My dear step-daughter Hanna called this evening. She called from the confines of a Toronto food truck.
She works in that food truck. She works in that food truck a year after graduating from York University with a Sociology degree.
Who says a Soc degree is a dead end?
Her boss Hoonan the Iranian runs a fleet of food trucks in Toronto. I think there's at least three in the fleet by now. Quite a lot of the time Hoonan's trucks require a tow to their destination.
I've always thought that makes them glorified hot-dog carts instead of "food trucks," but no matter.
The trucks all have very clever names.
The Fig Leaf.
Hoonan's employees just know them as Death Trap One, Death Trap Two, etc...
Today Hanna's truck apparently snagged a spot near Roy Thomson Hall.
It's almost 30 degrees Celsius outside; I shudder to think what the temperature is inside the food truck.
Hanna must be baked half to death!
But the reason she called wasn't because she's baked half to death. No, she called because she's worried about her Muslim assistant who is observing Ramadan. The poor kid doesn't even allow himself a drink of water during a ten hour shift in Death Trap One.
Hanna feels major guilt pangs for guzzling water in front of him all day long.
All I can say to Hanna is this; when you're trapped in a 45 C food truck for a ten hour shift during Ramadan, just be thankful you're a Jew and not a Muslim!
Thirty years ago we used to attend the Toronto Symphony on a semi-regular basis. We'd park under RTH and walk down the street to Meyer's Deli for a nice dinner.
I don't recall ever seeing a food truck in the neighbourhood.