By
Bill Beggs Jr.
Each is his own boss, but these self-styled entrepreneurs are
also unique in that their “stores” are on the street.
They have plenty of sunshine and fresh air.
And their workplaces are climate-controlled. The climate controls
their workplace, that is: If it’s 95 with a 110-degree heat
index, they feel every degree.
So don’t talk to them about how “it’s not the heat, it’s the
humidity.” There’s plenty else to talk about. And if they’re
one of the two street—make that sidewalk—entrepreneurs we chatted
with during the mind-melting heat wave endured recently, they’ll
talk a blue streak.
But do them a favor and wait till business has slowed down a
little.
The Gourmet Hot-Dog Man
Carlos Pereira |
|
During a lunchtime stroll in the heart of downtown near the
Metropolitan Square and Railway Exchange buildings, as you approach
the intersection of 6th and Olive, your nose and ears will detect
an unmistakable Mediterranean aroma and vibe. They come compliments
of Carlos Pereira, who’s grilling hot dogs, brats and Polish
sausages, while a boom box serenades customers with squeezebox
music.
“Frankfurter Chef” might be a better moniker for Pereira, 53,
who worked for nearly 30 years in Toronto’s finest restaurants,
among them an Italian place he says was rated No. 7 in North
America. So don’t expect a simple dog on a bun slathered in
mustard, thank you. Yes, you can get ’kraut, catsup, pickles,
hot peppers, barbecue sauce, hot sauce, cheese, relish, onions,
or all of the above… and generous portions all. But that’s not
all you’ll get before he wraps the sandwich in foil.
“It’s more than a hot dog on a bun,” says Pereira says from
behind his sunglasses. Quite an understatement: As the sausages
sizzle, he slices them diagonally with a butcher knife and bastes
them with his own mixture of garlic, bay leaves, rosemary and
olive oil.
Customers leave with their delectables, plus maybe a bag of
chips, a piece of fruit and a can of soda—cash only.
“They look good! They look good!!” Pereira exclaims,
as a column of steam rises from the grill that he’d just sprayed
with water to quell the flames, whistling to “Beyond the Sea.”
Customers ranged from tourists in shorts and knee-length black
socks to helmeted construction workers, to regulars who exchanged
a few words and a handshake or hug, to a few men and women in
full business dress; yes, even a few neckties on a Friday. The
line shortened for a few moments and Pereira stepped aside,
one eye to the cloudy, threatening sky. He shrugged as the saxophone
sounds of “Tequila” wafted from a corner in the next block.
It was 1 p.m. and he’d just about sold everything he cooked
that day, he said in a light accent that’s likely a blend of
the five languages he speaks: English, Portuguese, Italian,
French and a smattering of Spanish.
“A guy can come by and pick up a few brats for a meeting,” Pereira
says. “Maybe he doesn’t want to wait in a restaurant.” Or maybe
he just has a hankering for a dog that one might not be able
to get outside of New York. (They are kosher, but even the legendary
Yankee Stadium tube steaks have nothing on Pereira’s product.)
Pereira’s yellow Fila soccer shirt isn’t just for looks. He
played pro soccer in Mozambique before he blew out his knee
in the 1970s. A goalie who misses playing (and watching; he
wasn’t able to catch much midday World Cup action during his
cooking gig), he says the doctor told him he was lucky to be
able to walk after the surgery.
But other problems were pressing for Pereira, who was born in
Portugal and had moved with his family to Mozambique—the Communist
revolution in 1974. While hesitant to discuss the tumultuous
period at length, Pereira says he saw combat in Africa before
heading to North America.
Now residing in Swansea, Ill., Pereira has run the hot-dog stand
for two years after purchasing it from the previous owner. The
money is a lot like the weather.
But he has another gig that’s a bit more predictable, at least
as far as the hours are concerned: Pereira works security at
Lambert-St. Louis International Airport from 3 to 7 a.m. Then,
home to catch some shuteye? Well, not so much… at least, not
just yet. First he has to shop for that day’s lunch rush.
