* sarcasm
So I went to Truck Yard on a Monday afternoon. I say afternoon but it was actually 11am. Rudely, I was told that they did not begin serving food and beverages until the ludicrous hour of 11am. I think this is very shortsighted on their part and discriminates against all the graveyard shift workers who just want something simple as a Philly cheesteak sandwich and an ice cold Lone Star beer at 6:30am. Way to know your target demo, Truck Yard.
As I sat down at 11:01am in gloriously perfect weather, I was immediately struck by the lack of full service teppanyaki grills with fully trained chefs flipping grilled shrimp into their hats, capable and ready to create an onion volcano on a moment's notice. It also bears noting that my birthday was last week and not a single member of the oblivious wait and bar staff took the time to either wish me a happy birthday nor had they even take a cursory look at my Target gift registry.
Now this place is an outdoors place and is supposedly dog friendly. Which is fine and all until I brought my friendly furry companion, D'Artagnan, with me. Sure they had water bowls available. Yes, they even let me take ol' D'Arty off the leash if I promised to watch him. But not once did they offer to expel his anal glands nor did my server once offer to perform a doggie DNA test on my mutt to confirm my suspicions that he is a Malamute/Dachshund mix. I mean, what is the point of telling people that they can bring their dogs when you clearly are not dog-friendly by not offering these basic canine services?
I had worked up quite an appetite by this point, what with all the unjustified rage coursing through my veins. Time to eat. What's that? You only have two food trucks literally ten paces from where I am seated? And one of them is sponsored by some sort of food company? Listen, I'm not here to be fed your queso blanco propaganda by the Big Cheese lobby.
The other truck available was the Ssahm BBQ Korean taco truck. Now that might sound tasty but what they failed to note was that I've totally eaten at that truck once before and my culinary whims didn't blow in that direction on this particular day. In a town with no less than 75 food trucks covering one of the largest and most sprawling metro areas in the country, I feel it isn't too much to ask that a selection of at least a dozen different cuisine options are placed feet from me.
I know the owners may respond with something about how a truck is a big object and only a certain set number of large objects can fit into a confined amount of space. So why didn't they have the forethought to purchase entire blocks of highly contested city land so that they could ensure that diners like me would never have to make the gut wrenching decision of choosing between the available options that were on offer on a particular weekday?
Then someone reminded me that there is a permanent Philly cheesesteak window from which I can also order. If I were a vegetarian, they even have a meatless cheesesteak option. That's fine and all but what they didn't know is that my great uncle, twice removed, was once a trainer for the Dallas Cowboys and was hit by a D cell battery concealed inside a snowball during a particularly vicious Cowboys-Eagles matchup in the Jimmie Johnson era. To be so callously oblivious to my family's history and the pain we still suffer when faced with vague references to the city of Philadelphia just goes to show that the Truck Yard does not care about its' customer base.
As I walked out in disgust with D'Artagnan tugging at his Juicy Couture leash, desperate for the bi-hourly steak tartare feedings to which he has become so accustomed, I passed by the Carnival Barkers ice cream window. Ice cream...served from something that is not mobile in any fashion? Well, that's just rich. As rich as I'm sure the rice krispee ice cream sandwiches that they serve are and about which I have heard many people rave.
But sadly, I'll never know. I walked out, dazed and hungry, with the bright autumn sun and gentle winds mocking my pain. Sure, there's a Trader Joe's across the street. And there's Mudsmith right across the street in the other direction. But who could ever find the courage to eat or imbibe after the trauma that I just suffered?
