In every society and culture there are rituals which make them unique, rituals that help shape who they are, rituals that define them. These rituals are filled with intricate actions laden with tradition and stories. Failure to observe such rituals may often be viewed by the elders as an action that angers the Gods which, for them, leads to more rituals to reverse the so called curse from the Gods. For a number of us, the ritual we tend to engage in at least once on a weekly basis is the near religious pilgrimage we make to visit the Temple of Pushcart so as to obtain a hot dog and please The God of Hunger.
For me, the ritual usually begins on a Friday as I make my way out for the night. After the night’s activities have concluded numerous people find themselves making their way to do one last thing before retiring for the night, “Geh sumting fi eat!” Without thought I find myself driving towards the park on Albert St. Trying to find parking, I embark on a mission of navigating my way around ‘crackheads’ who once again want to wash my car with a bucket that has no water and a rag that is guaranteed to scratch the paint of the car, annoying drunks who cannot tell the difference between yelling and talking, and the lonesome taxi man who makes a feeble attempt at deterring drivers from parking in the empty spots designated for other taxi drivers (that are home sleeping).
It’s almost 3am, but one might not get that impression with the number of people congregated in front of the park. At this hour these spots are prime real estate, and this is evident by the long row of pushcart vendors ready to fulfill the need to feed. Stepping out of the car you can hear the hustle and bustle that goes in sync with the sounds of meat landing on a hot pan causing the sizzling sound that triggers a Pavlovian response of salivation. Tiny puffs of smoke fill the air. Grease splatters. Talk continues.
For the large number of loyal patrons to the park, we each tend to be loyal to one particular vendor. When I arrive I seek out the hot dog lady with the red coca-cola pushcart. Over time my stomach has developed a monogamous relationship with this red cart, mainly because it’s the only place you can get damn good beef tacos, especially at this hour. But make no mistake; I am only human, and a man at that. And like most men, what we can’t get in one woman’s kitchen, we will try to get at another’s. Like the rice and beans or pupusas from the neighbouring vendors.
“One hot dog wit lee bit a peppa, and two dallas tacos wit lee bit a peppa. I wah eat it yah.” Before my order is complete the sizzling sound followed by the little puff of smoke from the meat hitting the grill leads me into a trance. And as I stand there waiting for my food, fending of the ‘crackheads’ and sipping on my coke, I feel the warmth radiating from the little lamp attached to the pushcart. My thoughts get distracted from eating the food to preparation of the food.
They’ve been preparing my food for years now, I’ve seen their kids grow up and yet I only know them as the red push cart hot dog people. And as I look down the line I notice a common theme amongst all the vendors present, these are some hardworking individuals doing what needs to be done to survive. Numerous occasions I’ve seen their kids either hanging around the pushcart playing with neighbouring kids or if they are old enough, helping in the family business. And sometimes I feel a slight air of guilt as I see my food prepared by one of the kids, but then again I take comfort and solace in knowing that the values of hard work instilled in this kid today will one day pay off as they rise to success on the backbone of sweat and dedication.
With the sight of my hot dog and tacos being constructed, my thoughts return to one thing, “Oh good Lord I’m hungry!” (as a matter of fact just writing about it right now is making me hungry). And in a ritualistic fashion, I eat the hot dog first, followed by the tacos, washing it down with the last sips of coke from the plastic bottle. As I make my way back to the car I am greeted by the ‘crackhead’ who ingeniously lifts up my windshield wipers to create the illusion that he washed my car. In a slightly better mood now that I’ve pleased The Gods of Hunger (represented by The Stomach and The Intestines), I rummage for what change I have and hand it over; a move I soon regret as I hear him say, “No worry bass I wah handle yo car next time I si yo”.
