Most food trucks don't fail because the food tastes bad. They fail because the owners run out of cash, run out of energy, or never get consistent customers. That's what makes Fatboy Fried Rice such a useful Business Idea to study, because it started with almost nothing, proved demand fast, then scaled into multiple trucks without betting the house on day one.
This story follows Joshua Valencia and his childhood friend JM (they call him Double J), who went from selling plates out of their parents' backyard to running four trucks in Jacksonville, Florida, plus catering, online orders, and merch. Along the way, they built systems for prep, sourcing, quality control, and consistency, even while working in the tight space of a truck.
The backyard test that made the first big move way less risky
Fatboy Fried Rice began in the pandemic era (2020 to 2021), and the start is about as simple as it gets: "We were literally selling food out of our parents' backyard." They cooked, took photos, posted on Instagram, and told people to DM if they wanted to order. No fancy launch, no big signage, no grand opening speech. Just food, photos, and repetition.
What's sneaky smart here is the order of operations. Instead of buying a truck and then praying people show up, they proved the concept first. That matters in an industry people often quote as having a brutal failure rate. If nobody buys plates from a backyard setup, you learn that lesson cheaply.
And the early signal was loud. On their first day officially opening, they hoped for around five orders. They got 60.
Their startup costs were almost comically low. Joshua breaks it down like this:
- About $150 for inventory (food)
- About $100 for plates, spoons, and the basics
So roughly $250 to get started. That's not "no money," but it's close enough that a lot of people could try it without going into debt. If you're looking for a Business Idea that you can test before you commit, this is basically the blueprint.
The other part of the foundation is personal. Joshua and JM have known each other since they were kids in the Philippines, around age four or five. Joshua moved to Jacksonville in 2009, JM followed not long after, and they reconnected. Same jobs, same grind, and eventually the same thought: why keep building someone else's thing?
If you want to see what they sell now, their menu and ordering links live at the Fatboy Fried Rice official site.
Building a real operation: commissary hub, stocking systems, and weekly spend
Once you have demand, the work changes. It stops being "can we sell?" and becomes "can we keep up without messing up?" For Fatboy Fried Rice, a major step was getting a commissary kitchen, basically their hub and headquarters. Prep, inventory, and organization run through that one spot, then feed the trucks.
They pay about $1,000 a month in rent, and that includes electric. They've been in the space for about a year, after spending the early days prepping out of the truck itself. Anyone who's ever tried prepping in a cramped space knows how that goes, you bump into everything, you forget where you set stuff down, and time disappears.
To keep the place stocked, they follow a par list through the week. Busy days and slow days change what they order, but the point stays the same: don't guess every morning. Sometimes they still do emergency runs, but the baseline is planned.
They also receive deliveries now. One smaller weekly delivery, basically a "finish the week" restock, runs around $800 to $1,000.
This is one of those quiet details people miss when they romanticize food trucks. You're not just running service. You're running purchasing, storage, forecasting, and prep. It's a mobile kitchen, yes, but it's also a moving supply chain.
And because they run multiple trucks, the commissary is what makes consistency possible. Without that center point, you're juggling four separate mini-restaurants that all need food, labeling, storage, and prep discipline. That's where businesses start to wobble.
A food truck that's busy but disorganized doesn't feel like success, it feels like panic with extra steps.
Shopping and sourcing: Restaurant Depot runs, bulk buying, and a local meat partner
They still shop in person for certain items, especially things that are cheaper than what their distributor carries, or items the distributor doesn't stock. Restaurant Depot is one of those spots that shows up again and again in food business stories, because bulk pricing can buy you time.
And yes, it's open to the public. They mention you can get a day pass and shop.
In the early days, their weekly spend at Restaurant Depot was around $600 to $700. Now, between their distributor (they mention Sysco) and these supplemental runs, they're closer to $3,000 to $4,000 per week.
They also share a reality check: before deliveries, they used to haul massive bags of rice themselves. Think about grabbing 20 bags of 100-pound rice in a week and lifting them into a truck. It's a workout you didn't ask for.
They switched to deliveries once they noticed they were spending more than $1,000 and showing up at Restaurant Depot almost daily. At that point, the "savings" can get eaten by time and physical wear.
That day's in-store haul included things like seasonings, eggs, chicken thighs (cheaper there), sweet chili sauce, syrup for flavored lemonades (green apple that day), and onions. Total: $373.
