Hot Sauce, White Sauce?

I'm going to write about the men who changed my life. Overdramatic? Yes. I'm talking about the guys who work the vendor cart known as "King of Falafel and Shawarma." 

If anyone in the NYC area ever finds themselves fortunate enough to be anywhere near the Broadway stop of the N or Q train in Astoria, it is imperative that you disembark the train at this stop and get yourself a chicken platter from the King. What you will be treated to is a bed of steamy rice (yellow or basmati) with a salad of mixed veggies and an enormous portion of meat that is so fully and perfectly seasoned that once you start eating you will be ravenously captivated until the plate is gone. On top of all that, you get a free falafel. Perfectly cooked I might add.

So I'm a big fan of their food. I get myself a chicken platter a few times a week or sometimes I'll mix it up and go for shawarma. Yes, the platters are unreal and super cheap, but what really makes me giggle when I'm riding home with a platter in hand is my interaction with the Falafel guys. These guys enjoy their job, I can tell. It's a family operation . . . I think. At least I know most of them are related somehow, but that's one of the questions I don't ask. You see, I consider myself friends with these guys (the younger ones mostly) but there's only so far a conversation can go when they have thick accents and the only thing we really have to talk about are chicken platters. One time I was working at Toys R Us when the sauce guy (the one who asks "hot sauce, white sauce?") passed by and said waddup. I hardly recognized him with his fly outfit and double stroller, a far diversion to the usual apron and burgundy shirt. I gave him our usual fist pound and cool-guy upwards nod and exchanged a few banter lines then continued my work. I like the guy a lot, as well as the other falafel guys, but I think our friendships are about as deep as they're going to get. I'm alright with that I guess.