Brokers Making You Broke?

The food truck pulls in before dawn, diesel ticking as it cools, steam lifting off the griddle like a promise. Somewhere nearby, an event is being dressed—extension cords uncoiled, banners tugged into place, coffee poured for people who will never stand in line. For the operator, this hour carries a particular kind of hope. Today might be a good day. Or it might be one of those long afternoons where the line never quite forms and the math starts to feel personal.

Between that truck and that crowd stands a figure rarely romanticized and often blamed: the food truck and event broker.

They wear many names—promoter, organizer, curator, fixer—but the job description tends to land in the same place. They book the space. They collect the vendors. They take a cut. Ten percent is the polite starting point, with variations that creep north depending on the event’s ambitions. What they do not offer, typically, are guarantees. Not on sales. Not on attendance. Not on weather, timing, or whether you’ll be parked next to three other trucks selling a version of your dish with a different sauce.

From the operator’s seat, the arithmetic can sting. Four trucks generate ten thousand dollars in sales, the broker pockets their thousand. Ten trucks generate the same ten thousand, the broker still pockets their thousand. The distribution of pain and pleasure inside that circle is not their concern. Their check clears either way. On a slow night, staring at an untouched cambro and a bored line cook, that math can feel less like business and more like theft.

And yet, the trucks keep showing up.

This is the part we don’t always admit out loud, usually because it complicates the villain story. Brokers exist because they solve problems—real ones. They know how to talk to property owners, municipalities, sponsors, and brands. They know how to secure permits, insurance certificates, barricades, and bathrooms. They know how to sell the idea of “activation” to people who don’t cook and don’t intend to eat. Most importantly, they take a task off an already overloaded plate.

Time is the true luxury item in fast casual and mobile food. Owners like to imagine they’re in the flavor business, but most days they’re in the logistics business. Schedules, staffing, prep, sourcing, breakdowns, repairs, payroll, and the quiet anxiety of tomorrow. Booking events—chasing emails, negotiating terms, following up with people who don’t reply—can feel like one more job you didn’t sign up for. Ten percent starts to look like a convenience fee.

Sometimes, that fee is worth it.

A well-run event hums. The lineup makes sense. The crowd arrives hungry. The spacing allows everyone to breathe. Music stays in the background. Beer flows. Food moves. On nights like that, the broker is invisible in the way all good infrastructure should be. You don’t praise the bridge when you cross it, but you notice when it collapses.

The problem is that collapse happens often enough to leave scars.

Operators swap stories like veterans. Overbooked festivals where trucks cannibalize each other’s sales. Promised marketing that amounts to a single late social post. Attendance projections spoken with confidence and delivered with a shrug. The quiet realization that the broker’s incentives are not aligned with the people actually feeding the crowd.

That misalignment leads to the obvious question: do we really need middlemen?

In some cases, the answer is no.

Many operators quietly sidestep brokers by building their own ecosystems. They work directly with breweries, office parks, apartment complexes, schools, and private hosts. They cultivate repeat weekly gigs instead of chasing one-off events. They show up on time, serve well, clean up thoroughly, and follow up afterward. They become reliable, which is still a rare and powerful currency.

Direct booking takes longer at first. It requires outreach, patience, and the ability to sell yourself without sounding desperate. But over time, it compounds. One brewery leads to another. One corporate lunch turns into a quarterly contract. The ten percent stays in your pocket, and more importantly, you control your own fate.

Social media, for all its noise, helps here too. Not as a billboard, but as proof of life. Clear menus. Honest photos. Consistent schedules. When potential hosts can see what you do and how you do it, the pitch becomes easier. You are no longer asking for a chance; you are offering a known quantity.

Still, reality intrudes. Some events are already tied up. The big festivals. The city-sanctioned series. The sponsored spectacles with banners and wristbands. These come with brokers baked in, non-negotiable. Walking away is an option, but not always a practical one, especially for newer operators looking for volume or visibility.

When you’re stepping into a brokered event, the goal shifts from resistance to survival.

Ask questions early. How many trucks are booked, and how are they categorized? A lineup full of near-identical menus is a warning sign. What time does the event actually start and end, not just on paper? What promotion has already happened, and what is still planned? Vague answers usually predict vague results.

Know your numbers before you arrive. Set a personal cutoff—sales or time—beyond which the event no longer makes sense. Some operators build this into their menu strategy, offering tighter, faster items for high-risk events. Others treat these gigs as marketing spend and cap expectations accordingly. The danger lies in pretending every event should be profitable.

There is also room, quietly, for negotiation. Fee caps. Minimum guarantees. Reduced percentages for multi-day events. Not every broker will entertain these conversations, but the good ones understand that long-term vendor health keeps their roster strong. Silence guarantees nothing. Asking occasionally yields surprises.

For brokers willing to listen, there is a better model waiting to be built. Thoughtful caps on vendor numbers. Transparent attendance data. Fee structures that reflect outcomes, not just gross. These approaches don’t eliminate risk, but they share it. They turn vendors from replaceable units into partners.

For operators, the work is choosing with intention. Using brokers when they genuinely add value. Avoiding them when they don’t. Building direct relationships where possible. Sharing information with other trucks instead of hoarding it. The parking lot after service can be a classroom if people are honest.

At the end of the day, food is still the point. The smell of onions hitting hot steel. The brief silence when someone takes the first bite. Everything else—brokers included—should serve that moment. When systems make that harder, they deserve scrutiny. When they make it easier, they earn their keep.

The truck pulls out long after dark, windows streaked, crew tired. Maybe it was a good night. Maybe it wasn’t. The broker’s check will clear either way. The operator will wake up tomorrow and do it again, chasing an old idea of independence inside a much bigger machine. Romance and reality rarely agree in this business. Learning when to compromise—and when not to—is the work.

Are brokers getting in the way of profitability? If they are, we can help!

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