NYC Street Vendors Hustle Under Broken Food Cart System
By Hanna Park
New York — Mohamed Ali Saad’s day begins at 5:30 a.m., when he pulls on a black beanie, slides into rubber clogs, and quietly slips out of his small, third-story apartment in Elmhurst, Queens to the Garment District where his food cart is parked.
For twelve hours a day, five days a week, Saad, 53 — who emigrated from Egypt 23 years ago — settles in a spot on the sidewalk beneath the razzle-dazzle of Times Square selling hotdogs, pretzels, and sodas.
“America has opportunities,” Saad says, heaving as he wheels his 300-pound cart to his usual spot. “I knew that since I was a kid — and it’s true! Here you can get money. You can get respect.”
He became a food vendor upon his second day in America — following the suit of his father — and remained in the business after experiencing the glee of earning $400 a week. While the amount may be meager for some, it was a fortune for Saad. But his dreams of respect and economic success have been dimmed by a network of brokers and would-be vendors that have evaded the haphazard efforts of the government bureaucracy.
Saad is among the 20,000 people — predominantly immigrants — who operate food carts in a city that awards only 4,000 permits. The cap imposed in the early 1980s has led some 17,000 food vendors like Saad to purchase a two-year permit — which the Department of Health grants by lottery for $200 — for as much as $28,000 on the flourishing black market. Few people lucky enough to have gotten the permits in the 1980s have willingly given them up. Instead, they rent the permits to others like Saad, even though such dealings are a violation of city rules. At the center of this underground economy are brokers or mediators who navigate between these licensed owners — mostly retired vendors who moved on to more lucrative businesses — to lease their permits to potential seekers. While the city’s limited permit is renewable, it is non-transferrable on the ledger.
Like most vendors, Saad bought his permit through a broker he knew by word of mouth. His permit cost $25,000, paid out in monthly installments, to run a food cart where he sells $3 hot dogs.
In recent months, the City Council held a hearing on legislation to overhaul the illicit cartel system. The bill, sponsored by Council Members Carlos Menchaca — New York State’s first Mexican-American elected official — and Margaret Chin — the first Asian American woman to serve on the Council — would raise the cap by 4,000 over the next 10 years and establish a street food vendor advisory board comprised of property owners, brick-and-mortar restaurants, city agencies, representatives from community groups, labor unions, and street food vendors to enforce the new laws.
“Vendors are a vital and indispensable part of our economy,” Menchaca said during a City Hall statement championing the bill. “Yet they are subject to an arbitrary and broken regulatory system that is unfair to everyone. Add to this the fact that most vendors are immigrants, and it’s clear that we are dealing with an economic and immigrant justice issue of the highest order.”
But while the bill to increase the caps had first gained momentum in 2016, it has faced mounting backlash from the real estate industry and business improvement districts (BIDs) that represent property owners who raised concerns about clogged sidewalks, sanitation issues, and unwanted competition. This tug-of-war between street vendor advocates and real estate opponents continue to stall the bill to gridlock within the city government. While Senator Jessica Ramos has introduced a statewide law that prevents cities from limiting the number of street vendors, Speaker Cory Johnson and Mayor Bill De Blasio have blocked the bill, standing by real estate interests.
Joseph Carella, the president of 34th Partnership (34SP), a BID created in 1989 at the request of then-Mayor Ed Koch — who had first issued these caps on permits — voiced his resistance to the bill. “Increasing the number of permits will only exacerbate, not eliminate the black market,” he said. “As long as the city sells the permits for relatively small fees, others will seek to monetize the system for their gain by hoarding and scalping permits.”
He also urged opposing the bill in fear that it will lead to a chaotic increase of vendors, and thus, more competition between businesses. “Adding more food carts will only make things worse,” Carella pressed on. “Other private entities that wish to use city property is subject to a rigorous approval process and comparatively higher fees. This is certainly true with restaurants that wish to have sidewalk cafes, which vendors do not go through.”
