Cities without landmarks
Niagara Falls, U.S./Canada
The last Friday of the month meant two things to me back in grade school: air-raid sirens and hot dogs. Both these things disturbed me.
It was already the twilight of the Cold War, but the melancholy sirens — my parents told me that they were being tested to make sure they worked in case we were bombed — were still running every month.
The sirens always went off just before noon, when I was in school. My teachers pointedly ignored the rhythmic keening outside, urging us to focus on our lessons instead. My classmates never seemed to notice the sirens, for noon on the last Friday of the month signaled something far more portentious: Hot Dog Day!
Hot Dog Day was a big deal because our school was so small — the student population hovered at just over 100. In the following years, the school would grow into a high-powered private academy catering to the children of Hollywood executives, but during my years there, it was still experimental, funky and low-budget. The school didn’t have a cafeteria, so students were responsible for providing their own lunches (no soda or candy, please) — except for the last Friday of the month, when we were treated to hot dogs.
On Hot Dog Day, several volunteer moms set up big white electric steamers full of hot dogs on one of the picnic tables in the outdoor lunch area. On a nearby table were buns, squeeze bottles of ketchup and mustard, carrot and celery sticks, potato chips, and usually, individually wrapped cups of ice cream for dessert.
I didn’t understand why everyone loved hot dogs. Something about the combination of a cold gummy bun and a rubbery sausage just failed to move me. And I hated, just hated, the assumption that because I was a little kid I was supposed to adore them. “You don’t know what you’re missing!” the Hot Dog moms would tell me as they watched me toss my nearly untouched dog in the trash every month.
But one day, in fifth grade, my hot-dog-loving classmates experienced a life-changing crisis of faith.
Adam, one of the popular kids, came running into our classroom just before roll call in a wide-eyed panic, clutching a dog-eared copy of the most recent Consumer Reports. In it was a scathing exposé on hot dogs: Many national brands, including the one we ate every Hot Dog Day, were filled with contaminants such as rat droppings! We’d been eating rat droppings!
The terrifying news went viral. By lunchtime, all but the youngest kindergarten kids were up in arms about the feces-filled hot dogs. What should we do?
Our teachers decided to turn this crisis into a teachable moment on consumer rights and civic responsibility. After much discussion and a lot of class votes, our class decided to compose a petition to the principal asking that we change hot dog brands; there were a few brands that got glowing reviews from Consumer Reports.
The principal, impressed by our diligence, passion and proper use of punctuation, agreed to change brands. The next time the air-raid sirens wailed and the white electric steamers came out, we circled the picnic tables warily. The moms running the operation had saved the wrappers from the hot dog packages to show any skeptics.
And, as usual, I took my hot dog and tossed it after a few polite nibbles. It still didn’t do anything for me. But at least this time, nobody gave me any lectures about what I had been missing.
I got over my hot dog hatred in junior high, when I discovered chili. Chili makes everything better.
I also figured out a few things about hot dogs: First, the buns have to be warm, preferably toasted. Second, just as I learned in fifth grade, the quality of the dog counts. Third, the relation between the hot dog and the bun needs to be mediated by stuff. Lots of stuff. Chili is one of the best things one can use to marry a dog to its bun. My former home town of Los Angeles is arguably the world capital of putting stuff on hot dogs: Chili! Bacon! Pastrami! Guacamole! Cheese! Cole slaw and sauerkraut and kimchee! All of the above! The stuff that goes with hot dogs in Los Angeles can even be abstract, as in the case of Law Dogs, a stand that offers both hot dogs and legal advice.
My version of a dressed-up dog was born of two influences: the curried mincemeat rolls my husband used to enjoy during his school years in South Africa, and the German fast-food treat currywurst (sausage served with a spicy-sweet curry-flavored sauce, with or without a bun). My dog is like a chili dog in spirit, but with a different flavor profile, one shamelessly ripped off from other culinary traditions and made into something that would most likely be unrecognizable back in the lands of its origins.
And nothing could be more American than that.
Niagara Falls, U.S./Canada
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