Food Fight

Part 2

by Kristen Lombardi

The Thursday meeting runs as smooth as a soy frappe. Adorned in tattoos and spiky jewelry, eight Food Not Bombs members gather at Firecracker, a Portland Street shop of far-left literature where FNB does business. The amiable group is seated around a table, tossing off issues to discuss -- signs, street theater, publicity.

"Legal stuff," offers Tim Armstrong, 30.

About two months ago, city officials filed criminal complaints against Armstrong and three colleagues, charging them with failure to obtain a food-establishment permit, thereby deliberately serving in violation of state sanitary code. As defendants await the court date, they're seeking advice from pro bono lawyers and FNB members throughout the country. The charge is a misdemeanor, so they face severe penalties, fines and even jail time.

An intimidating prospect. But, for these guys, it is business as usual.

"The defendants will decide how much risk we're willing to take, since our butts are on the line," Armstrong informs FNB members. "We'll keep serving food on the common every Saturday though."

The statement is hardly surprising. Ever since they began handing out food in May, FNB members have insisted on fulfilling the promise -- even under difficult circumstances. Food Not Bombs had set up its all-vegetarian table for weeks before a city health inspector stumbled upon it at a June 28 ice-cream festival and asked to see a permit.

"I'd contacted city Parks Department about permits and was told none were needed for an operation like ours because it could be considered a large picnic," recalls Klejmont, 26.

The information didn't satisfy the inspector, who told FNB members a health permit was necessary to distribute food to strangers. He wrote a citation, then ordered the table be taken down. Members refused, so he solicited help from two police officers, who ended up in front of the table to "prevent people from taking food," say members.

Thus the start of a predictable relationship. Every Saturday thereafter, an inspector showed up at the FNB table, recorded the food items being served, then asked to see a permit. Members never had one, of course, so a citation was filled out.

The Health Department eventually cracked down and filed complaints against four activists (all had signed citations) for refusing to apply for a permit -- an action Public Health Director John Gagliastro calls a "last resort." Officials view the situation simply: people distributing food must have a license, even if serving for free. Inspectors have no idea how FNB gets or prepares its food, says Gagliastro, and want to check out items and members' kitchens to "ensure they're serving a safe product to people.

"At some point in the distribution process, there needs to be a responsible, licensed agency," explains Gagliastro, adding the current FNB setup lacks an accountable party. "If someone gets sick [from its food], the department and city are culpable."

Initially, Food Not Bombs appeared receptive to city regulations. Armstrong and Klejmont visited City Hall to look into a permit, but officials described it as a full-restaurant license. Inspectors would monitor food pickup and inspect home kitchens. The application would cost $100.

For a volunteer, no-cost operation like Food Not Bombs, the city's process is inappropriate, say members. They argue they're basically sharing a picnic, and that type of activity shouldn't be regulated. Besides, the state sanitary code exempts from licensure people who prepare food at home, then donate it to a nonprofit group for distribution without charge, which is exactly what FNB members say they're doing.

They also consider themselves "gleaners," because they gather surplus food from restaurants and recycle it for poor people -- handing out meals directly and donating leftovers to shelters. Gleaners are exempt from criminal or civil liability under the federal Good Samaritan Act of 1996; an act meant to encourage volunteerism by protecting those who help the poor.

"There is no reason why good-spirited activists handing out free food should be regulated," says Armstrong.

Still, he and colleagues knew their defiance would frustrate Worcester authority. After the initial June brush, FNB members talked about risks and who would sign off on citations. Members assumed the city would make arrests, which has happened to FNB chapters elsewhere. They carried $25 in their pockets on Saturdays -- bail money for jail.

"I figured we'd have to argue our side in court," says Duane Gorey, 21, who accepted citations because "a few months in jail isn't bad enough to stop helping the hungry." But he never anticipated criminal charges, which up the stakes considerably. "Officials are enforcing petty laws and ordinances and wasting everyone's time," he says.

Food Not Bombs serves food with conviction for good reason. Klejmont and Armstrong have tried to launch a local chapter for two years but had trouble attracting volunteers to serve meals. Once Firecracker opened last spring, FNB had a meeting place, says Klejmont. This helped muster a stable group, which FNB considers crucial. Local founders didn't rush into the operation, and don't intend to abruptly stop either.

"Once you start serving food you have to continue, because people begin to depend on you," explains Armstrong.

More important, however, is that local members adhere to an FNB political legacy. Many have championed animal and homeless rights and anti-war philosophies. They've eaten at FNB stands in cities across the country, such as Boston, San Francisco, and Washington, DC, and they see FNB as charity work with a political message -- do away with poverty.

These activists, some natives and some newcomers to the city, consider Worcester perfect for their operation. After all, members say, the city has its share of poor, hungry people. Indeed, 25 percent of children and 13 percent of seniors rely on emergency food assistance, say local food providers. Recent studies even indicate Worcester's food demand has skyrocketed by 62 percent since welfare reform became law last year.

The need for food motivates Worcester FNB to defend its work, but so does the city's conservative reputation. FNB activists are eagerly helping to build a larger "artist-activist community" so political, social change doesn't have to be so hard, say members.

"I think the city wants to see if we'll wean ourselves out," says Armstrong. "But we're not about flash-in-the-pan activism. We're advocates of change, and we've no intention of ceasing to serve food."

On to part 3 Kristen Lombardi can be reached at klombardi[a]phx.com.