The Wurst Win

On New York City streets, food vendors are often treated worse than pigeons. "A woman once threw one of my sandwiches at me because she said I was sweating too much," says World Trade Center?area vendor Sophia Laskaris. "It was summertime; what she'd expect?"

Laskaris and her element-braving brethren expect respect, which is what she and fellow grub slingers received last week at the first annual Vendy Awards, a fundraiser for advocacy group the Street Vendor Project. "Vendors make our lives richer," says Sean Basinski, 32, the SVP director. His street-food Oscars specialize in grease, not glitz, as four finalists (out of 200-plus entrants) took to an unheated East Village vendor garage to sizzle and scoop up a triumph.

Walking down East Fourth Street, it's impossible to miss the Vendys. Silver vendor carts line the block, like Harley's at a Hell's Angels bar. The first finalist, Tony "The Dragon" Dragonas (Madison and 62nd Street) is wearing a denim shirt with a bald eagle. The Greek vendor is stationed on the sidewalk, where "I belong," serving well-charred chicken salad while camera lights shine-less pressure than 20-person lunchtime line, he says. "I was nervous before I got here, but I'm just doing my job," he says, a title evidently including flirtation:

"How much for a Snapple?" asks a woman wearing jeans tighter than sausage casing.

"For you, beautiful, it's free," he says, grinning.

Inside the garage, DJs spin and vendors cook in corners, like a boxing ring. Initially, food takes a back seat to booze, with the open-bar line snaking throughout the garage. It makes sense; you're usually soused before scarfing street food. Appetite stoked by alcohol, the crowd-which builds to around 250-starts munching. In one corner sits the "Best Halal" team, found on 53rd and Sixth Avenue nightly. "We're making people happy," says Egypt-born Mohamed Abouelenien, resplendent in a yellow sweatshirt. Best Halal's secret weapon is an addictive white sauce, a bland handle for a flavor detonation betrothed to meat.

Beside them sits Rolf Babiel, the white-aproned and red-capped Hallo Berlin proprietor-a bratwurst and sausage cart. "We're New York's worst restaurant," he says, pointing to his countless-signed cart (54th Street and Fifth Avenue). "Americans can't say wurst, so we're the worst." Babiel, a German immigrant who has vended for two decades, is pessimistic about his odds because "we're too complicated." I doubt that; dribble-down-your-chin sausages under a sauerkraut avalanche seems like a winning recipe.

Last is Thiru "Dosa Man" Kumar. He's wearing a big smile, a bristly mustache and a T-shirt of himself wearing a big smile and a bristly mustache. The Sri Lankan opened his cart four years ago (on Washington Square South and Sullivan Street), serving 100-percent vegan dosas, crepe-like pancakes wrapped around a vegetable rainbow. He's a man of few words, preferring to let his food do the talking. Others are more voluminous.

"I packed a second stomach," says Rebecca Klus, a curly-haired chef visiting from San Francisco. She just polished off a dosa and now munches a Team Halal gyro, some of which drips on my shoes. "What better reason to come to New York City than eating?"

While the crowd sates their hunger, five judges assess criteria like flair, speed of preparation and "crave factor." "How do you judge crave factor?" asks judge Heather Tierney, an editor at Time Out New York. (Full disclosure: I contribute to TONY.)

After much chewing and deliberation, she and four fellow judges (including Adam Kuban from pizza blog Sliceny.com and Todd Coleman, a chef-instructor at the Institute of Culinary Education) reach a verdict. A dreadlocked emcee takes the stage. He's joined by the contestants, who look like a melting-pot postcard: Sri Lankan, German, Egyptian and Greek. They grin nervously as, one by one, the emcee announces the runners-up. Finally, an unlikely winner is crowned: The worst is best.

Babiel looks stunned. "I'm German, tell me what to do!" he says. "Polka!" someone cries. Instead, Babiel grabs the silver cup. The emcee encourages the audience to "reach out and touch somebody. Grab a hand." Palms join palms, hands raise high and the chant begins: "Vendor power! Vendor power! Vendor power!" is shouted in English, Spanish and French, voices echoing outside the garage and onto, where it belongs, the streets.