MAGIC MEXICANS!

Last night before going to sleep I advised an internet friend that the best hot dogs in the world were the ones bought at around two AM from an illegal street vendor.
Bear in mind that because of the mother of all sore throats in the past two and half days I cannot swallow and I've barely eaten diddly.

Evenso, I stand by the recommendation.


On Friday or Saturday nights, after twelve thirty or so, there are small fly by night stands -- a metal baking sheet over a gas flame, a small work table with supplies -- on several corners in the neighborhood, conveniently near drinking holes. A young Mexican gentleperson (either gender) will be grilling onions and a row of bacon-wrapped dogs.

"Uno, por favor, con todo."

A slightly charred dog will be flopped in a heat-soften bun, a hefty tong-full of limp and slightly browned onion will go on top, brisk squirts of mayo, mustard, ketchup, and upon making sure you want it you pasty-faced Anglo, a few slices of tangy crisp Jalapeño en escabeche added.
The whole is wrapped in aluminium foil and handed over.
Money well spent, please tip a dollar or two.
After finishing it, one more.
To take home.

See, I have a bottle of Sriracha in the refrigerator. It adds a sabor autentico to almost anything. I'll eat both dogs at home.


Because the San Francisco Health Department lacks a sense of humour, the police are tasked with removing or chasing away these wonderful food vendors. That adds an element of risk. You do not know where the stand will be so you follow your nose (mmm, bacon!), and then anxiously await your turn while hoping that the fuzz don't interfere.
At least until you've had your share.

It's seriously good stuff.
Worth staying up for.
Magic Mexicans.




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