In Chicago, Putting a Hot Dog in a Bun Can Get You in Trouble
I've been working in law and public policy for over 15 years, and even I had a hard time making sense of Chicago's permit rules for food vendors.
Like many large progressive cities, Chicago receives its fair share of criticism for overbearing regulations and sclerotic government. It clocks in at number five on the list of large American cities where it is hardest to obtain a business permit. It has some of the highest commercial property tax and sales tax rates of any large city. And as with any overregulated locale, the burden of all this regulatory excess inevitably falls most heavily on the smallest businesses.
In Chicago, mobile food carts and food trucks face a particularly tough road. As one example, Chicago magazine recently highlighted the plight of the city's food cart operators, who are legally barred from preparing food at their actual carts. Instead, they are forced to do any food prep at a shared kitchen—necessitating a shared kitchen license, costing $330 for two years—and are only allowed to sell prepackaged and sealed food.
This has led to absurd results, such as food cart operators technically being in violation of the law for doing something as simple as putting a hot dog inside a bun and handing it to a customer. The magazine profiles Geaby Figeuroa, an immigrant from Mexico who runs a food cart in the Windy City. Every time she shaves off ice and tops it with syrup at her cart, she's breaking the law. (The city doesn't clarify how, exactly, one could effectively make food like a snow cone ahead of time).
Chicago distinguishes between food carts and food trucks, with the latter being permitted to prepare food on site. The main distinction between these two mobile food vehicles is that food trucks can be motorized and use equipment like propane and gas to cook. But the city's permitting system is much more fragmented, complex, and difficult to understand. It has numerous types of mobile food vendor permits, each of which governs a different type of business.
For instance, one can obtain a "mobile food dispenser" permit, which allows the operation of a motorized vehicle but does not permit on-site food prep; the food must be previously prepared and wrapped. Alternatively, one can apply for a "mobile food preparer" license, which allows both motorized locomotion for your food vending and permits you to make that food on site.
Finally, there is the similarly named—but vastly different—"mobile prepared food vendor" license that allows only nonmotorized handcarts and only preprepared and wrapped food. (To complete the lineup, there's also a mobile frozen dessert vendor, which is essentially an ice cream truck; it can be motorized, but the frozen desserts must be packaged and wrapped elsewhere).
In contrast, cities like New York have a catch-all "mobile food vending license" that applies to both motorized and nonmotorized food vendors. (NYC then requires a separate permit for the actual cart or truck being used).
Even as someone who has been working in the field of law and public policy for over a decade and a half, I had to read and reread Chicago's municipal code repeatedly to make heads or tails of the city's varying licenses. And that's before even getting to the point of starting the application process. Expecting small business owners to navigate this regulatory thicket is unfair and needless, especially with an estimated 80 percent of Chicago food cart operators being immigrants who may face potential language barriers.
Chicago's hostility toward mobile food extends far beyond its preprepared mandate for food carts. The city still maintains its notorious 200-foot rule, passed in 2012, which bars food trucks from operating within 200 feet of a brick-and-mortar restaurant. A lawsuit seeking to overturn this patently protectionist rule was ultimately unsuccessful. In the years after the 2012 rule went into effect, the city experienced a near-50 percent decline in food trucks.
According to the Chamber of Commerce's Food Truck Nation report in 2018, only 3 percent of Chicago's central business district (named the "Loop") is legally available for food trucks to operate in. Fines for violating this restriction are ten times higher than those for parking in front of a fire hydrant.
Chicago points to a dearth of funding as one of the primary culprits behind Chicago's mobile food malaise. The magazine contrasts NYC's "army of inspectors," with the implication that Chicago—which faces an ongoing budget crisis—is merely unable to keep up in a way that would allow it to modernize its regulatory regime.
While the city may need to make smart and targeted investments in its regulatory process for mobile food, it also stands out that, according to Food Truck Nation, the average food truck in the city is subject to 15 inspections per year. (Although there has been significant debate over how often food trucks in Chicago have actually been inspected in the past, with the 15-per-year number potentially encompassing food festivals, where there can be more inspections.)
But regardless of the exact number of yearly inspections that Chicago mobile food vendors face, it appears to be more than in peer cities like New York, which use a yearly inspection regime. Ultimately, even if Chicago does need further investment to beef up its inspection numbers, the city's bloated budget has no shortage of questionable spending that could be cut to accommodate this.
It's easy to dunk on large cities with out-of-control regulations. But behind the endless array of permits, licenses, and 200-foot restrictions are real people and small business owners who are trying to navigate a regime that would confuse many trained lawyers.