D.C. Food Vendors Fear War Of Hot Dogs vs. Hummus

Akindele Akerejah, 23, a native of Nigeria, said he pulled his cart out of WG because he felt pressured to buy hot dogs. "I saw so many vendors, and I realized you can only eat so many hot dogs. Shawarma is what I remembered from Nigeria," he said.

Because he did not buy as much food as other vendors, he said he paid $200 a month. Now he is working with Klein, setting up next to him in the demonstration zone.

Nazary said the regular storage rate at WG is $75 to $100 a month. "There are no contracts to buy our food, but to keep us in business, there's an unwritten rule," he said.

It's that or raise the rent, Nazary said, noting that a small storage facility with hot water and enclosures necessary to meet health standards could cost $900 a month.

Tekeste Woldemariam is a vendor sticking with WG.

"Why would we fight with someone who's sold us stuff" for decades? Woldemariam asked. He and his wife wake up at 4 a.m. each day to travel from Springfield to operate their cart at Vermont Avenue and I Street NW. He described the brothers as part of his family and On the Fly as a group of wealthy investors.

"If I'm a millionaire, I can go to a mall" to open a store, Woldemariam said during a recent stop at WG to pick up two packages of hot dogs.

Nazary and Gulajan said the city favors Klein and dislikes WG and other depot owners. "It's about putting more money in the big man's pockets," Nazary said.

The new rules will also probably favor D.C. residents. Klein and his partners live in the city, but many vendors live in Maryland and Virginia because they can't afford Washington, said lawyer Timothy Jenkins, who represents the WG brothers and more than 100 vendors. The brothers live in Virginia.

"A lot of people have gone out of the depot business," Nazary said. "There were more than seven depots. They had to shut down. . . . Now, there are three."

On a recent day in the alley called Wiltberger Street, Hdayathulla Gulajan took a sip of a Monster Energy drink and a drag on his Marlboro Light. At the warehouse entrance, a paper American flag was stuck to a window with bright-orange 59-cent stickers.

He and his brother still joke about the days when they fought each other over prime spots.

"You know," he said, "at one time, hot dogs were new."