was just too much.”
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