But such tales are rare in a neighborhood where "The Tamale Lady," Virginia Ramos, is revered as a cultural icon, celebrating her birthday annually at the hipster Zeitgeist bar where she peddles her hearty treats.
"We live in a neighborhood where anything goes," says Kosta Eleftheriadis, the owner of 23rd & Mission Produce. He says he snitches to the cops at least once a week about the fly-by-night produce vendors who, with no overhead and no taxes, undercut his prices. "[People] say they're just trying to make a living, but I have to make a living, too." He laments there's not a lot of political will to keep them off the streets. Indeed, even Health Department spokesperson Eileen Shields raves about the bacon-sheathed franks: "Thank God we haven't ruined these people by getting a permit. I'm sure they wouldn't be anywhere as good!"
Jared Gruenwald
The illicit bacon-wrapped dogs.
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Many of the vendors say they'd love to go legit, but there are too many obstacles. Police ask for a Social Security number in order to get a permit, when many applicants are undocumented. Then there's the price, with legal carts costing from $8,000 to $12,000 — plus $1,500 in license fees. Crowded Mission sidewalks leave few spots that would comply with the space requirements, and carts can't offer any food available at an existing brick-and-mortar establishment within two blocks, prohibiting just about every dish in a neighborhood glutted with Latino eateries.
Some in the community want to help such entrepreneurs transition away from the mere "income patching" of illegal sales to economic self-sufficiency through a legal gig. (When figuring in the food costs and work hours, most are making far below the minimum wage.) The three-year-old nonprofit La Cocina rents a commercial "incubator kitchen" for a maximum of $15 an hour to low-income immigrant women, many of whom had previously sold home-cooked food on the streets or at under-the-table restaurants operating out of their houses. With 22 current clients, the program's staff helps the cooks calculate the true cost of their food and their labor, increase their production, and develop a brand to promote as a catering service or food booth at farmers' markets.
Getting illegal vendors off the street would cheer up at least one struggling restaurant owner on Mission. Angel Vaca, the owner of Mr. Pollo, bought a hot dog steamer a year ago to compete with the street vendors, but could sell only two or three a day. "My wife said, 'Start selling in the street and you'll make more money. There's no need to have a location!'"
Still hiding out back on 23rd Street, Marquez hardly sees himself as an object of envy as he loads his cooling hot dog cart into the van of another vendor, who will drive it back to Oakland. The police got rid of them for today, but not for long. "It's part of the job to be a little stubborn," he says, and promises to be back on Friday.
