Food Trucks: A Menace

I am told that food trucks are now considered a legitimate dining option on Nantucket. I am further told that people stand in line—willingly—to eat food prepared in a vehicle. I do not understand this. I do not wish to understand this.

The Fundamental Problem

Dining is, at its core, a civilized activity. It involves sitting. It involves proper utensils. It involves a table, ideally with a tablecloth, upon which one's meal is placed. These are not optional elements; they are the defining characteristics of the experience.

A food truck offers none of these things.

Instead, one stands in line behind tourists in athletic wear, shouts one's order through a window, and receives a meal in what amounts to a cardboard vessel. One then searches—often in vain—for somewhere to sit, ultimately perching on a curb or a bench like a common seabird.

This is not dining. This is foraging.

The Question of Quality

I am told that the food itself is quite good. I have no reason to doubt this claim. There are talented cooks in the world, and some of them apparently work in trucks.

But quality of ingredients and preparation is not the issue. The issue is context. One might obtain perfectly acceptable lobster from a food truck, but the experience of eating it will be diminished by the circumstances. The same lobster, served on china in a proper dining room, would taste better. This is not snobbery; it is science. Context matters.

The Crowds

Food trucks attract lines. These lines obstruct sidewalks. They create congestion in areas that are already, during peak season, dangerously congested.

Last July, I attempted to walk from the yacht club to my lunch reservation and found my route blocked by approximately forty people waiting for what I was informed were "fish tacos." Fish tacos. Forty people. Standing in the sun. For fish in a tortilla.

I arrived at my reservation late, perspiring, and irritated. The restaurant, understanding my distress, brought me a gin and tonic without my having to ask. This is the difference between a restaurant and a truck.

The Noise

Food trucks are loud. Their generators hum. Their customers shout. Their employees bark orders. The cumulative effect is that of a carnival, which is appropriate, since that is essentially what they are: carnival food, served from carnival vehicles, consumed by people who apparently wish to feel they are at a carnival rather than on an island renowned for its quiet sophistication.

My Colleague's Inevitable Objection

I am aware that Mrs. St. Claire has written a rebuttal to this piece, which will appear alongside it. She will argue that food trucks represent creativity, accessibility, and the evolution of island cuisine.

She is, of course, wrong.

Creativity does not require a vehicle. Accessibility does not require abandoning tables. And evolution, in the Darwinian sense, implies improvement, which standing on a sidewalk eating from cardboard most certainly is not.

A Final Observation

My grandfather never ate at a food truck. My father never ate at a food truck. I have never eaten at a food truck, and I do not intend to begin now.

Should one of these establishments somehow produce a meal superior to what I receive at my regular restaurant—a meal that would require me to stand in the sun, eat with my fingers, and find my own seating—I would respectfully decline. Some prices are too high, even if the tacos are allegedly excellent.

I shall be at the club, seated, with a reservation. You know where to find me.