Austin Berg is executive director of the Chicago Policy Center.
It’s part food cart, part performance art in the nation’s capital.
Shysters Dogs is the brainchild of Isaac Stein, an IRS attorney furloughed last year who had dreams of running a hot dog cart since he was a boy.
Customers flock to the corner of M and First Street NE for a suit-clad Stein to sling what he calls “the only honest ripoff in D.C.,” a soft drink and a hot dog prepared the “correct” way (with spicy brown mustard and sauerkraut) for $10, or the “wrong” way (any other topping) for $11.
The cart has been a hit. And Stein isn’t alone. For centuries across American cities, food carts have served as a common vehicle for entrepreneurial ambition — typically for low-income immigrants with a strong work ethic and culinary skill, not lawyers.
But it’s a different story in Chicago.
The home of the Chicago-style hot dog does not have a single food cart licensed to sell hot dogs on city sidewalks, according to a Chicago Policy Center analysis of city data. It sounds unbelievable. But it’s true. This de facto ban speaks to a political structure and culture that still prioritizes who you know, rather than how well you serve customers.
For decades, Chicago did not allow food carts of any kind. Brick-and-mortar restaurantinterests lobbied city bureaucrats to keep street vendors from legally operating.
Meanwhile, vendors were still out selling sliced fruit, tamales and other street food illicitly across the city. An Illinois Policy Institute study uncovered the significance of this shadow economy: an estimated 1,500 street vendors generating $35.2 million in annual sales, $16.7 million in annual income, 2,100 jobs, and up to 50,000 meals a day — supporting 5,000 dependents.
But it was all underground. Vendors experienced routine harassment from criminals threatening to rob them and law enforcement who might throw away their food.
After community pressure, the city created a new license for food carts in 2015. Chicago South Siders Abraham and Maria Celio, owners of Yolis Tamales, were elated. They worked for more than a year to custom-fabricate and launch Chicago’s first licensed tamale carts in 2016, an inspiration to their daughter, Evelyn.
“It’s great that she can grow up in this business environment,” Abraham said to me. “The kitchen has become like a second home for her. Who knows? She might want to hold down the fort someday.”
But nearly a decade later, there are just 14 licensed food carts of any kind in Chicago. Compare that with New York, home to 7,000 licensed food cart vendors. Something is clearly wrong in Chicago.
One issue with the city’s licensing regime is that it does not allow for food handling or preparation of any kind on a cart. And the city interprets “preparing” food broadly. It could mean placing a hot dog in a bun, or adding condiments. That’s why Chicagoans do not see Chicago-style hot dog carts — famous for their “dragged through the garden” toppings, complete with sport peppers and sweet pickle relish — outside of the occasional park district concession.
Chicago’s ban on street food is costly. A 2015 analysis found the city could collect millions of dollars in additional sales tax revenue every year by licensing more food cart vendors. And the costs for Chicago’s iconic culinary culture may be more severe. Indeed, the Chicago-style hot dog itself was born and popularized through street vendors. Vienna Beef, the foundation of the Chicago-style dog, started as a small stand run by immigrant brothers-in-law at the World’s Columbian Exposition in 1893. Seventy years later in nearby Villa Park, Portillo’s, a restaurant “synonymous with Chicago,” was born in a 6-by-12-foot trailer with running water from a garden hose.
Of course, food cart policy is not Chicago’s biggest problem. The city’s debt addiction and lack of a basic governance structure are more pressing. But this issue is an opportunity for Mayor Brandon Johnson (D) to match his progressive rhetoric with action.
Food carts sit at the bottom of the economic ladder. They require little capital. They allow someone to test an idea, earn income and move up. And that is precisely why they struggle to exist in a city organized around gatekeeping. The hot dog guy doesn’t hire a zoning attorney. He doesn’t have a lobbyist. He doesn’t know which favors to ask for or which relationships to cultivate.
But sadly, the mayor has shown little interest in championing food carts, despite vendors operating at great personal risk in recent months.
Johnson has acknowledged that low-income Chicagoans are forced to “leave their neighborhoods and spend money outside of their communities to find healthy, affordable, enjoyable food options.” But that wasn’t in reference to making it easier for locals to sell food to their neighbors. Rather, it was a news release announcing funding to explore government-run grocery stores.
Chicago should set the table for this industry with simple rules, enforced consistently, then get out of the way as local cooks serve their communities: breakfast, lunch and dinner.
The post Chicago does not have a single licensed hot dog cart. Here’s why. appeared first on Washington Post.
