I ordered the regular hotdog. That is not exactly what I got.
I watched the woman put on the rubber gloves and extract a bun from a metal box. The wieners were rolling lazily on top of the ubiquitous wiener roller warmer.
As I waited, I thought about hotdogs past – hundreds of them. The dogs I have scarfed down along the Interstate, the dogs from stands in New York City, the dogs at football and baseball and basketball games, the dogs grilled in the backyard. Some were broiled, some boiled, some roasted, some were getting ironed on slowly rotating metal rollers like the one I was waiting for.
I used to think hotdogs were kind of like Spam in a handier shape. I’ve eaten my share of Spam too, by the way. I personally think Iron Chef should use Spam as the secret ingredient for a competition. Bobby Flay ripping that pinkish chunk out of the can and making chefishly Spamish morsels would be pretty entertaining to watch. But back to my hotdog.
The woman reached past the wieners on the average roller and began to hoist a whole other species of wiener from a different roller behind the bun warmer box. This roller was the industrial wiener cooker. I rechecked the menu and saw I had ordered the Big Dog. The freakishly massive thing she grabbed and dropped into the bun pushed the description of big way past big. It kind of scared me, actually. I saw the muscles in her arm flex as she wielded the big wiener.
“You must be hongry,” she said in a deep South accent as she slid the Big Dog towards me.
“I, uh, well, that is a little big I guess.” I mumbled. “I didn’t realize it would be that large.”
“Oh yeah,” she said, furrowing her brow for serious effect. “That thang puts the dawg in hotdawgg. Like a German Sheppard or Doberman. It ain’t called Big Dawg fer nuthin, hon.”
“Yeah,” I said, ashamed to turn it down and ask for a regular dog for fear I would be viewed as a wimp.
“That’s 100% pur-n-tee, dammit to hell, all-beef right there,” she nodded. “You won’t soon fergit that rascal.”
That was exactly my fear. I looked around to see if anyone else had ordered a Big Dog. A guy over to the side nursed half a Big Dog in front of him. He appeared to be praying. His head was raised heavenward and his eyes were closed. Perhaps he was already dead. Wiener shock syndrome.
I took the dog, paid her and went to the condiment table. I squirted mustard on it, dropped a glob of sweet pickles into the tight crack between the wiener and the bun and held it under the ketchup dispenser. When I pushed down on the white plastic lever, I knew I was in trouble.
The plunger went halfway down, then it fought back. A clog. That’s when it went all Dealey Plaza on me.
Ketchup exploded in a plume of red. It splattered and gushed over the Big Dog, onto my hand, all over the table, onto the floor. My eyes were burning. It had hit me in the face like a salty slap. Vinegary crimson hung in my hair and pocked my glasses. It drizzled down my cheeks and dripped off my chin and nose. The moistness soaked into the front of my shirt. I dropped the Big Dog. It hit the floor like a 20-pound, sloppy mackerel.
I groped for napkins, but the container was empty. I grabbed my shirttail and rubbed my eyes. It only made things worse. The smell of ketchup scorched my sinuses. I heard people laughing somewhere behind me. While trying to escape, I stepped on the Big Dog, squished the arm-sized wiener and almost did a split across the floor. A man grabbed my arm. The woman who had served me rushed over and dabbed my face with paper towels.
“Lord have mercy,” she said. “You gotta eas down on that ketchup, but you floored it. Damn. You okay? Restroom is back yonder.”
She pointed, I nodded and trotted back to the restroom with my face down in shame.
I never got the stains out of the shirt. Just threw it away hoping to erase the memory. I went for several years without eating a hotdog. Even today, when someone says “wiener,” my skin tightens. I will eat a hotdog from time to time, but now I treat ketchup dispensers with a respect usually reserved for high caliber weapons.