Julieta González Moreno has spent more than a year trying to do something that should be simple: sell food from her cart, “Antojitos Mexicanos,” on the streets of East Las Vegas, make a living, and feed her family. She did everything the system asked of her. She went through the long, confusing process of getting a street vending license from Clark County, paid her fees, waited months for approvals, and finally held the documents that were supposed to make her legitimate. And yet, she still cannot find peace on the streets. Almost every week, she says, police approach her and order her to pack up and leave. Sometimes they tell her she needs a different permit, sometimes they say she is too close to a park or a restaurant, and sometimes there is no explanation at all—just the quiet authority of law enforcement telling her that wherever she is, it is not the right place. She has watched friends get cited, threatened, and even arrested. One of her friends, she says, was “locked up” after police discovered she did not have the right license for a particular designated area. “It is a little difficult because sometimes we’re there selling and the police arrive and move us around,” Moreno said. “I think that’s unfair because even though we already have our license, now they’re asking us to get another license … so yes, sometimes it’s a little difficult.” She is not asking for special treatment. She is asking for the law to work the way it was promised: that after legalization, street vendors would no longer be treated like criminals.
Moreno is one of only a tiny handful of street vendors in Southern Nevada who have actually managed to get licensed, and her story reveals how far the reality has fallen short of the promise. Street vending was legalized in Nevada in 2023 with much fanfare, celebrated as a victory for immigrants, entrepreneurs, and the working poor. But more than a year later, the system remains so tangled, expensive, and intimidating that almost no one can actually use it. As of 2026, only 17 street vendors are licensed across the entire Las Vegas Valley, and only seven of those have an additional license that allows them to operate in multiple jurisdictions. Clark County told The Indy that they have approved only four licenses this year, with three more pending. Those numbers are almost absurdly low for a metropolitan area of more than two million people, where street food carts have always been a familiar sight in working-class neighborhoods. Across the state, the contrast is stark. In Northern Nevada, the health district for Reno, Sparks, and Washoe County has issued 130 permits under its Mobile and Portable Food Program, which covers any type of food establishment on wheels. “It’s more accessible than Clark County,” said Elizabeth Velazquez, an organizer with the immigration advocacy nonprofit Make the Road Nevada. “They have more opportunities in Northern Nevada.” The difference is not because Southern Nevada has fewer street vendors—anyone who walks through East Las Vegas or the Historic Westside can see that—but because the process in Clark County is so burdensome that only the most determined, patient, and financially stable vendors ever make it through.
For the immigrant community that has long embraced street vending as a path to economic advancement, the barriers are even higher than the paperwork suggests. Street vending has always been a way for immigrants, especially women, to earn income without relying on a boss, to build a customer base, and to eventually save enough money to open a brick-and-mortar restaurant. It is a launching pad for the American dream, and it has been for generations. But the Trump administration’s immigration crackdown has made many vendors deeply afraid to interact with local governments at all. The very act of applying for a license requires giving your name, address, and other identifying information to authorities. For someone who is undocumented or has family members who are undocumented, that feels like handing over the key to your own door. Several vendors told The Indy that they have not even started the licensing process because they lack a Social Security number or a taxpayer identification number, which is required to acquire a Nevada business license. Without that first document, nothing else is possible. And the fear is not abstract. Velazquez described a recent incident in which a street vendor in Las Vegas was detained by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement while she was selling food with her daughter. ICE had no business with her, Velazquez said—street vending has been legal for years, and the woman was simply trying to work. Her daughter was not detained, but the mother was taken away in front of her. “Immigration stopped her,” Velazquez said. “All she was looking for was to provide for her family, to get ahead for them. …This administration is hitting our community very hard, both as immigrants and as workers.” The message that sends to every other street vendor is unmistakable: no matter how many permits you have, you are still vulnerable.
