All aboard the Pie Car, Ringling Bros. rolling diner
By Jackie BurrellContra Costa Times
Posted: 08/15/2010
Assistant Manager Sous Chef, David Kretz has the morning breakfast shift in the "Pie Car" the dining car on the Ringling Bros.and Barnum & Bailey circus train that is parked in Oakland, Calif. on Friday Aug. 13, 2010. He cleans up after the breakfast rush in the narrow kitchen on the train. (Laura A. Oda/Staff) Mist swirls from the railroad tracks in the early morning air. A few miles away, at Oakland's Oracle Arena, the tigers and watusi cattle slumber on. But here, in the shadow of the mile-long circus train, the clowns and acrobats are stirring, lured by the aroma of freshly brewed Starbucks and sizzling bacon wafting from the Pie Car, the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus' rolling diner.
They drift in sleepily, some in bathrobes or plaid pajama bottoms, others fully dressed and ready for a day of play in San Francisco. Clowns Taylor Albin, a Texan with a business degree, and Kelli Karsten, a graduate of San Francisco's Clown Conservatory, sip coffee with friends. Aerialist Christina Cantlin, a member of the Flying Caceres, and her catcher, fiance and former pilot Daniel Simard, indulge in fried eggs and home fries. And sous chef David Kretz bustles around the kitchen, flipping eggs and frying bacon for a mellow morning crowd.
This is the Pie Car -- the province of Louisiana chef Michael Vaughn, who has been riding the circus rails for 13 years. The deep scarlet walls are lined with vintage circus posters, and tight little booths offer space for clowns and other cast members to socialize and grab some grub, when they aren't pratfalling or being shot out of cannons.
It's a tradition, says Albin, that dates back to P.T. Barnum himself.
Legend has it that the Pie Car got its name during the Depression Era, when its menu was dominated by inexpensive meat pies. The car itself has been upgraded and modernized, of course, but some things never change. The massive train chugs its way across 32,000 miles of rail lines during its two-year tours, and the Pie Car stays open all day, every day, so the 270 circus performers and staff who live aboard can gab, nosh, watch movies on the flatscreens or work on laptops. There's no Wi-Fi in the Pie Car, but most of its patrons have AirCards.
"The circus is a traveling town without a Zip code," said Janice Aria, the circus' director of animal stewardship and a 40-year Ringling Bros. veteran. "It's a community, the Pie Car. It's like a regular restaurant in your hometown."
For Albin, Karsten and their fellow "First of Mays" -- the circus term for newbies who join at the start of a new season -- it's a place to unwind after a long show or relax on the "train runs" and exchange tales.
"Once we get the makeup off, the costumes off, the Pie Car is one of the few things still open," he says. "It's a great place for meeting up with friends. During a train run, a group of us clowns meets up for breakfast, and we see the world pass by."
Freezers and fridges line the walk-through. Huge cans are stacked sideways under metal roll-up doors, and hundreds of cases of Mountain Dew are stashed in the train's possum bellies -- the undercarriage storage units -- in preparation for the 2,500 to 3,000 meals served each week in the Pie Car and its mobile offshoot, the Pie Car Junior, which parks by the stage door during shows.
It's a logistical challenge, Kretz said, unlike anything faced by a normal restaurateur. There's a different supplier every week as the train heads into a new town and, he says, "You can't use the fryer on a train run. You have to tie everything down."
Then, there is the challenge of feeding a crowd of such varied backgrounds.
"The Chinese troupe, the Russians, Bulgarians, the motorcycle guys," he said. "Trying to figure out what they eat, the special diets that depend on what they do in the show."
The Moroccans don't eat pork. The dancers prefer salad. And the Chinese trampolinists have a penchant for quesadillas, which they order by tracing a circle in the air, folding it in half and announcing a protein filling. Now, everyone does it -- mimes a tortilla and specifies steak or chicken.
Or they order "A Torres."
That's the car's now legendary Torres burger, named after the seven adrenaline-fueled Paraguayan motorcyclists whose workday consists of circumnavigating the interior of a massive steel orb up, down and all around. It's a job that requires high protein, energy-packed food in small servings that won't slosh around. So Vaughn and Kretz started topping the Torres' burgers with fried eggs.
The idea, they say, is to keep everyone happy, healthy and well-fed, whether it's with diner fare or a goulash inspired by the Hungarian animal trainer's mother.
