i dream about food vans. and how many i could make and how many could i make as soon as possible.
and how many i could put on little boats and send to the world, because the world would enjoy good texas chili.
the world deserves delicious soul food.
and the world would totally pay up for a slice of real chicago deep dish.
problem is the world doesnt just let you get a van and start shoving slop out there, but here in LA you can.
you can start up a medical marijuana store and you can sell food out of vans here. its amazing.
its what we traded for instead of having the raiders.
somehow we got pinkberries too.
id have all sorts of vans, but the one id drive would be the mystery van.
it would be a black primer, ugly, beaten up, rusty job with a huge question mark on the side.
“whaddya want?” a man looking faintly like me would say from beneath a top hat.
some days the whiteboard ducttaped to the smokey window would say “chicken, pepperoni and avacado” or “chocolate, vanilla, and doritos” or three other ingrediants, and youd pay the man $9 and you’d get like a chicken dinner, or a 16″ pepperoni hero sub, or a hot fudge sundae molded to look like one of the us presidents.
$9 because everyone should tip at least a buck.
students, seniors, nurses and cubfans get a $5 discount.
all sales final.
the tshirts will say: eat at yr own risk.
the food would come in black boxes with crazy faces on them. you get a bottle of water for free.