Halal carts are now a widespread New York City staple, with just a single halal cart guide having “more than 300,000 views” (The Halal Guys); halal carts didn’t always have this clout. Their roots trace back only a few decades. According to Eater New York, the first wave began in the late 80s when Egyptian immigrants transformed ordinary hot dog stands into halal vendors to serve Muslim taxi drivers looking for a quick bite (Danovich). In 1992, three Egyptian partners–Abdelbaset Elsayed, Ahmed Elsaka, and Mohammed Abouelenein–founded The Halal Guys, unknowingly launching what would be the start of a culinary revolution (Wissa et al.). The combination of rice, salad, and halal chicken/lamb became one of New York’s defining street foods. 

These carts, on top of being the source of some of the most delicious food you’ll find in the city, represent the immigrant identity and the willingness to adapt. As food historian Zach Brooks observed, “street vending has always been an immigrant way into the paid economy of New York City,” with each wave of newcomers reshaping the menu to match their culture (Danovich). Jewish pickle vendors, Italian sausage sellers, Greek souvlaki stalls–all of these paved the way, but halal carts were unique, merging Islamic dietary rules with typical New Yorkers convenience. The result, as the Food Atlas of New York puts it, was a “New York success story built by immigrants” who turned religious principles into entrepreneurial innovation (Wissa et al.). 

Growing up, our house had one rule: no “outside food” during the week. But every Friday night, as the honking cars passed down Hillside Ave and the smell of grilled lamb drafted through the air, their rules didn’t stand a chance. I’d find myself begging, on my knees, throwing tantrums, tugging my father’s arm so we could all eat some “chicken and rice”.

Walking up to the cart, I was mesmerized by the whole process. The vendor worked like he was welded to his two spatulas–scraping, chopping, banging across the metal girl. Baba, would order a “combo platter,” a phrase that meant nothing to me except “good food is coming.” The moment that lamb hit the grill, the air changed, smoke rising, the scent of cumin and garlic pulsing outward. Within just a couple minutes, we had a whole family dinner in a white plastic bag ready to be eaten anywhere we’d want. 

Despite the romance of the sizzling grill, the work behind these carts is grueling. Eater reports that many vendors labor up to 15 hours a day, navigating a permit system that can cost up to $20k every two years on the black market (Danovich). The Food Atlas confirms these struggles, calling out “middlemen whose only job is to scam hardworking immigrants” through predatory permit rentals (Wissa et al.). Still, the carts endure because, as one vendor told researchers, “if people are coming to my truck and eating my food, why be mad?” (Wissa et al.)

For me, this plate of lamb and chicken over rice meant growing up having to remain cost conscious of everything–even food–and embracing my MENASA culture through such a magical platter. My entire family loved this dish, and during some lucky weekends, we’d feast like royalty out of these styrofoam boxes with our white plastic forks. The halal cart, open almost 24/7 serving anyone hungry enough to wait, represents what my parents chased and what I inherited: a flavor born from struggle and reinvention. No matter how much they tried to deter me, for good reason too, they just couldn’t take that taste away.