The only thing they don't do -- or at least not very often, said Cantlin, the trapeze artist -- are birthday cakes.
"You don't advertise your birthday in the circus," she says, because the clowns always want to get involved.
Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus performs at San Jose's HP Pavilion, 525 W. Santa Clara St., from Aug. 18-22, and the Stockton Arena from Sept. 16-19. For details, go to www.ringling.com.
They drift in sleepily, some in bathrobes or plaid pajama bottoms, others fully dressed and ready for a day of play in San Francisco. Clowns Taylor Albin, a Texan with a business degree, and Kelli Karsten, a graduate of San Francisco's Clown Conservatory, sip coffee with friends. Aerialist Christina Cantlin, a member of the Flying Caceres, and her catcher, fiance and former pilot Daniel Simard, indulge in fried eggs and home fries. And sous chef David Kretz bustles around the kitchen, flipping eggs and frying bacon for a mellow morning crowd.
This is the Pie Car -- the province of Louisiana chef Michael Vaughn, who has been riding the circus rails for 13 years. The deep scarlet walls are lined with vintage circus posters, and tight little booths offer space for clowns and other cast members to socialize and grab some grub, when they aren't pratfalling or being shot out of cannons.
It's a tradition, says Albin, that dates back to P.T. Barnum himself.
Legend has it that the Pie Car got its name during the Depression Era, when its menu was dominated by inexpensive meat pies. The car itself has been upgraded and modernized, of course, but some things never change. The massive train chugs its way across 32,000 miles of rail lines during its two-year tours, and the Pie Car stays open all day, every day, so the 270 circus performers and staff who live aboard can gab, nosh, watch movies on the flatscreens or work on laptops. There's no Wi-Fi in the Pie Car, but most of its patrons have AirCards.
"The circus is a traveling town without a Zip code," said Janice Aria, the circus' director of animal stewardship and a 40-year Ringling Bros. veteran. "It's a community, the Pie Car. It's like a regular restaurant in your hometown."
For Albin, Karsten and their fellow "First of Mays" -- the circus term for newbies who join at the start of a new season -- it's a place to unwind after a long show or relax on the "train runs" and exchange tales.
"Once we get the makeup off, the costumes off, the Pie Car is one of the few things still open," he says. "It's a great place for meeting up with friends. During a train run, a group of us clowns meets up for breakfast, and we see the world pass by."
Freezers and fridges line the walk-through. Huge cans are stacked sideways under metal roll-up doors, and hundreds of cases of Mountain Dew are stashed in the train's possum bellies -- the undercarriage storage units -- in preparation for the 2,500 to 3,000 meals served each week in the Pie Car and its mobile offshoot, the Pie Car Junior, which parks by the stage door during shows.
It's a logistical challenge, Kretz said, unlike anything faced by a normal restaurateur. There's a different supplier every week as the train heads into a new town and, he says, "You can't use the fryer on a train run. You have to tie everything down."
Then, there is the challenge of feeding a crowd of such varied backgrounds.
"The Chinese troupe, the Russians, Bulgarians, the motorcycle guys," he said. "Trying to figure out what they eat, the special diets that depend on what they do in the show."
The Moroccans don't eat pork. The dancers prefer salad. And the Chinese trampolinists have a penchant for quesadillas, which they order by tracing a circle in the air, folding it in half and announcing a protein filling. Now, everyone does it -- mimes a tortilla and specifies steak or chicken.
Or they order "A Torres."
That's the car's now legendary Torres burger, named after the seven adrenaline-fueled Paraguayan motorcyclists whose workday consists of circumnavigating the interior of a massive steel orb up, down and all around. It's a job that requires high protein, energy-packed food in small servings that won't slosh around. So Vaughn and Kretz started topping the Torres' burgers with fried eggs.
The idea, they say, is to keep everyone happy, healthy and well-fed, whether it's with diner fare or a goulash inspired by the Hungarian animal trainer's mother.
The only thing they don't do -- or at least not very often, said Cantlin, the trapeze artist -- are birthday cakes.
"You don't advertise your birthday in the circus," she says, because the clowns always want to get involved.
Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus performs at San Jose's HP Pavilion, 525 W. Santa Clara St., from Aug. 18-22, and the Stockton Arena from Sept. 16-19. For details, go to www.ringling.com.
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