For proteins, they don't rely only on big-box supply. They also work with a local meat shop called Lee House Meat Shop, where they source chicken, pork, beef, and more. Joshua's tip for picking a good local meat market is simple: build relationships and test a few. They tried different places before finding a fit, and they've been with this one for about two years.
Quality is a point of pride for them, and they say it plainly: they don't want to serve anything they wouldn't eat themselves.
A few numbers that stand out:
- Beef short ribs run about $10 to $11 per pound
- They buy roughly 100 to 130 pounds of short ribs per week
- Pork chops: roughly 90 to 100 pounds per week
- Beef knuckles also come through here (used for key dishes), and the day's estimate for meat spend was about $600 to $700
There's even a quick moment where they guess the weight of a cut, then weigh it out. It lands at 19.80 pounds.
If you're comparing food business options, it's worth skimming broader guides too, just to understand permits, location rules, and startup steps in the US. Two solid references are this Square guide to starting a food truck and the city-level SF guide to starting a food truck (even if you're not in SF, it shows how detailed local rules can get).
Also Read: How a 24-Year-Old Built 100+ Properties Starting With $0 (BRRRR, Cold Calls, and Systems)
The sauces and the prep rhythm that keeps customers coming back
One reason people obsess over certain trucks is flavor consistency. It's not only about having a good dish once. It's about having it taste right every time, even when the line is long and the ticket printer won't stop.
At the commissary, they make one of their popular sauces: a sweet mayo sauce. It's their version of a yum yum-style sauce, but with their own twist. Ingredients mentioned include creole granulated garlic, black pepper, sriracha, a heavy mayo base, plus gochujang (they call it out during mixing).
They do about three to four gallons a day of this sauce, and it takes roughly 10 to 15 minutes to make.
The important operational detail is that it's not all "by feel." They keep a recipe book and cheat sheets so the sauce stays consistent, even when different staff members prep it. That theme shows up again later too, and it's basically the difference between a cool hustle and a real business.
Their prep rhythm looks like this:
- Two prep days: Tuesdays and Saturdays
- On operating days, they come in earlier to get trucks stocked and ready
They also run quality control before service. Managers taste everything before it goes out, and they use a checklist. If something feels off, they'll take a photo, drop it in a group chat, and fix it fast.
That might sound intense, but customers can taste when a place gets lazy. This is how you avoid that slow slide.
The trucks, the build costs, and how $250 turned into four locations
The flagship is an Asian fusion fried rice concept (Korean, Japanese, Filipino influences), built around fried rice bowls and plates. Today they run four food trucks total, including a separate concept that's more Hawaiian and Filipino based (they refer to it as a silog-style truck).
The startup jump from backyard to truck is where the numbers get real.
Their first food truck cost:
- $16,000 for the used truck (found on Facebook Marketplace)
- About $1,000 for permits
- About $1,000 for initial inventory and food
- About $250 for miscellaneous items like propane and gas
Total: around $18,250 to get rolling.
They also show a newer truck build out that cost about $48,000, based on a blueprint they had in mind. Inside, the equipment is serious, including a rice cooker that can handle up to 60 gallons at a time, plus a wok station, fryers, and an expo area where tickets flow and orders go out the window.
Joshua's advice for someone starting is practical: look on Marketplace first, and choose a truck based on the equipment you'll actually use (fryer, grill, flat top, and so on). They didn't drop $48K in the beginning. They saved from the backyard sales and got some help from parents, then used the first truck to snowball.
They also made a location choice that reduced chaos. One of their trucks stays in a consistent spot five days a week, and they've held that rhythm for years. They mention they basically haven't missed days, except for holidays.
Two quick location tips they share stick in your head:
- Look hard at the area, and know who you're feeding.
- Start somewhere familiar, ideally your own community.
If you've ever watched a food truck pack up and move, you already know why consistency matters. Moving is work, and work steals focus.
Revenue breakdown, ticket math, and the $1,800-in-5-hours challenge
Fatboy Fried Rice reports doing $600,000 to $650,000 in revenue in 2025 across the whole operation. Food trucks make up about 80 percent of that. Online orders account for about 10 percent. Catering and merch bring in roughly 5 percent each.
Here's that revenue mix in a quick table so it's easier to scan:
| Revenue source | Share of revenue (2025) |
|---|---|
| Food trucks | 80% |
| Online orders | 10% |
| Catering | 5% |
| Merch | 5% |
The takeaway is pretty clear: the trucks are the engine, but the add-ons stack up.
They also break down performance by truck. The flagship does about 50 percent of truck revenue, the second truck does about 30 percent, and the other two do about 10 percent each.
