At a rooftop barbecue the other weekend, I was introduced to a frightening new specimen in the hot dog kingdom. Writing about food, I’ve been spoiled by, oh, let’s call them “artisianal dogs”. You know the type: Fearless Franks from Niman Ranch or tube steaks made from the tails and snouts of pigs that graze on land owned by aristocratic families from Prussia. At this particular BBQ, I came into contact with something from the other end of the food spectrum: a cheesy hot dog.
It’s a hot dog filled with cheddar on the inside (presumably, it’s injected with cheddar by buxom women wearing tight lab coats, in a sparkling laboratory modeled on the set from CSI: Miami), which melted as the frank was cooked on the grill. I hated them, mostly because they were impossible to avoid. There was no way to tell from looking what horrors lurked on the inside. I knew, just knew, that eating a cheesy dog would end in tragedy.
And of course it did. Eating one and talking to a friend, I bit into the dog and arced a stream of hot cheddar into the air and onto my friend’s face and hair. At least next time, I’ll be able to give bystanders fair warning.
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