Cow and Pig Parts...An Ode to the Hotdog

There is a hot dog joint in Chicago that calls itself "Hot Doug's" and on it's wall it proudly displays the following phrase:

"There are no two finer words in the English language than 'encased meat,' my friend."

Amen Doug. That is, as long as the encased meat doesn't come from one of California's biggest fast food chains, "Wienerschnitzel."
Over the weekend I had a taste for a hot dog and figured it was time to see how the Californian's do it. The aforementioned establishment seems to be the only operation in town specializing in dogs so my choices were limited. I checked online for the closest locations even though I already know where one was. I figured I could check out a new area in the process and broaden my horizons a bit. So, that's exactly what I did. I got in my car. I drove to unfamiliar territory. I questioned my orientation (spacially speaking). I made numerous wrong turns. I found my destination. I pulled into the parking lot. I parked my car. I walked up to the window...and they're closed. "Will Open Again Tomorrow," says the crudely written sign. I was certainly way too hungry to wait until tomorrow to eat, so I had to make a decision.
I had two choices: first, cut my loses and find something else to eat on my way back home or alternatively, backtrack and drive to the other local Wienerschnitzel location in an endless pursuit of a hot dog. You can probably already guess that I opted with option number two. I wanted to try those hot dogs so badly that it was going to take much more than a sign (albeit a crudely written one) from a higher power to sway my determination.
So, I drove back into familiar territory. I found my way quite easily. I parked my car...again. They were open. I was happy. I ordered my food. I took it home.
It's at this point in the story where I actually ingest a chili dog, an Italian sausage, and some fries, but I will spare you the details. Not because it is a long winded story. Not because it is a boring story. I spare you because I don't want to make you ill. I spare you because it was an agonizingly unpleasant experience. Every successive bite solidified the scowl of disgust on my face. I'm not sure what I was eating, but it was no hot dog and certainly no Italian sausage. I felt so ashamed to have taken part in this travesty. I still have nightmares.
Now, you're probably asking yourself, "Why did you continue to eat it if you weren't enjoying it?" The quick answer is spite. I didn't want those Wienerschnitzel people thinking they got the best of me. I'm too proud of an eater. Plus, I'm just too darn lazy to make/buy something else.
Needless to say, I won't be going back anytime soon, but I do have a suggestion for a phrase they can put on their wall:

"Nobody actually knows what a hot dog is made of, but our dogs redefine the term 'Mystery Meat.'"

Til Next Time

P.S. In case you're wondering, I canceled my return trip to India and decided to buy a new pair of shoes instead. Turns out it was cheaper that way.

States: 26
Countries: 6

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
Don't eat Wienerschnitzel.
I have the ability to eat for spite.
Nobody knows what is in a hot dog.