The Carson & Barnes Cook Tent

In 2005 I was 'between engagements', as we say in the Business. Ringling Brothers was no longer interested in my services, but I still hungered for life on the road. So I began contacting all the smaller shows to see if they needed a middle-aged clown. They didn't.
But, much to my surprise, I heard back from Barbara Byrd, the matriarch of the mighty Carson & Barnes Five Ring Circus, out of Hugo, Oklahoma.
She wasn't interested in my clowning abilities either. But since I had listed radio announcing as one of my many talents she asked if I would consider being their ringmaster that season.
You could have knocked me over with a croissant. I had never considered such a career shift.
But needs must when the devil drives; so I graciously accepted.
How I fared in tailcoat and top hat is not to be told in this story. Instead, as a dedicated foodie long before that word was even recognized by Webster's, I wish to dwell for a moment on the Carson & Barnes cook tent.
 The cook tent's blue and white stripped siding was attached to a roach coach type truck that prepared and dispensed 2 meals each day; lunch and dinner. Since the show moved every single morning at 5:30 a.m., there was no breakfast as such. The cooking staff, which doubled as trash pickup and truck drivers, merely set out stale donuts and instant coffee on several rickety card tables. Biting into one of those ancient crullers was like chewing on cardboard sprinkled with powdered sugar. However, I rarely had any appetite to speak of that early in the morning -- so I did not feel impelled to grumble.
Luncheon was served promptly at 12, or as soon as the big top was up and the rigging set inside.
Initially I thought my status as the ringmaster would allow me to step up front for my meal.
How wrong I was!
The roustabouts, those unappreciated drudges who put up the tent each morning and tore it down again each night, had first call at the cook tent. I was politely told to step aside until they had all been served.
After they had been served I once again stepped up for my meal, only to be told once more to cool my heels.
Now the clowns, already in makeup, were to be fed, since they had to go out well before the show started to sell coloring books.
Then it was my turn, along with the rest of the no-accounts.
Since most of the workers and most of the acts were Hispanic, lunch leaned heavily towards beans, corn, and tortillas. There was also a generous tub of pickled jalapeno peppers, sliced carrots in vinegar, and fresh radishes with the stalks still on. I learned quickly that radish leaves are just as good to eat as the radish itself -- something Latinos have known all along but we gringos have yet to learn.
Meat empanadas were also a mainstay of lunch. I had never eaten one prior to working at Carson & Barnes, although I smugly considered myself a world traveler. The cooks did 'em up right. The crust was light and flaky and they didn't skimp on the savory pork or beef filling.
The rule on Seconds was simple; when the cook yelled "Que quiere mas?" there was a mass stampede up the metal steps to the truck window for the leftovers. It was not unlike a soccer riot, and I did not wish to risk being trampled to death -- so I usually had some beef jerky or beer nuts stashed away in my little room in the back of the electricity truck if I still felt peckish.
I also functioned as the on-lot publicity man, so whenever a newspaper reporter came to do a story I would give them a tour of the circus lot, including the cook tent. This turned out to be a good deal, because the cooks were instructed by Barbara Byrd herself that any time a reporter visited the cook tent she wanted lots of green salad to be served as well as the regular starchy provender. I took advantage of this ukase by casually informing the cooks almost every day that I expected a reporter from the Times Picayune to pop up during the lunch hour. This got me some much-needed greenery in my diet, although eventually the cooks caught on to my stratagem and started demanding the name of the so-called reporter that was coming over to sample their wares.
Dinner was much the same as lunch, served between the matinee and evening performances. The big difference being there would also be a hearty soup or stew and cake and pie for desert. All meals were served on metal trays, the same kind the military uses, and after you were done you took your tray and utensils behind the truck and slid them into a large soapy trough for later washing.
No one ever went hungry who worked for Carson & Barnes.
Dining al fresco under the blue and white stripes held vast charms for me most of the time. I could look out past the tent flaps onto the circus lot, where elephants swayed, tigers snarled in their cages, and the pennants at the top of the main tent snapped in the breeze. And I always found the combined smell of manure, cotton candy, straw, and cumin to be exhilarating.
 The only hair in the soup, so to speak, was when it rained hard and blew fast -- at those times the cook tent was a leaky, soggy hellhole. The food turned cold as fast as it was served out, and there were boggy holes to circumvent on your way to your table if you wished to avoid sodden feet and a sprained ankle.
And of course, in the great tradition of mud shows everywhere, during the last few weeks of the season, when the cooks finally realized that they would be unemployed pretty soon, they began to skimp on everything so they could feather their nests for the winter. That's when the food became all canned, all beans, and practically inedible. I had been forewarned that this would happen, so I always located the nearest Subway and began getting most of my meals there.
I was ringmaster on Carson & Barnes for only one season -- a Byrd family nephew had been groomed to supplant me. But that didn't dismay me; at least I'd eaten well. And with the circus, that's about all you can ever hope for.