I spied his boxy green truck for the first time while walking past Blue Hill with friends over Thanksgiving weekend; a chef was running across the street in his checks, his knives dangling such that he looked a bit like a certain Tim Burton character, to Mike the Knife Sharpener.
I was happy to see him again in the village, with Aron, a few days later. Apparently the truck–which has been traveling with its own grinder since 1941, when Mike’s father first operated it–announces its presence with a ringing bell. Just as children come running to the song of ice cream trucks, chefs (professional and amateur alike) come running toward the bell with dull knives bundled in dish towels. Mike started riding beside his father when he was only five years old.
Who knew?
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