EXTRA!
EXTRA!
Vendor Sells News, Dispenses Views
Tony Streckfuss |
|
You could buy a newspaper out of one of the boxes along the
curb at the intersection of Maryland and Euclid, but you’d miss
the opportunity to meet one of the more colorful characters
in the Central West End: Tony Streckfuss, whose newsstand commands
the corner out front of Liluma Restaurant.
Before many of us have opened one eye to hit the snooze button
the first time, Streckfuss, 56, is up hawking papers from the
Post-Dispatch and the Belleville News-Democrat to Investor’s
Business Daily and The Wall Street Journal. He says
it’s a toss-up between who’s his first customer of the morning,
either the driver for County Cab who lives at the Chase Park
Plaza and swings by bright and early for The New York Times
and WSJ, or Daisy, the dog who brings her owner by at 4:32 a.m.
Streckfuss always has something for his canine visitors—a treat
from the big jar, a well-worn tennis ball “for the dogs to play
with,” or, he adds with a shrug, “maybe take home.” Some have
been known to do tricks for their treats, much to the amusement
of observers under the umbrellas on the patio right behind or
in the establishments on the other three corners: Coffee Cartel,
Drunken Fish and Culpepper’s (which is right next to Ben & Jerry’s).
Sometimes stopping by for a chat isn’t up to the two-legged
passersby.
“Watch the dogs as they approach the kiosk,” says Streckfuss.
“They drag their owners over here.”
Smiles are free, with or without purchase. So’s the wisdom.
Eight-and-a-half by 11-inch signs, some laminated, are attached
to the kiosk like posters on a utility pole.
• “When at first you don’t succeed… Oh!!!
Just forget about it.”
• “That’s O.K. You can talk in front of my back.”
• “Would someone please make up my mind?”
• “Sometimes all I need is a kick in my complacency.”
But the best prose Streckfuss dispenses live and in person.
“I have friends, acquaintances, customers… and combinations
of all three. Everybody gets treated just the same, young or
old, rich or poor,” he says. “There’s only one person who can
take away my respect for you, and that’s you.”
A young businessman steps up to the stand and asks Streckfuss
for a Post. “Lamp post, fence post, gate post or sign post?”
asks the vendor, to the purchaser’s mild befuddlement. “Post-Dispatch,”
the customer clarifies, with a grin. As he walks away, Streckfuss
says he’s been thinking about another “post” word to throw in,
you know, just to mix it up a little. “Military post,” offers
a bystander. “Hitching post,” says another, and Streckfuss smiles.
From the Vietnam era, he makes it clear that the latter suggestion
will work better for him.
Streckfuss can be found under the faded green umbrella until
1 p.m. Monday through Saturday, and until 2 p.m. on Sunday.
If he can work out a deal with a supplier to carry magazines
other than auto trading publications and the like, he might
consider hanging around until 5 o’clock. Isn’t that like, um,
seven days?
“What’s the definition of ‘a day off’?” he asks rhetorically.
“And what’s the definition of a vacation?”
Streckfuss says his wife, Cora, still needs a little bit of
both. When they were both on top of each other all day at home
following her nearly fatal heart attack, they were on the verge
of divorce.
“It was an ordeal,” he says. “Now, it’s a pleasure. She’s my
No. 1 hero. She’s turned her life around.” That is, she heeded
the coronary wake-up call and has radically changed her diet,
among making other life adjustments. Streckfuss credits the
EMT crew and Forest Park Hospital staff for saving her life;
she’d flat-lined after they arrived.
“She died in a heartbeat, right in front of us,” recalls Streckfuss.
After a pause he adds, with a grateful smile: “We know there’s
more than just us involved here.”
Cora is on disability from her profession, home healthcare.
Meanwhile, her husband will work until, well, whenever. He says
he’s tempered his anti-establishment attitude. Somewhat.
“I’m a wannabe labor activist—but once I learned enough about
labor law, I couldn’t get a job to save my life.”
