As San Francisco was just waking up last Sunday, behind an unmarked brown door and 21 steps up a dingy white stairway in SOMA, half a dozen people rushed among storage vaults, loading a cart with supplies. At 9:30 a.m., satisfied they had what they needed, they left the staging area and descended to the street. Two heavy black trucks idled outside.
Alfred Webster, a heavy-set guy clad in black, climbed into the first truck's belly. Two others took their places in the front seats, and a fourth ducked down between them. The truck rumbled to life, and split off from the other crew, its engine growling as it strained up an entrance ramp and accelerated onto I-80.
Destination: Treasure Island Flea Market. Objective: Sell bacon. Lots of bacon.
Krysten Wasik, a red-haired woman with a dirty Giants hat, drove. Thomas Mello, a soft-spoken scruffy guy in a brown cadet cap and chef's pants, rode shotgun. I was crouched between them, as they'd agreed to let me ride along to see what it's like working in one of San Francisco's most popular food trucks, Bacon Bacon.
Like many food trucks, Bacon Bacon started small. When founder Jim Angelus entered the scene in 2011, it was just he and a vehicle he'd bought off Craigslist. Now the company employs 35 people, and includes a cafe, a trailer at Fisherman's Wharf, and a veritable fleet of trucks.
Our truck, the one crawling over the Bay Bridge is actually Bacon Bacon's second.
"The first one exploded a few years ago," Wasik said, before going over the details of the day with Mello.
"Oh man, we are going to get so slammed," Mello said, shaking his head. It would become the morning's refrain.
After negotiating our way past the wielder of the Official Market Clipboard — evidently we were late — Wasik rolled down to the end of the 20 or so trucks lined up in the grass. She parked, and the three of them took off in different directions.
"A lot of people go smoke before we start," she said. "Everybody's got an addiction in this line of work."
A few minutes later, Mello was in the kitchen wiping the counters down. He'd left the world of fine dining to join Bacon Bacon late last year. Wasik and Webster quickly returned to help set up, as dozens of things had to happen for them to be ready by 11. Mello finished cleaning, food prep began in earnest.
"We are going to get so slammed today," he repeated.
Webster pulled out a huge metal tub of roasted pork and emptied it onto the grill. The mound of meat hissed and steamed, filling the truck with the scent of barbecue. With dual spatulas and a look of concentration, he methodically sliced and turned the pork over.
"Hey Alfred!" Mello yelled to Webster. "How much meat you think that is?"
Webster stepped back, staring. "Twenty pounds," he guessed, then continued as before.
Though they worked quickly, the crew didn't seem overly stressed — the atmosphere felt more relaxed than a normal kitchen. Combine that advantage with the lower startup costs, and a lot of cooks hunger for their own business.
"For a lot of people now, that's food trucks," Mello said. He's already got an idea for his own some day.
A mix of soul and salsa played from someone's phone, and they chatted about work, food, and music — Mello and Webster are musicians on the side. The truck swayed from a light breeze blowing off the bay, adding to the illusion that the kitchen could have been a ship's galley. The quarters felt claustrophobic to me, and the air heated up with the grill. But it wasn't as bad as when they worked at BottleRock.
That was hot. "It was up to 115 in here," Wasik reported, cheerily.
As the 11 a.m. hour drew nearer, some of the food was ready for tasting. The team proffered little samples of bacon jam (a sweet and salty blend of bacon, onions, and maple syrup), pork belly (tender slices of fatty pork slow-roasted for hours beforehand, then seared on the grill with salt), and bacon mayo (exactly what it sounds like). One wonders how they weren't all obese.
"I've got a fast metabolism," Mello said. "And Alfred boxes. He burns off his fat!" Webster grinned and made a fist.
The crew quickened its pace until the appointed hour finally struck. Fresh air and light poured into the truck when Wasik opened the window at 11:01. At 11:02, she took their first order. And then another. And another.
Her calls of "Order!" soon rang out faster than the cooks could prepare them. Buns and toppings rocketed from grill to fryer to counter to window. At one point, Mello let out a maniacal scream.
An hour in, they were already low on necessities like bread, ketchup, and small change — way more people were paying in cash than usual, likely because the flea market was cash-only. The temperature inside steadily climbed, and the two cooks sweated as they wrapped burritos and grilled burgers, faster and faster. But the line for the truck snaked ever farther out across the lawn, a sea of faces gaping up at the window, waiting.
They had arrived. And they were hungry.
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