Street meat
So, you probably thought this blog had fallen into a state of disrepair, didn't you? Frankly, I can't blame you for thinking so, since there hasn't been an update here since July. I am, however, quite disappointed that you would think Tiff and I were this fickle with our enterprises, starting but never finishing that which we so eagerly begin. Okay, I can't speak for Tiff--not everyone has a Kevlar-lined stomach (see the post about her misadventures at the Dragon City Foodcourt)--but I, for one, am committed to carrying the vision of this blog to fruition. So without further ado, and to make up for lost time, let us talk about today's ghetto foodie establishment, the hotdog stand on the south side of College St, just outside Queen's Park Station.
I haven't bought a hotdog from a street vendor for some time now. It's not because I am uncomfortable with their food handling--I have not once gotten ill from patronizing these roadside establishments, and I don't anticipate I will--but rather, it's because I have been plagued by a psychological unease about the physical appearance of hotdog-stand sausages. Perhaps I should explain. You may remember that a while back I was employed as a part-time proctor in the 27th floor study room of my residence. One evening, I had the misfortune of having to proctor the students while they had their public-service-announcement style course about sex and sexually transmitted diseases. For the most part, I paid no heed to the discussions about crabs and the clap, but I was captivated by a question posed at the end of the lecture by a young man, who seemed rather anxious about the possibility of catching what he referred to as "this exotic disease I'd heard about". In essence--and here I am giving you a highly Disney-fied version of his graphic account--said disease causes that particular member of the male anatomy which the fairer sex does not possess to bloom like a flower, rendering it similar in appearance to (and this is his analogy) a fully cooked hotdog that's been slit in the trademarked criss-cross pattern of the streetside hotdog vendor. Needless to say, I haven't been fond of streetside hotdogs since then.
But dire hunger cures many phobias--starving people, even those who are arachnophobic, would probably eat a giant African tarantula if given the chance. Once I blocked out all mental pictures of things unsavory, I found the hotdog to be exceptionally tasty. The sausage was plump and juicy, and the honey mustard provided just the right amount of zest to an otherwise plain meal. Of course, the best of the meal was that it cost only $3.00. The only thing that would have prevented me from eating that hotdog was if in lieu of Polish Sausage, the street vendor had chosen a more exotic name for her specialty hotdog, like say...Thai Flower Wiener.
Your Favorite Jerk
I haven't bought a hotdog from a street vendor for some time now. It's not because I am uncomfortable with their food handling--I have not once gotten ill from patronizing these roadside establishments, and I don't anticipate I will--but rather, it's because I have been plagued by a psychological unease about the physical appearance of hotdog-stand sausages. Perhaps I should explain. You may remember that a while back I was employed as a part-time proctor in the 27th floor study room of my residence. One evening, I had the misfortune of having to proctor the students while they had their public-service-announcement style course about sex and sexually transmitted diseases. For the most part, I paid no heed to the discussions about crabs and the clap, but I was captivated by a question posed at the end of the lecture by a young man, who seemed rather anxious about the possibility of catching what he referred to as "this exotic disease I'd heard about". In essence--and here I am giving you a highly Disney-fied version of his graphic account--said disease causes that particular member of the male anatomy which the fairer sex does not possess to bloom like a flower, rendering it similar in appearance to (and this is his analogy) a fully cooked hotdog that's been slit in the trademarked criss-cross pattern of the streetside hotdog vendor. Needless to say, I haven't been fond of streetside hotdogs since then.
But dire hunger cures many phobias--starving people, even those who are arachnophobic, would probably eat a giant African tarantula if given the chance. Once I blocked out all mental pictures of things unsavory, I found the hotdog to be exceptionally tasty. The sausage was plump and juicy, and the honey mustard provided just the right amount of zest to an otherwise plain meal. Of course, the best of the meal was that it cost only $3.00. The only thing that would have prevented me from eating that hotdog was if in lieu of Polish Sausage, the street vendor had chosen a more exotic name for her specialty hotdog, like say...Thai Flower Wiener.
Your Favorite Jerk
posted by Reformed Jerk @ 3:03 PM
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