However, Matthew Shapiro, the legal director of Street Vendor Project (SVP) — a leading non-profit for cart operators around the city — confirmed that the bill would not add to the black market because each permit would be linked to the individual owners. Currently, there is no requirement that a permit holder needs to work in their own cart, further abetting the trading system. “The new permits are like an ID card with your picture on it,” he said, shedding light on the root of the problem. “The idea of portraying vendors as unwanted competition also shows that the city doesn’t and never thought of vendors as small businesses. They thought of them as some problem or some issue to deal with.”
Referring to the current impasse on the bill, he raised his eyebrows and added, “The brick-and-mortar business community, the restaurant community, the property owners, the people who have more power in the city — they get responses from the city. And the vendors who are most marginalized from the immigrant population, don’t get the benefit of the doubt.”
Shapiro emphasized that street vendors were like any other businesses that catered to their set of customers. “There are people in the morning who want to get a $1 coffee from the cart and people who go to Starbucks for a fancier coffee. If you have a big pizzeria and you sit down and order pizza, that’s one model. But right next door, a little tiny narrow storefront opens up that does the 99-cent pizza,” he continued. “There’s no tables and chairs. It’s just quick. They’re paying a lot less in rent and fewer expenses than the full-service-sit-down with servers. So, is the 99 cents pizza unfair competition? No. It’s completely different. Some people want a 99-cent pizza and people who want to sit down and order pizza for $3 a slice or $20 for a pie.”
Meanwhile, Justin Pollack, an advisory board member at SVP, said he supported the bill because street vendors embodied two crucial New York values. “The first is that if anyone works hard, regardless of whether or not they have the right language skills or where they’re from — they can go to work immediately. The other value is that they’re just really convenient for me and everyone else. And that combination is powerful.”
“In a way like taxes, there are vested interests of those who have permits and those of retailers who like things the way it used to be,” he added, pushing his glasses up his nose. “But scores of academic studies show that street vendors increase traffic, which is not at all bad for retailers.”
According to a 2012 study by the Institute for Justice, street vendors contributed 17,960 jobs, $71.2 million in taxes, and $192.3 million in wages to the city’s economy each year. Likewise, Saad’s value-added is everything from transforming the sausage, sauerkraut, garlic, and buns into a hot lunch served to hungry tourists and workers in need of a quick bite.
How?
His food comes from one of the 130 commissaries or warehouses attached to a garage where he picked up his cart from this morning. The city requires that food carts be serviced and supplied by a commissary of varying sizes with different owners in New York.
At $95, the commissary has provided everything Saad needs for the day: several bags of pretzels, two 30-lbs bags of charcoal, five Sterno cans, few dozen soda bottles, buns, frozen meat, four large plastic containers of water for washing, additional cleaning materials, and some napkins.
In turn, his fees and sales tax generate a ripple effect that supports the jobs and production of his suppliers and colleagues.
As for himself, Saad earns about $130 on an average day — after paying the commissary and splitting the cash proceeds with his assistant workers who help him when needed. On good days during the summer, he can earn up to $500, while on bad days in the cold he earns less than $20.
But rain or shine, Saad still has to save $260 per week to pay out his monthly permit debt.
Yet, opposition from property owners like Carella kept Saad disillusioned about the pending bill that would alleviate his financial distress, especially as he witnessed the price of permits mushroom throughout the years, beginning at $3,000.
“When it suddenly jumped to $12,000, that was the turning point,” he said, heating his chapped hands above the charcoal he lighted. “We already thought that was expensive. We started fighting with the city to process more permits for the vendors, with hopes that everybody could get a permit. But so far, nothing has happened during the last seven to eight years. We were fighting for nothing.”
Saad shuddered at the thought that his permit belonged to someone who did not even work at a cart.
“Somebody is getting paid $25,000 for nothing,” he said, moving on to light his propane stove. “Maybe he’s at home or driving Uber or owns a business. I don’t know what he’s doing, but he doesn’t deserve it,” Saad shrugged, furrowing his brows behind his dark-rimmed glasses.
Despite his exasperation, the byzantine codes and players of the system prevented Saad from ever thinking about blowing the whistle on the permit holder. “If I try to put him in trouble or say he’s not paying taxes, the owner won’t renew the permit next time and will see someone else. Vendors have no other options. If I cannot deal with the guy or make him feel safe under the rules, I will not get a permit. And the city won’t give you one.”
