Furloughed IRS Attorney Works a Hot Dog Cart Full-Time During Government Shutdown — and Now Reveals What Happens to His Unlikely Second Career
When the U.S. government shut down at midnight on October 1, most Americans only saw headlines. Federal employees, however, saw their paychecks disappear overnight. For 34-year-old IRS attorney Isaac Stein, the shutdown meant reporting to no office, receiving no salary, and waiting alongside thousands of others while lawmakers debated. But instead of sitting at home refreshing the news, Stein pulled on a blazer, tightened a red bow tie, and wheeled out his hot dog cart to the corner of 12th Street in Washington, D.C., where he spent nearly every day of the shutdown selling chili dogs, sausages, and bottled Coke to office workers and tourists. While many furloughed employees scrambled, Stein already had a second profession built — and in one of the most unexpected twists of the shutdown, it became his full-time job.
Stein did not build the cart as a gimmick or on a whim. He began operating it in late 2022, initially as a weekend project. Friends had joked for years that his encyclopedic knowledge of tax codes and courtroom procedure made him intimidating in conversation, but his love of classic New York-style hot dogs made him unexpectedly approachable. When a friend half-seriously suggested he run a food cart, Stein decided to take the idea seriously. He secured a vendor license, purchased a used stainless-steel stand, and started selling part-time on Saturdays. The menu stayed simple: all-beef hot dogs, chili dogs, spicy Polish sausages, bags of chips, and canned sodas. He took pride in something many lawyers never think about—assembling someone’s lunch with his own hands and handing it across the counter with a smile.
What began as curiosity quickly became a genuine small business. On weekdays, Stein worked inside the IRS’s Office of Chief Counsel, preparing briefs and reviewing regulations. On weekends, he pushed his cart out to a Metro stop and served commuters and dog-walkers. He jokingly called it his “side hustle,” but he treated it like a second profession—tracking expenses, keeping inventory, even calculating food-service tax deductions with the precision of someone who files code citations from memory. When the 2023 shutdown rumors began swirling, Stein knew what many of his colleagues feared: the government could go dark, and every paycheck could vanish overnight. Instead of waiting, he prepared.
When the shutdown became official, the IRS was among the agencies required to furlough civilian legal staff. Federal guidelines prevented Stein from logging in or performing any government work until funding returned. That morning, while others posted photos of closed offices and empty hallways, Stein posted a selfie—holding a hot dog, grinning under bright yellow and red umbrellas, with a caption simply reading: “Day 1 of shutdown. We grind elsewhere.”
In that moment, a local story became a national one. Shoppers snapped photos. Commuters lined up to see whether the bow-tied lawyer grilling Hebrew Nationals was real. And social media did the rest. Within days, Stein had gone viral — though not for courtroom achievements or policy work. News outlets picked up the story of an IRS attorney who refused to sit idle during furlough. Cable networks reached out for interviews. Strangers found humor, inspiration, and even a little comfort in the idea that a man trained to interpret federal tax statutes could also sling hot dogs with cheerful grit.
But behind the easy smiles and press attention was something more grounded. “I wasn’t trying to make a political point,” Stein said in a recent interview. “I just didn’t want to sit at home worrying about when I’d get paid. I already owned the cart. I already had customers. It made sense to work.”
Stein worked nearly every day of the shutdown, sometimes more than nine hours at a stretch. He woke early, picked up fresh buns from a bakery in Capitol Hill, stocked his soda cooler with ice, and rolled to a downtown corner before office crowds arrived. He learned, he said, that street vending turns ordinary conversations into miniature journalism moments. Customers asked whether he supported the shutdown, whether he blamed Congress, whether he would go back to law if the government reopened. Stein kept his responses polite and strictly neutral. “I’m here because I can’t be at my other job,” he said. “But everyone’s got to eat.”
He also saw firsthand how many everyday workers were affected far beyond federal office walls. He sold lunch to janitors who had lost overtime pay, to contract workers who had been told they might not receive any back pay when the shutdown ended, and to young employees from federal museums who admitted they were already calculating how to split rent if the closure dragged on another month. In those conversations, Stein said, he stopped thinking of the cart as a humorous backup plan. It became something steadier — a way to stay active, stay paid, and stay connected to ordinary life while everything else stalled.
For nearly four weeks, his hot dog stand became something more than a food vendor. It became a familiar symbol for others living in limbo. Local news began calling him “the shutdown hot dog lawyer.” A CNN segment aired under the headline: “Attorney argued tax law Friday, serves mustard Monday.” When a photo of Stein handing a customer a chili dog while wearing a gray blazer circulated online, one commenter wrote, “This is the most polite rebellion I’ve ever seen.”
By week three, Stein was earning nearly as much as his government paycheck—without counting tips. A nearby office worker who bought lunch three times a week started a running joke that Stein should never return to law. Even his family played along, asking whether they should expect “catered hot dogs at Thanksgiving.”
But privately, Stein admits something else happened during that period. He began asking himself whether he actually wanted to go back. Not because he disliked the IRS — he has repeatedly said he values public service and tax law — but because the simplicity of the cart felt strangely fulfilling. He could see the result of his work immediately. Customers smiled, tipped, and came back. There was none of the procedural delay, none of the bureaucratic wait time. “Serving a good hot dog to someone who’s on their lunch break feels a little like winning trial briefs in miniature,” he joked. “You prepare, you present, and you hope they appreciate what you’ve assembled.”
On the morning the government reopened, Stein was working the cart as normal when his phone chimed with agency email alerts. One by one, coworkers texted: “We’re back.” “See you Monday.” “Lawyer life resumes.” That evening, Stein closed the cart and sat alone on a bench two blocks away. For the first time, he wasn’t thinking about survival. He was thinking about choice.
By the end of the week, he had his answer. He would return to the IRS — but he would not shut down the cart. Instead, Stein will now continue operating it three days a week before work and on weekends. He has applied for an expanded vending schedule and is working with a supplier to create branded packaging, something he plans to call “Counsel Dogs.” Government law by day, chili dog stand by lunch hour.
“I never wanted the hot dog cart to replace the law,” Stein said. “But it reminded me that work doesn’t have to be only one thing. You can serve your country and serve someone lunch. One doesn’t make the other less meaningful.”
And unlike many viral stories, this one does not end in cynicism. Stein did not abandon the government out of protest. He did not turn his side business into a political message. He simply kept working — smiling, grilling, and handing someone a hot dog while the country argued about spending bills and continuing resolutions.
The shutdown ended. Paychecks resumed. Federal offices unlocked their doors. But every day since, somewhere in Washington, a man in a blazer still wipes down a stainless-steel cart, puts on gloves, and lays out buns beside mustard bottles — just in case. Because to him, it isn’t a fallback anymore. It’s part of who he is.
In a city often defined by gridlock and headlines, Isaac Stein became a reminder that resilience doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it just looks like a folding umbrella, a gracious smile, and a perfectly grilled hot dog handed across a counter by someone who refuses to sit still when life stalls.
