These days, roaming street vendors carrying various delicacies are all the rage. I don’t know about you, but I distinctly remember the yellow Schwan ice cream truck, complete with that tantalizing bell, slowly cruising through my neighborhood once or twice a week when I was a kid. Those vendors were banking on the fact that we kids would be out romping around the yard and that, the second we heard that unmistakable melody, we’d sprint into the house to claim our allowance. For me, it was either fudge ripple or butter pecan, since those were the best. In Chicago, we’ve been without these nomadic food trucks, other than those bearing ice cream and the tamale guy who isn’t in a truck, but on foot carrying a red cooler; he happened to dive into Lemmings one night after I’d stuffed my face with so much food I couldn’t stand the sight of corn husk. Just this...
