A Day In The Life of a Chicken Peddler
Free Range LA is a total sensation. It’s been called “The King of Street Food” by many, and is particularly impressive for successfully slinging fried chicken sandwiches in one of America’s most health-conscious cities. People are crazy for this stuff, as evidenced by the huge online following of people waiting to read where the Free Range truck is parked for the day and how angry their comments are when they’ve missed it. Chef Jesse Furman has a staff of seven, an old food truck, and a few tables at the farmer’s market every Sunday. We asked him to take us on a “day in the life” and realized that his plate is, um, completely full.
5 A.M. I wake up from an incredible dream where I am surfing on a wave made of chocolate milk. I swipe the snooze screen on my iPhone and sleep for 5 more minutes. Then I swipe snooze and sleep for 5 more.
6 A.M. In the Free Range truck, I merge onto the 10-W freeway with the pedal to the metal. The truck moans for speed, reaching heights I can’t detect, because the speedometer’s been broken forever. Morning commuters race by, dirty looks on their faces.
7 A.M. Breakfast service commences. A Brussels sprout dish is on the Specials Board. Yes, we sell Brussels sprouts on the street. Our favorite customer, a disgruntled 70-year-old man named Jim, orders his usual nutrient-evaporating hard-cooked eggs and a side of very burnt bacon. Jim commends me for not having kids.
9:30 A.M. Breakfast hits its stride; a rush of hungry Angelenos form a line at the window. Most guests go for our Honey Sriracha Chicken & Biscuit. It’s tempura-fried chicken tossed in a sweet spicy sauce. Bart, an assistant to a well-known rapper, orders food by pointing to a picture on Instagram. Most of our customers operate on photographic associations.
9:45 A.M. A slew of tickets jams up the kitchen rail. The fryer is bubbling and 20 strips are crackling on the griddle. I yell out orders to the cooks as they hustle around the kitchen, which is a narrow 7-foot strip.
10 A.M. A soul-sucking traffic cop nabs our truck with a parking ticket for being in the same spot for over two hours. Bribing him with a melty egg and cheese fails me again.
10:45 A.M. Social media operator snaps photos of our avocado toast to hype our lunch service. Instagram=survival.
11:15 A.M. We shut the doors to breakfast, forced to seal the gates in front of hungry newcomers. We call them “hangry.” Hangry people make desperate attempts for food: excessive eye rolling, loud pouting.
12:30 P.M. Lunch service in the downtown arts district. There’s already a line in the coned-off section where we plan to park. A food fan proposes a business plan. He wants to buy a license to launch a Free Range restaurant, but his real motive to buy the business is to grant citizenship to his Jordanian cousin who seeks residency in America. This type of offering is not out of the ordinary.
12:45 P.M. It’s 95 degrees and I’m on my 4th iced americano. A barista named Frankie buys 4 bottles of sparkling water. He always rocks a summer hat and thinks our sparkling water is gold.
2:30 P.M. Last call for lunch service. The two cooks on the truck have built up a raging appetite. They clean up the leftover cooked bits of food that would normally be thrown out and construct a massive sandwich. We name it Big Bertha.
3:30 P.M. Equipment shopping at Chef Toys, a restaurant supply store. I’m like a kid in a candy store. I wonder what I can accomplish with an $8000 microwave.
4 P.M. Meeting with my partner Tyler. Brainstorming session on cutting labor cost occurs, but the main topic is a $150 expense at Buffalo Wild Wings. Research and development, I argue.
5 P.M. I respond to an onslaught of emails, catering inquiries for film studios, for kids’ first birthday parties in Santa Monica and everything in between. Our next special event is serving the VIP Section at Coachella. Or, as the Instagrammers say, “‘chella.”
7 P.M. Dinner making with my girlfriend. She is an accountant who never ate chicken ‘til me. But now the thirst is inescapable. We make chicken enchiladas together with green salsa.
9:30 P.M. We snuggle on the couch watching Amazon TV, but I’m on the phone ordering lemons and packs of sliced cheddar for tomorrow.
10 P.M. My girlfriend reads me a bedtime story. It’s an excerpt from a short story. I stare at the ceiling, and her soothing voice rocks me to bed.