Print“I don’t care if you’re a licensed or a non-licensed vendor, blue, yellow, or white. You should have rights!” exclaims Bart, a yellow-card-holding, disabled veteran street vendor whose name has been changed to protect his anonymity. He’s speaking at a meeting for the Street Vendor Project, a subsection of the Urban Justice Center. Their goal is to secure rights for food and general merchandise vendors selling their wares on the streets of New York.
The meeting feels like a civil rights rally: street vendors from all walks of life congregate to discuss being harassed by cops, red tape in city hall, and the trials and tribulations of everyday street vendor life. Even Columbia grads face difficulties in the cart-eat-cart world of street vending, as students learned when the beloved downtown pit stop the Dessert Truck—founded by Columbia alumni—was shut down in early August after its owners were unable to renew their permit. With the Vendy Awards, which select the best street food in New York City, only a week away, street vendors—their supposed turf wars and the black market dealings surrounding obtaining a vendor permit, specifically—have made their way into the forefront of city politics and gossip.
In-the-Black Market
New York City stopped issuing new street cart permits in the 1970s, meaning that only a few dozen new permits become available every year.
But there are three magical words that always guarantee a vendor a permit: disabled war veteran. While the waiting list for non-veterans is years long, veterans are guaranteed permits for desirable locations, meaning that many food trucks are run either by vets or by people partnered with them.
“It was Abraham Lincoln who said that everyone, even our poor and our disabled, should have something to make a living for themselves with,” Bart asserts. The most profitable spaces in Manhattan, like Times Square, are reserved for blue-card war veterans, while yellow cardholders can sell everywhere blues cannot. While space is open for more yellow cardholders, the waiting list for white cards—the only type of permit available for non- disabled veterans—is thousands long. Although there is some antagonism between those who hold different permits, most of the vendors’ resentment is channeled toward the city. “They [the city] should give permits to those who deserve them,” complains Hussain Asghar, a fruit cart seller.
“Fifty percent of vendors sell their permits— they don’t even use them,” Asghar continues. “I am a vendor of fifteen years and I have never had my own permit. Some people came yesterday, and they have a permit.” This shortage has fueled a thriving and profitable black market. In June, the New York Times reported that six people had been arrested and charged with fraud for selling illegal underground food vendor permits. Of the city’s 3,000 vending permits, around 500 are held illegally.
“My friend had to buy a permit on the black market, and it cost him $8,000,” says Mohammed Ali, who runs a hot dog stand on Liberty Street. By contrast, it only costs $60 to obtain a permit through legal means—a nearly impossible feat for a vendor without veteran status.
Petitioning the city to reform street vendor permit laws is one of the many goals of the Street Vendor Project, a grassroots activism project that bands together street vendors and brings their goals to the attention of the city and public. “The goal of our organization is to educate and empower street members to start their own business. People are looking for a job, a chance to create and innovate, but they can’t pay the sky-high rent,” explains Cheikh Fall, vendor and Street Vendor Project board member.
Yellow Lights and Red Tape
No one knows more about the city’s frustrating regulations on food carts than Jerome Chang, CC ’99, and Chris Chen, CBS ’08, cofounders of city favorite the Dessert Truck. Their innovative food cart sold gourmet desserts to passersby, a business model that has since been taken up by copycats like the Treats Truck and Street Sweets. After an almost two-year run as one of the first and most successful upscale food trucks in Manhattan, the Dessert Truck was forced to shut its doors this August because their business partner—a disabled war veteran—had trouble renewing his permit. “The decision not to renew it is being appealed, but there’s only one person in charge of that, so the appeal may take about a year,” explains Chang. In the meantime, the Dessert Truck is catering private events in the city.
While the Dessert Truck obtained a permit fairly easily by partnering with a disabled war veteran, the business also faced numerous complicated and arbitrary regulations that didn’t take into account the individual needs of separate street vendors.
“There’s a big reason why more creative businesses like ours can’t thrive on the street: because of all the inefficiencies and red tape in the system. In a Starbucks, only one person needs a license to handle the food, but everybody working in a truck needs a license—even the cashier,” Chang explains. “The application process [for a food handling license] can take maybe three months if you’re diligent. That’s a lot for someone who just wants to serve food on the street.” Food trucks also have to save receipts when they purchase their food, a burdensome regulation to which restaurants are not subjected.
Additionally, trucks must be parked in a commissary, with rationale that they will prepare their food on site. “They’re more disgusting than a regular parking lot!” says Chang. “With the more creative trucks, you’re not going to be able to prepare your food there.”
Vendin’ Dirty
After the extensive wheeling and dealing required to obtain a permit and the hassle involved in following regulations, food carts still have to deal with the street authorities. “We get pushed around by cops, the business district, community councils,” laments Bart.
Many food vendors complain that policemen sometimes arbitrarily exert their power, using their authority mainly to enforce petty regulations like the distance between cart and curb. “Most police are just doing their job, but a lot of them come with a nasty attitude,” says general merchandise vendor Tyrone B. “A lot of police aren’t veterans, though, and I think they’re envious of us.”
The complicated regulations governing where vendors can and cannot sell is unfamiliar to a lot of cops. “The police come out and have had no training in what the various licenses are and what they mean,” Bart explains. “I met a cop who spent eight years pushing around vendors and didn’t even know the difference between a blue and a yellow license.”
Surprisingly enough, relationships between vendors are much less tense than their relations with the NYPD. Despite publicity on supposed turf wars, food carts’ owners actually maintain an uneasy truce. “We never did [have any problems with other vendors] because we made a point not to step on any toes,” Chang says of his experience. “A lot of people [new vendors] are having trouble because they’re being jerks about it.”
Tyrone agrees: “There are petty fights [among food cart vendors]. It can get ugly, but generally it doesn’t. Merchandise vendors are a different story, though. It goes to war, believe me.”
Competition for merchandise-selling locations in high traffic areas and on street corners can get especially heated. “Last year some thugs from Egypt tried to push me in front of a taxi cab in order to get my spot on the street,” says Bart.
It’s Hard Out There for a Vendor
In spite of the hardships faced by food and merchandise vendors alike, many maintain that selling on the streets still has appeal—especially compared to the high-rent alternative of operating a café or store. “The dessert truck is the first business of its kind in history, where you offer really high-end gourmet food on the street and make it available to everybody,” says Chang. “In my time at Columbia, I majored in African American studies. I feel like with the Civil Rights movement, people started to fulfill the Declaration of Independence: ‘Everyone is created equal.’ With the truck movement, it’s about giving everyone access to really good food. There’s a connection there.”
Chang should feel proud of himself: he and Chen helped to spearhead the new trend of bringing gourmet food to the masses. With new trucks like Cupcake Stop and People’s Pops appearing regularly on the streets of New York, high-end desserts are no longer the exclusive territory of elitist bakeries.
But despite their influence, vendors must continually struggle to earn a living in the face of police and city regulations—especially the more traditional halal and hot dog cart owners. The Street Vendor Project now has 800 members, a significant chunk of the 10,000 or so vendors in New York City, including many that will not be backing down anytime soon. “I’m a firebrand—I start trouble, and I don’t like to be pushed around,” Bart asserts. Many vendors are banking on the Street Vendor Project as a vehicle for change, or at the very least, as a strong voice to represent a frequently overlooked group in city politics.
And regardless of the difficulties associated with the job, many vendors wouldn’t change careers even if the opportunity presented itself. “It’s a rough business,” admits Tyrone. “You have to deal with other vendors, you have to deal with the police. But I love this job because I’m a people person. I love people.”