There’s a certain hour, just before sunset, when a neighborhood goes soft around the edges. The generator hum settles into a friendly purr, a swirl of vanilla lifts off the cone like smoke from a campfire, and you, the owner, are doing math with sticky fingers. You’re counting bills, counting smiles, counting whether this thing you built on four bald tires and a prayer is going to carry you through the season. That’s the moment a business becomes real. And if you’re smart, it’s also the moment you remember that the romance of soft‑serve still has to pass inspection, and that the real engine under the hood is a corporate transactional plan that doesn’t melt in the sun.
This is a field guide for founders who want the sweet life without the stomachache. It’s for the ones who see an empty curb as a chance, not a warning. And, yes, it’s for you, the person brave enough to believe a freezer, a quiet generator, and a good lawyer are the makings of a summer empire.
Listen along with the companion episode from Tabula Rasa with Blake Turley here.
You can buy a used truck that already smells like waffle cones and yesterday’s shift—call it somewhere between “solid deal” and “questionable life choice,” priced in the tens of thousands. The good ones arrive pre-fitted, with screened windows, cold-holding that doesn’t flinch at August heat, and the kind of plumbing that makes a health inspector nod instead of frown. Or you can retrofit: tear it down to steel and dreams, then wire in a compressor, drop in a chest that lives between 0°F and “polar expedition,” and install a hand sink because food safety is a covenant, not a suggestion. Leasing exists, too—a seasonal flirtation where maintenance and inspections had better be spelled out in black and white before you drive off the lot.
Under the glossy wrap is your first corporate decision: structure, liability, permits, vendor agreements, equipment financing. This is where Turley Law earns its keep, translating “I just want to sell ice cream” into an LLC that shields you from product and commercial liability, contracts that keep the wheels moving, and a compliance roadmap that won’t leave you stranded at the curb. Corporate transactional work isn’t romantic—but neither is a busted compressor on the Saturday of a street festival.
You want to serve joy; the city wants logs. Keep your freezers cold enough to make penguins homesick. Mount visible thermostats. Log temps like a pilot checks gauges. Three-compartment sink plus a hand sink, sanitizer test strips, and a commissary letter that proves you’re not rinsing scoops in a birdbath. Fire extinguishers where they belong, shutoffs labeled like you care about your neighbors, and power that doesn’t scream through the night. When an inspector asks for papers, you don’t recite poetry—you produce receipts.
And before you open the window, your paperwork should be crisp: licenses, insurance certificates, vendor permits, event contracts. Turley Law helps founders assemble that dossier so your first conversation with the city is a handshake, not a hearing.
You don’t need fifty flavors and a philosophy degree. You need a menu that moves a line in sixty seconds or less and still tastes like childhood. A tight set of novelties for volume. One or two signature items for soul—and margin. Maybe it’s a dipped cone with a shell that crunches like good news. Maybe it’s a neon swirl that looks like it fell out of a late-night music video. Maybe it’s a vegan coconut bar that’s dairy‑free and unapologetically excellent. The secret is restraint: eight to fifteen SKUs, tops. Too much choice slows hands and clutters minds. Edit like an artist. Serve like a machine.
Inclusivity isn’t an add‑on; it’s a base note. Keep nut tools away from the rest, label allergens like you mean it, train your crew on what they can promise and what they can’t. Everything clean, everything clear, everything separate. It’s hospitality and risk management in the same breath.
Here’s a day that works. You sell around 120 items, averaging $5.50 a pop. That’s roughly $660 in revenue. Your cost of goods lands about where you expect for bars, cones, and a few sundaes—call it a manageable bite—leaving a solid gross. Fuel and generator drink their share. Labor does its part. Card fees nibble. What’s left—about $285 before tax—feels like victory you can fold into your pocket.
Stretch that across 150 good‑weather days and you’re staring at a season that could clear north of forty grand before taxes. It’s illustrative, not gospel; storms happen, festivals surprise, and a glorious Saturday can fix a bruised Wednesday. But the compass is steady: price for margin, sell for speed, and never let waste run your life.
Fixed costs are the metronome—permits, insurance, storage, depreciation. Add them up and you’ll see the shape of your break‑even: a few thousand items in a season, give or take, depending on your mix and how cleanly you move people from sidewalk to smile. Raise the average ticket with a signature sundae and a good story, and the math tilts your way.
A truck is a stage on wheels; a route is your tour. Alternate paths so the neighborhoods miss you just enough to want you back. Post weekly schedules where people actually look. Respect school buffers and no‑vend zones like law, because they are. Private lots require permission—in writing. Events are your anchor gigs: the church social on weeknights, corporate pop‑ups at lunch, weddings and festivals when the weekend opens up and the sun cooperates. Price like a professional: booking fees or minimum guarantees, clearly spelled out, money and servings aligned so no one is guessing mid‑scoop.
This is also where corporate transactional law shows up with a grin and a red pen. Event agreements need weather clauses, cancellation rules, indemnity, insurance thresholds, and payment timing that won’t starve your cash flow. Vendor relationships deserve more than a handshake. When it’s your name on the side of the truck, you want the contracts to fit like a chef’s knife in the hand.
Tap to pay. Always. Offline mode when the bars drop to one. Tip prompts that don’t hold the line hostage. Bundle deals baked into the POS so a “Family Four‑Pack” is one tap, not a thesis. A QR code that feeds your route schedule and a birthday club that brings a family back next month. You’re not just selling ice cream; you’re selling the easiest decision they’ll make all day.
There’s a reason the best kitchens run on prep lists and quiet authority. Your business deserves the same. Turley Law helps founders set the table with:
Call it corporate transactional if you must. We call it the work that lets you sleep, so you can serve the first cone tomorrow like it’s the first of the season.
Start with a truck you trust and paperwork that stands up in daylight. Keep the cold chain sacred. Build a menu that moves a line and still feels like a treat. Price for margin, hustle for throughput, and let events smooth the weather. Protect it all with contracts that read like they were written by someone who’s been rained out before. If you want a partner who speaks both margin and menu, Turley Law is your house counsel on wheels.