Even for vendors who do manage to get licensed, the next hurdle is figuring out where they are actually allowed to stand. And in Clark County, the answer is: almost nowhere useful. A 2024 county ordinance bans street vendors from operating within 500 feet of any county park without a special permit. Another county rule blocks them from being within 150 feet of a licensed traditional restaurant or another vendor. State law goes even further, prohibiting vendors from operating within 1,500 feet of resort hotels or major arenas—essentially banning them from the Las Vegas Strip entirely. These restrictions cut off the busiest, most profitable areas of the city, the places where there is enough foot traffic to make a small cart worthwhile. Moreno said the rules shut vendors out of the areas where they have the “best chance of selling,” and some vendors are so desperate for business that they risk operating in those zones anyway. If they are caught, the penalties are severe: a $500 fine, or even up to six months in jail. For a single mother trying to sell tacos to make rent, a $500 fine is not a small deterrent—it is a catastrophe. But staying out of the restricted zones can mean sitting for hours in a quiet residential street with almost no customers. The law, as written, leaves street vendors with no real choice. They have to choose between being legal and being able to feed their families. Many, understandably, choose to take the risk. And when they do, they are fined, arrested, or harassed, which reinforces the perception that street vending is still a crime even though the state says it is legal.
The cost of going legit is another reason so few vendors have licenses. The initial fee to receive a permit from the Southern Nevada Health District is around $1,000. On top of that, vendors must pay hundreds of dollars for insurance and other licensing fees. They need a state business license, which costs about $200 per year, and a county business license, which runs around $195 initially. And then there is the cart itself. A cart that meets health district standards can cost upward of $10,000, because it must have running water and restaurant-grade equipment. For a street vendor who is just scraping by, $10,000 is an almost impossible sum. It is not something you can save in a few months; it is the kind of money that requires loans, family support, or years of working under the table. Moreno, who was licensed last year, described the process as arduous. Although Clark County and the health district say the licensing approval takes about two weeks, Moreno said the whole process took her about five months. The health district says it offers payment plans and Spanish-language assistance, and that is helpful for some. But the complexity of the process itself is a barrier. “If you don’t have all the information—all the requirements—that’s what makes it take so long,” Moreno said. “Only when you gather all the requirements … can you do the whole process.” Every requirement is another potential failure point: a missing document, a fee that cannot be paid, a form that is not accepted, a question that goes unanswered. For someone who is navigating the system in a second language, without a lawyer or an experienced advisor, it is overwhelming. The result is that the only vendors who can get licensed are the ones who already have enough resources to survive the process—which defeats the whole purpose of legalization, which was supposed to help the most marginalized workers.
There is, however, a path forward, and it is being built in the places where local governments have decided to treat street vendors as partners rather than problems. In Northern Nevada, Northern Nevada Public Health has partnered with Make the Road Nevada, awarding the organization nearly $100,000 to provide direct, hands-on support to street vendors. Through that partnership, about five street vendors in Washoe County have acquired their licenses and can now legally operate their businesses. “Thanks to that, we have about five street vendors who can now legally operate their businesses. They have all their paperwork in order, they have their carts,” Velazquez said. That kind of supportive model—where a health department helps vendors navigate the system instead of waiting for them to fail—is exactly what Southern Nevada lacks. Make the Road Nevada, which has long championed street vending, plans to push for change during the 2027 legislative session, although its program has largely been halted due to federal grant cuts and a lack of funding. State Sen. Fabian Doñate, a Democrat from Las Vegas who has sponsored several bills related to street vending, also says he plans to address the issue in the upcoming session. He is considering bringing back a bill that would exempt certain vendors selling “nonhazardous” foods, such as chips or cookies, from some food establishment regulations in Clark and Washoe counties. That would be a small step, but an important one: it would open the door to vendors who do not need expensive carts with running water because they are not cooking meat or handling raw ingredients. It would make the licensing process cheaper and more accessible for a whole category of small vendors. But bigger changes are needed, too. The 2027 session could be the moment Nevada finally honors its promise to street vendors, by reducing fees, simplifying the licensing process, removing the absurd distance restrictions that make legal operation nearly impossible, and ensuring that local police are not the ones enforcing immigration laws. Until that happens, people like Julieta González Moreno will continue to live in a strange limbo, where the law says they have a right to work, but the streets tell them otherwise. They will keep waking up before dawn, rolling their heavy carts to the curb, and waiting nervously for the flash of police lights. They will keep selling their food with one eye on their customers and one eye on the road. They are not asking for handouts. They are asking for a fair chance to do the work they have always done, legally, proudly, and without fear. That is not too much to ask. It is just what the law promised them—and what it has so far failed to deliver.