Then comes the real-time challenge: can they hit $1,800 in about five hours? They estimate that would take around 40 to 45 tickets, with an average ticket size of $25 to $30.
Midday, after the lunch rush, they check numbers: $723.63 so far, with around four hours to go.
At the end of the day, they land at $1,773, just short of the stretch goal. Still, that number says a lot, because it's not a highlight reel. It's a normal operating day with a real clock running.
One more detail that's easy to miss: they say the first truck paid back the initial investment in about three months, and within six months they were paying themselves and seeing profit. That's not a promise for everyone, but it shows what can happen when demand, pricing, and ops line up.
For people curious about "starting with no money," it helps to compare this story with other real examples too. This Toast guide on opening a food truck with no money is a decent companion read, because it talks through practical ways people reduce upfront costs.
What sells best, what it costs to make, and why customers keep returning
The food is the headline, and they don't dodge the numbers.
One of their most popular dishes is bulgogi fried rice paired with beef short ribs. A plate like that sells for about $18 to $20, and they estimate it costs them around $6 to $7 to make.
The other standout is the cheeseburger fried rice, which they say is the dish that started the whole concept. They even top it with add-ons like chicken teriyaki, plus fried onions for texture and parsley for color. Customers also mix and match, adding bulgogi, short ribs, pork chops, whatever they want.
That plate sells for about $22 to $23, and again costs roughly $6 to $7 to make.
They also mention different locations lean toward different favorites. At the west side location, cheeseburger fried rice is especially popular. At another location, bulgogi and chicken teriyaki move faster.
Early on, they sold out constantly. At first that sounds like a good problem, but they call it what it is: money walking out the door, plus disappointed customers who drove in from far away. Over time they tightened their par levels and inventory so they could stay stocked.
And customer feedback is strong. One regular, Mike, says he's been about 20 times across locations. His go-to is shrimp fried rice with beef short rib added, and he rates it a 10 out of 10. He also gives a practical tip that almost feels like a local secret: order ahead.
Common pitfalls and the biggest misconception about running a food truck
There's a moment early on that's almost a rite of passage: the first night in the truck, a long line forms, energy is high, and then the generator dies. Boom. Service stops.
That's the part people don't see on Instagram.
They also call out the biggest misconception: a food truck isn't "just cooking." Joshua puts cooking at maybe 40 percent of the job. The rest is setup, propane, shopping, storage, repairs, staffing, schedules, inventory decisions, and making sure your truck can even operate where you're parked.
He even says, in his opinion, a food truck can be harder than running a restaurant. A restaurant can receive deliveries, prep in the same place, and serve in the same place. A truck often has you doing all of that while moving pieces around, sometimes literally.
Marketing-wise, their growth story leans hard on organic social media. They post a lot, make the food look as good as it tastes, and keep showing up consistently. They also say they don't run ads.
If you're setting up the legal side of a new Business Idea, they also include a sponsor mention for forming an LLC through Bizee's LLC formation service. (Not everyone needs an LLC right away, but that's the tool they point to in the episode.)
What I learned watching this, and what I'd steal for my own plan
I walked away thinking about how unglamorous the "winning" parts are. It's the par list. It's the recipe cheat sheet. It's tasting everything before service, even when you're tired and hungry. That stuff doesn't look cool on camera, but it's what keeps a place from slowly falling apart.
The second thing that hit me, kind of late, is how powerful the backyard test is. I've seen people sink real money into equipment before they know what customers actually want. Here, the order is flipped. They sold plates first, watched demand show up, then upgraded when the numbers forced them to. It's almost boring, and that's why it works.
I also can't stop thinking about the consistency point. Staying in the same spot for years sounds "small" until you realize customers build habits around you. People don't have to wonder where you are today. They just know, and they show up. In a noisy world, that's rare.
Finally, the generator story is the reminder I needed. Even when you do everything right, something will break at the worst time. So if I ever chase a food truck Business Idea, I'd plan for failure like it's part of the job, because it is.
Conclusion: a simple Business Idea, run with real discipline
Fatboy Fried Rice didn't start with investors, ads, or a big build out. It started with backyard plates, Instagram DMs, and a fast proof that customers wanted the food. From there, the growth came from repeatable prep, reliable sourcing, tight quality control, and staying consistent enough that customers could build routines around the trucks.
If there's one theme that keeps coming back, it's this: prove demand early, then scale with systems, not stress. That's not only how you survive a tough industry, it's how you build something that can last.