Dearest reader; my closest and dearest most personal friend; my bestest friend I've ever known; my pookie poop butt boo boo; my messy adult baby; my heroin dealer and by "my heroin dealer" I don't mean the person I buy from, I mean the person that sells for me; my precious last and only love whose name will be carried on my final breath; my local teen mom that wants to talk to me now, no credit card or signup required; my flat earth astronaut; my plucky spark plug of a kid sidekick; my marionette come to life and plotting to garrote me with its own strings...
This one's coming late because I done fucked myself up with some mad dehydration over the weekend. You don't have to scold me, I'm already aware of how stupid I was and I work with two hundred fifty of my aunts; trust me: I've been hearing it since Monday, which is when I was still feeling like light-headed weak-kneed shit. I usually bring a Powerade with me on long rides but this (one) time I didn't and I fucked myself up and was ready to ralph and pass out at the same time after getting off the bike. Didn't feel good again until yesterday. I'm OK today, National Hot Dog Day.
And here at Sandwich Bully, hotdogs are sandwiches. No. You're wrong.
Also, hotdog is one word:
I'm really sick of the red squiggle that comes up under "hotdog". Hotdog is one fuckin word. It has always been one fuckin word. A hot dog is an animal left in a car in August. A hotdog is a sausage made of pigs' beaks & chicken lips. Know the difference.https://t.co/i1aakEZDej pic.twitter.com/t2LWCxOc18— Lynn Halsey-Taylor Fan Club President (@CharliePauken) June 2, 2019
Max's Cafe, 9 July 2019
That's not the pollotarian-friendly Southwest Grill Panini (chicken and peppers) that's listed on their site but not on their menu board, aka the thing I wanted. It's the turkey and not the turkey club. (See? I can behave.) It has pesto aioli and maters. Pretty simple. Clearly, I was not excited enough about it to write about it the day I ate it but it was pretty good. Wouldn't knock it.
Cuzzy's, 11 July 2019
I've been to Cuzzy's only one time before, with my friend Bekah in college. I wonder what she went on to do sometimes. Anyway, I got the Rachael. Big surprise.
The real surprise is that a piece of turkey fell out of my sandwich before I took a bite. I tasted that piece of turkey and it was perfectly roasted; it was juicy and seasoned correctly. Otherwise, it was a pretty drippy sandwich but it at least wasn't soggy. The bread was a little spongy, could've used a little toastage but fine over all.
Dusty's, 13 July 2019
OK, so, where to unwrap this?
So, I'm about to use a slur here and I'm not happy to do it: That sandwich is called a [clears throat] hot dago. That's what the sandwich is called. I didn't make it up.
And it's a sandwich that Kafe Nasty has asked me off and on if I've ever tried one and it's supposed to be iconic or something and there's a long-standing controversy over the name of the sandwich which is, whether any of us like it or not, a slur. There's the usual justification that it's not a slur because it's a sandwich and not a person and if you seriously think that fucking flies, open a restaurant and name your sandwich that one word that starts with N and don't call it "N-Word" or "N*****", no, call it the actual word. See how long your restaurant stays in business. But Dusty's gets a pass because...
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Enter St. Paul's favorite Man Angry About Culture Leaving Him Behind, the esteemed Pioneer Press columnist Joe Soucheray. Back in two thousand seven, Soucheray - who is the lovechild of Eastwood's Gran Torino character minus all the charm and good looks and Eastwood's two thousand twelve GOP convention appearance but more pissed off that Sandra Locke won't talk to him - wrote a column in which HE SAID WITH WORDS YOU CAN READ that if we got rid of the sandwich with the ethnic slur for the name, that we'd have to get rid of French dips and Swedish meatballs - even though French and Swedish are demonyms and not slurs - and that we couldn't say cupcake anymore because feminism, ignoring the part where the name for the food is attached to the person, not the other way around. And then the dude he talked to for this article, who is totally Italian so this makes it OK because we're presuming that one Italian dude speaks for all because all Italian people are of a hive mind, said that Italian people get to eat the sandwich named with the slur used for them so it's not a racism. The leaps of logic that old dudes perform to make sure the world never progresses beyond their dark ages childhood are boggling.
How was the sandwich?
Dude, it's just an Italian sausage without enough fennel. The flavor comes mostly from the grilled peppers and caramelized onions.
Back in Toledo, we had brat burgers; essentially bratwurst in patty form. Bet you couldn't have figured that out. So this sandwich was kind of like that, except this has a racist name and mine was just kind of obvious. So I guess the hot d-word has an air of mystery going for it. Once you get over the word coming out of your friend's mouth, you have to immediately ask what it is. A brat burger? That tells you everything you need to know in the name.
Franks-A-Million, 17 July 2019
Y'all want to hear something fucked up?
Today was National Hot Dog Day.
I went to Franks-A-Million in the food court next door to the office.
They had cheesy dogs, Chicago dogs, Warsaw dogs (sauerkraut spelled sourkraut and mustard, I think), and Manhattan dogs (chili, cheese, and onion). I got a pair of Manhattans.
Clearly, you see the fucked up onion sitch going on here.
But no, you want the fucked up part.
That chili?
That's Manwich, baby.
I bit into it and I was all, "This is a sloppy joe."
Tried to get a slawdog from the Wienery after work but their hours are their hours, holiday or not.
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