I have a way of digging in my heels. My enthusiasm for anything is usually inversely proportional to the vehemence with which somebody gets bug-eyed and lays his hand on my arm to squeal, “Oh my god—you’ve got to [see/eat/read/try] it! You just have to!”
Back when Sohn was still doing brisk business at his storied restaurant, the decade-long pummeling of Oh my god, you’ve never been? was so unrelenting and clamorous that I finally succumbed. (I’m human, and therefore susceptible to the urgings of the herd.) So there I was, standing in the famous line stretching down the block, waiting for the dubious privilege of paying too much for a hot dog. It was an early spring day, which meant it was about eight fucking degrees outside. But I was driving up California Avenue, had eaten no breakfast, and had been told—repeatedly, insistently, feverishly—that Hot Doug’s would forever alter my experience of space-time, that the flavor profile of even its most modest offering would open my chakras, that I’d drop to the floor in rapturous tremors after a single bite.
Now I’m bracing myself for the death threats that are certain to follow this essay. But I’ll reiterate with my final breath: Come on, guys—it’s just a fucking hot dog.
