Stefan Bowers

There’s a scene in the movie A NeverEnding Story where Atreyu has to cross the Oracle Gate.

Countless knights believing themselves “worthy” attempt to pass. Only to be incinerated by lasers shot from the Sphinxes’ eyes—unceremoniously wiped from existence without emotion.

Atreyu succeeds, narrowly dodging the two laser beams. He dusts himself off and the Sphinxes close their eyes, acting as though nothing ever happened.

The universe doesn’t give a damn and neither did the Sphinxes.

This is the same as owning a Food Truck.

I too tried to pass. But ended up like the fallen knight Atreyu saw lying vaporized in the sand, unrecognizable.

It seemed like an easy lift.

No construction. No finish out—you purchase the entire rig, ready to go, only needing a few permits.

Buying the truck felt like the next logical step after a running successful pop-up.

I purchased it for 10k—cheap, after considering it for six months.

I did zero planning before hand.

It was a plain white trailer, with basic cooking equipment, no exhaust or refrigeration.

On the surface it looked nice, but’s it’s guts were rotten.

Don’t get me wrong, you can get it done in a cheap truck—but if it’s all you can afford, buckle up.

Exhaust installed, refrigeration purchased and three trips to the permit yard later, I was ready to launch the mobile version of Pumpers (the BRICK & MORTAR burger shop I currently own).

Location was easy. I knew a guy who owned a music venue with another truck in front of it (more on that later) that allowed us to park on-site for a mere $600 a month. It felt serendipitous, since it was directly across the street from where we had done our original pop-ups for the last year and a half.

I left the truck white, and in true Pumpers fashion let people tag it however they wanted. I even purchased the spray paint. I figured why not? It was bound to happen anyway and I can’t stand corny truck-wraps. So I embraced the idea, thinking it was punk rock. And it was. But it didn’t have the effect in San Antonio that I had hoped for. People didn’t care. This isn’t Brooklyn, or Nashville or anywhere for that matter where people get off on what stands out. Most here like their spots to blend in.

Fine.

Opening day we almost died.

We threw a big party and had a line down the block as anticipated. I lit the flat-top and started cooking.

It took around three minutes before we all heard a POP from the back of the griddle—followed by the unmistakable stench of propane.

What do we do? We keep cooking.

Then a louder POP. This time I paused. I looked behind the griddle and noticed the gas fitting was practically cracked in half. Come to find out, it was totally out of code to begin with (since the truck was built in Mexico within Mexican codes).

With a line of about 50 people waiting to order it was game over. I wasn’t going to kill myself—or worse, the other cooks helping me—for a hamburger.

But by sheer luck, a loyal patron of our pop-up—a plumber, was waiting in line, and saved our lives by patching the fitting. Preventing us from blowing up.

We powered through for about another hour—people’s wait time offset by tagging the truck while they waited in line.

The quick-fix eventually broke, grinding us to a halt. We left everyone with the impression that we had no idea what we were doing.

Typical. Pumpers. No problem.

I took stock and had the fitting and gas lines replaced.

That’s when the real pain began. Running the business.

It was doomed from the start. I was running two other restaurants alongside the truck and could barely be there.

I had to hire staff to work it. Throughout the truck’s lifespan the cooks did good by it. In the end it was run by one guy named Angel that stuck with it to the end. His love of cooking burgers the only reason it survived as long as it did.

I was the reason it failed.

Like the fallen knight described earlier, my heart wasn’t pure.

I wasn’t ready to fill the propane tanks, clean the vents or dump the soiled water every other day. Full confession here, I always dumped the water in an abandoned lot behind the music venue.

I even had the luxury of ordering supplies from my restaurant downtown, but I didn’t want to transport them. I didn’t even want to count the cash drawer. When I closed there was over $2000 of cash in the till that Angel had neatly organized and kept track of. I love him for that.

Location also worked against us—and has gone on to incinerate every truck that’s followed.

Let me clarify.

If you’re opening a Food Truck in a city like San Antonio, and you’re not selling tacos, but you’re next to a real Taco Truck like we were—one that has their shit together and is still killing it as I write this, then you’re D E A D. It’s like pulling up next to the DEATH STAR. Your $9 burger (cheap compared to today’s food truck prices) can’t compete with a styrofoam box of 4 street tacos for $6. Drunk San Antonians want zest, spice and multiple go’s at soaking up their buzz. Not a single burger. This isn’t Wisconsin.

My commitment sadly lacking, my profits nil, slowly bleeding cash, I threw in the towel, posted the truck online and sold it (refrigeration included) for what I paid.

The learning experience lost money but paid me back in humility and wisdom.

Though, I did get one real gratification from owning the truck.

Since the rule was anyone could tag it, anytime, the way they wanted, I got the gift of street art on an almost daily basis. The truck would look one way at night—and the next morning it was completely different. Word got out to street artists that it was fair game—an open canvas ready to be tagged however they wanted. I was blown away by some of the work. The truck became more an art installation than anything else. And that’s cool.

From a business standpoint, on the nights I worked it, I saw dozens of people look skeptically at the outside and walk over to the “cleaner,” “safer” looking taco truck.

We were too cool for our own good.

That alone was not enough to get past the Sphinx.