Delectable Horror

Here it is, the place where my two inner selves do battle. The Germaphobe vs. the Chubby Kid. The squeamish fighting the indulgent.

Ground zero: the streets of New York City.

The Battle Royale: Donahue vs. Street Meat. 

I have a weakness for New York's various forms of cart food. I walk past the Halal meat guy every night after work, his twinkling lights mesmerizing me as he calls out like an old carnival barker: "Kabob! Kabob! Schwarma!" I watch as tourists in Times Square indulge in dirty water dogs, their indigestion a souvenir they subject themselves to for the "experience." Further on, the guy at the baked potato cart piles pillows of sour cream and mounds of bacon-- street bacon--onto my favorite type of carb. Is there anything better?

"I'm like a salad bar on steroids."

 I can usually avoid the pitfalls of these temptations by reminding myself of how germy they must be. I strut past the schwarma guy and think of E-coli, I avoid street bacon by reminding myself it's probably got bird crap somewhere in it. When I really want to be grossed out,  I look at the sniffling humanoids picking at the glistening buffalo wings at the local deli buffet. No sneeze guard known to man can protect against the horror of a Times Square lunch hour.

Fuck the Man. Give us your money.

That's all changing now, as more and more haute cuisine carts pop up in New York. I noticed it about four years ago, when I stumbled upon a Mud Truck on St.Mark's place, parked outside of Starbucks. I generally dislike Starbucks because I find it infuriating that they charge so much for coffee, so I headed towards the Mud Truck. The coffee, I should say, was delicious. The Mud Truck describes itself as "anti-establishment coffee," so I was shocked by the sticker price. But still-- it was good, and not Starbucks. Somehow getting ripped off by an independent vendor was more appealing.

Gourmet ice cream, because in SoHo regular ice cream isn't good enough.

Since then, new trucks are seemingly on every street. Forget Sal, the vendor from my where I grew up in Brooklyn, who was rumored to sell you pot if you asked for a pretzel with no salt (I was always to fixated on a Chocolate Eclair ice cream to try him). Now dessert trucks run by famed pastry chefs drive around the city, gourmet ice cream vendors are everywhere, and even tapas trucks roam the streets. They're basically restaurants on wheels. They're chic and cost effective-- they're a culinary craze.

And worse... they're clean. They're retro on the outside and spotless on the inside, breaking down my usual resistance. Suddenly I am defenseless. I walk by and eye them, while the vendors inside call to me, offering me a sample or a free soda with whatever I buy. The mean streets have become a very unsafe place for me.

I am kind of at a loss for how to deal with this development. So for now, I am relying on word association:

Street food= food truck= eating at food truck= body like Martha Dumptruck. 

Sorry, Martha, I feel your pain but I want to be a Heather!

I'll let you know how it goes.