Gustavo Duran, 37, pushes his vending cart down 26th Street in Little Village and calls to passersby: “Se vende paletas-chocolate, vainilla, mango, lima y fresa!”
That’s his Spanish sales pitch for popsicles in chocolate, vanilla, mango, lime and strawberry flavors.
Duran is a paletero, an ice cream vendor with clanging bells on his three-wheeled pushcart selling treats in the heavily Hispanic areas of Pilsen, Logan Square and Little Village.
Many cherish los paleteros because they are a reminder of the customs of the old country.
But, increasingly, as city neighborhoods ban them, ice cream vendors are forced to share competitive turf in Hispanic areas, creating a crush causing some merchants in Pilsen and Little Village to say enough is enough: The paleteros steal their customers and are a nuisance.
“There are too many of them. It’s getting out of hand,” said Alicia Rivera of Zemsky’s Family Fashion, 3539 W. 26th St., in Little Village. Rivera shoos paleteros away from her shop because, she says, they often leave a wake of popsicle wrappers.
“Traditions and memories are cherished in the heart,” she said. “We don’t need paleteros to remind us we used to buy popsicles for 20 cents.”
But Ald. Ricardo Munoz (22nd) said the paleteros are the sign of hard econonmic times and, as more non-skilled workers compete for fewer factory jobs, many turn to street vending.
“As an economic machine, the vendors are vital,” Munoz said. “They’re providing a service to the community and they are generating revenues to the families they support.”
All or parts of four city wards, the 19th, 21st, 14th and 18th, have imposed bans on street peddlers selling ice cream.
“Business owners have appreciated the lessening of the disruption, and as a safety measure, residents have . . . felt more secure,” said Ald. Virginia Rugai (19th).
Paleteros are independent contractors who work for the more than two dozen Mexican-American ice cream companies in Chicago. They get their pushcarts for free and make about 50 percent off their daily popsicle sales. They complain of harassment from gang members who often assault them at night, but selling popsicles is the only work many of the vendors can find because many do not speak English and many are undocumented. The seasonal job earns them $30 to $40 a day by selling about 200 popsicles.
The bells both alert customers to the arrival of the paletero and revive childhood memories in many adults.
“It’s a tradition. In Mexico, that’s all you see, (you see) paletas. You don’t see any ice cream trucks,” said Juan Perez of South Keeler Avenue.
Blanca Gutierrez, Duran’s boss and owner of Paletas Poncho Inc., 2513 S. Pulaski Rd., said the vendors also add to the ambience of Little Village.
“They are people with needs just like those who work in factories or those who work behind a cash register,” Gutierrez said. “A lot of people think selling popsicles is easy. They look down on the job. It’s not all that easy.”
Gutierrez’ firm is one of the oldest popsicle shops in Little Village. Like old-fashioned ice cream shops at the turn of the century, workers prepare about 8,000 to 13,000 popsicles a day. Gutierrez supplies push carts, popsicles and business licenses.
Duran, who wears a baseball cap to block the sun’s rays, must constantly be aware of his surroundings. He said a teenager recently gave him $20 for a 50-cent popsicle. As Duran reached into his wallet to give the boy his change, the youth grabbed all the money and ran.
“He took $28-a whole day’s work,” he said.
Duran is busy on Sundays, but during the weekdays, he hunts for customers.
“You have to find where the people are. You have to look for them,” said Duran, who is married, with two sons. “It’s a struggle. I need to make rent payments and support my family.”
As he scans the competition along 26th Street, he spots at least four paleteros on nearby street corners.
“We’re all struggling out here in the streets. But we’re all friends,” Duran said, pointing to an elderly man. “See that man, he has arthritis. But he still goes out into the streets and sells.”
Walking down 25th Street, a woman calls out: “Paletero.” Duran quickly crosses the street.
Griselda Rios, 28, asks for a popsicle for herself and one for her child. “I love eating popsicles,” Rios said, who came to the United States at the age of 8. “It’s as if I were back in Mexico.”
But Duran speculates people buy his popsicles for other reasons.
“They know I have to make my living doing this, and they want to help me,” he said. “I guess that’s why they buy them.”