However, he did not blame the permit owners for sustaining the illicit trade. Rather, other key players were possibly taking the most advantage of the furtive system that even the government had yet to address.
“Those brokers… they are the real reasons for the market,” Saad pointed out, waving a package of buns frantically in mid-air. “If he charges me $25 grand, he won’t go to the permit holder and give him $20 grand. No. The broker wants to make more money, so he raises the price. He might give the owner $15,000 and make $5,000 for himself.”
He had tried haggling with his broker to reduce the permit price to $18,000, but the broker insisted on the $25,000, complaining that he only made a profit of $1,000.
“But that’s just impossible,” Saad snorted, shaking his head.
There were only a few brokers, less than 10 in the city who handled thousands of cases at once, he explained. They were the all-seeing eye of the system, sitting privately in glassy office towers, at the disposal of permit owners and seekers. These middlemen — who were a mere phone call or text message away — settled every score of disagreement that occurred along the way. While no written contract is signed, the oral agreement set by the brokers aims to mediate the distrust that spans two ways.
For the owner — whose name the cart was under — there was the slight possibility that Saad could receive violations and switch locations to evade fines. (Vendors were subject to exorbitant fines of up to $1,000 for small violations, like setting up an inch too close to the curb.) For Saad, there was a slim chance that the owner could report him for stealing his cart.
“The police can arrest me and lock me up,” he added. “Nothing is guaranteed. So, the third party is important. He’s an educated person. He will listen. He’s in all the situation, and you can’t ignore him.”
Yet, for a player that knows the most about the situation, he disclosed the least. “We don’t know if the broker tells the price to the permit owner. We don’t know the phone number of the permit holder because he will tell you just to call the broker,” Saad said soberly. “The brokers are in the sole trust of these holders.”
Meanwhile, Saad only meets the permit owner at an inspection center in Broadway during the permit renewal process every two years. The Department of Health applies a mobile food vending permit or plastic sticker to the cart once the owner signs all the renewal papers. When Saad meets his holder the next year, he will renew the permit that would again bear the owner’s name.
“Why would you give the permit to someone who is not working?” Saad questioned, more to himself. “Just to rent it and make money out of nothing? It’s unfair.”
But for a rather bleak system, Saad can only choose to stay. “I mean, where would I go? I have been doing this for half my life.”
His last hope was in the bill that would increase the caps and assuage his burden. However, he did not understand the delay in its implementation. “Let’s say everyone has permits, and somebody else pulls up another hot dog cart right across from me. Do you think both of us will keep working? Of course not,” he said, shaking his head. Saad was certain that the permit would not lead to an outburst of vendors that the real estate industry most feared.
“It’s wintertime. See, no business,” he said, opening a tray cabinet that showed a $20 bill facing down. He envisioned that only those who gained profit would remain as a vendor, while those who didn’t would find another trade. “It won’t happen tomorrow. It will take time. It will take years. But it will come to this end, finally.”
Aside from the cap on permits, street vendors are set back against even thornier criticisms from property owners who frown upon the cart’s appearance. While Times Square is known for its brash lights and cacophony of noise — with a screen that is the only one to cover an entire city block — property owners say that the lights food vendors like Saad use are off-putting.
“The size of vendors’ carts has increased dramatically over the past 30 years,” Carella said. “They’ve become garish with their flashing and blinding LED and spotlights, and unsightly hanging signs.”
But the lights and signs that property owners find unappealing are demanding, business-savvy daily routines that Saad deliberately goes through.
At 9:15 a.m., Saad sets up his cart far earlier than his neighboring vendors who come by 11 a.m. In between hasty bites of his first breakfast — a chocolate croissant and black coffee that he bought on his way from the commissary — he struggles to hang the alluring lights and signs that spell out his menu comprised of Chili Cheese Dog and NY Style Hot Dog, under the hoisted umbrella.
“It takes a while to set up all of this, but it’s good for business,” he says with a wide grin. “People will see signs everywhere. And when you have it everywhere, it grabs their attention.”
He draws out five salted pretzels from the charcoal-heated cabinet and stacks them neatly on a rod.
“These are for display — left outside the whole day,” he smiles, with his chestnut eyes winking.
At 10:30 a.m, Mary from Upstate New York, is Saad’s first customer of the day. She buys a pretzel and takes a big bite into the crispy exterior.
Saad’s tactic seems to have worked.
Another man decked in a jazzy cowboy suit and sunglasses asks for a soda.
“Bottle or can?” Saad asks.
“Cup with ice? Whatever!” Cowboy Man shoots back.
Saad simply laughs it off and thuds a Pepsi bottle in front of the Cowboy Man.
His neighboring vendors who sell hot dog from across the street or peanuts next to him slowly arrive at 11:00 a.m.
They begin the procedures that Saad goes through and hang the lights.
When asked if he viewed the surrounding vendors as competition, Saad laughed and shook his head. “This is a small business, but it’s the same strategy. When it’s slow business, we are both slow. In days with many tourists, it’s good for me and everyone.”
Back at Saad’s cart, a man in a brown leather coat suddenly pops his head inside and asks for one napkin. When Saad draws out a heap and clamps it into the man’s hands, he tries to return the extra napkins, but Saad insists. “Take them all, man! Take them all.”
By noon, all his neighboring vendors have settled in the four corners of the intersections that make up the crosswalk.
Sights like these disturbed property owners, who disapproved of vendors clustered at every block in Broadway.
“Complaints about congested sidewalks are the most common in the district,” Carella says. “Food carts are frequently the cause, especially at busy intersections and narrower side streets. Many vendors’ carts are much larger than what is permitted by law, and this impedes pedestrian access, often forcing people to walk in the streets when having an attractive and user-friendly environment benefits everyone — local workers, shoppers, and tourists.”
However, Shapiro thinks otherwise. “It’s interesting that a lot of opponents like BIDs or property owners say vendors congest the sidewalks, but they put these big planter pots on the sidewalk a lot of times to kick out vendors,” he said, referring to the recent incident where a group of vendors had accused 34SP of displacing them with planters in 1250 Broadway.
“So, we know it’s not about sidewalk congestion. What congests the sidewalks are technically biker racks, Wi-Fi kiosks, newspaper bins, and garbage cans. All these take up space on the sidewalks. But there’s a value to having them. Just like there’s a value of having vendors, which the city should encourage.”
Shapiro added that the root of the problem lied in the authority’s failure to see street vendors as small businesses. “We don’t tell a restaurant how to design their store. If we want all of New York City to look the same, then what’s different about New York City? The real estate and BIDs have never wanted vendors. They see them as incompatible to their vision of how the city looks. Just look at Hudson yards. They want shiny glass towers, and luxury retails. But cities are a place where people can express their creativity and freedom of expression — sometimes in their business.”
He added that it was just a matter of preference and taste. “I don’t think Starbucks looks nice. But just because I don’t like it, doesn’t mean that I’m going to protest that Starbucks,” Shapiro added. “Maybe if these vendors weren’t paying $25,000 for an underground permit, they would have more money to invest in their pushcarts and make them look ‘nicer.’ It’s unfair to say that just because you don’t like the way something looks, we shouldn’t give opportunities to working people.”
As Saad makes more sales throughout the day, over two dozen strangers ask him for directions to the Time Square subway station, the Gershwin Theatre, and 49th Street, to which he all responds and informs as if it was his first time hearing these questions.
Saad’s day ends by 8:00 p.m. when he tidies and wheels his cart back to the dimmed garage or commissary. His feet are sore and hand dry from the numbing cold. But he rushes to take the 199 bus at Pennsylvania Station, a ride that takes just over twenty minutes.
He longs to be with his four kids — Omar, Zidan, Seilem, and Mariam — who had been complaining about how he was never home. He hops onto the bus, squeezing in between the bodies of strangers, and flops down into a seat for the first time in twelve hours. Resting his head, he is free from the fit of the real estate industry and the anxiety of paying his bills for a fleeting moment. He wonders what it would be like to spend the holidays with his family. To go cruising on vacation in the Maldives, to sleep without setting the alarm clock, and to earn wages without worrying about any crushing permit debts…
