The Evening That My Foot-Long Was Held Hostage . . .
the brand-name, Old Spice is mentioned in this hub only to make a point, not that I endorse, buy, use, or pressure you in any way to do the same. Much obliged, Kenneth.
For Your Enjoyment: Girl Eating Chili Dogs.
Today Was So Perfect
that I just had to stand still and silently absorb the precious raindrops, then the beautiful sunshine, and enjoying my church service. All three are important to me. Maybe not to you or anyone else, but they are to me. But I can attest to the fact that simplicity can be deceptive.
I could on with this list of things that I like, but I fully-realize that you have lives to live, jobs to get in by 9 a.m., gossip to share with your best co-worker friend while sipping hot coffee on your desk, and (if the guys haven't consumed them) eating a delicious doughnut. Oops! I know that the last statement was politically-correct, but the next idea that I have to explore will NOT fit the scene where you work in an office, sharing gossip, sipping coffee and that doughnut thing--that one is okay, but what is coming next could be considered controversial and down-right dangerous.
Now To Jump On-Board With
delicious, scrumptious, mouth-watering chili dogs. Did you say chili dogs? Sure did. No way that I will apologize. If I did apologize, I would be apologizing to Old Glory, Mount Rushmore, The Oval Office and Air Force One. I may be "out there" sometimes, but NOT with (these) topics. I would hate for five muscular, fast-talking C.I.A. men to blow into my driveway, throw open the doors of their government-issued Chevy SUV, naturally in the color black and with one methodical move the guys yell, hey, you! The old guy who wrote things about The Flag, Mount Rushmore, and other things our President uses. Either come out with your hands on top of your head or we will blast your carport open and friend, we do have a court order!
This is why I do not want that kind of hassle. I love to sleep more than I do riding in a black Chevy SUV with five muscular guys wearing RayBans (at 2:30 a.m., still dark and still strange for them to wear sunglasses at this time), sporting Old Spice after-shave and glaring at me. I know that they are because C.I.A. operatives are all trained to glare at the people who they arrest. I have watched a lot of C.I.A. shows and films.
High time for me to finish this piece. Break's over and I am running low of coffee iin my cup, so be forewarned, without my veins being completely-running at light-speed on good old-fashioned coffee, I need to scrap this hub and go to bed when this physical loss goes away. If you want the Gospel Truth, I am nuts about junk food. I would walk five miles in the rain in July to get to eat a big, menacing, down-right nasty cheeseburger with every known condiment known by mortal man between the buns. I love them that much.
Cheeseburgers, hamburgers, potato chips, and pretzels flood the list of junk food that I love and I keep that list somewhere in my imagination. And would you believe that THE first item of junk food on my list is foot long chili dogs? Yes. No apology about this food item that is sold by the millions of pounds each summer in America. They are boiled, baked, and grilled and we always see a gang of guys along with their hot trophy wives sitting around on someone's patio that he just built.
The "he" mentioned is everyone's best neighbor, Larry Wisemore. That is enough said about this non-obtrusive, obscure, middle class guy, 32, works for a factory that manufactures steel buildings to be sold and used for portable storage areas. Wisemore also loves foot long chili dogs. With a passion. Truth be known, he loves them more than his great-looking, hotter-than-an-Arizona-dessert, former airline attendant, GiGi, and she married Larry 12 years ago and they are stil in love. GiGi doesn't eat chili dogs, or meat at all. She is not a vegan at all. She is just too picky. Guess that is why she still maintains her perfect hour-glass figure.
Now To Tell You About The Three-Hour
visit that I made in my hometown that specialized in fast food, black coffee and fans of regular coffee had sugar, cream or with those store-bought creams that I shall not mention by name. Truthfully, I find it hard to trust anyone who “ruins” good, black coffee with the condiments that I have already mentioned. I would not be the least surprised of “these” Non-Black Coffee Drinkers were secretly the followers of Karl Marx.
Frankly, all that I wanted, or needed, was two foot long chili dogs, black coffee, onion rings, and a place to sit. This was my very simple order. I asked the waitress what I wanted (besides chili) on my frankfruter. Chopped hot pepper, onions, hot wing sauce, and a dab of horse radish. The waitress' blue eyes grew wide and I swear that I heard a very feminine gasp when she heard horse radish. Then she walked away and I looked for a private booth in which to dine
I waited. Inhaled and exhaled a few times. Read this restaurant's relatively-simple menu choices, and looked at the dining area. I did not see but two more people, a couple quietly chatting and sipping their water. Then it hit me! The waitress did NOT offer me any free water, but I know that she could have been new on the job, so I let this overwight slide. I was hungry and hungry for foot-long chili dogs. With everything that I had told the girl that I wanted on my chili dog.
I looked over the kitchen area. No activity. With that big window at the front, I should have been able to see someone working, a cook, maybe two cooks, and another thing hit me: I did not see but ONE waitress but the one who waited on me. Not to be melodramatic, but this looked to be a long evening. I was still hungry.
Have I really expressed just how much that I love, no, adore foot long chili dogs with everything that I told you that I would order, I would hope that (most of you) are the same as it pertains to loving foot long chili dogs. I think that if I were to be given a Christmas present that I would not return would be a foot long chili dog with everything on it. I have adored foot long chili dogs so much that when my wife was carrying my daughter, I thought that we were having a boy, so I wanted to name him Chili; Onions; and to make him the hit of his high school class: foot long. But we were blessed with a gorgeous little girl who we named Angela, and she also loved foot long chili dogs like her old pop.
Back to me sitting at my table praying that my two foot long chili dogs would be in my mouth in about ten minutes, I can tell you that it is so amazing how many things can run through your mind while you are very hungry and still waiting on your favorite food to eat. My thoughts set some type of record because I felt like I was riding on a jet-powered car that is driven on the Utah Salt Flats. I was going to say that my thoughts were going at light-speed, but Einstein would not have liked that, so I left it be.
More Time, Still No Waitress
and still, NO foot long chili dog with my condiments. No more people entered the restaurant. The waitress who took my order came from the kitchen carrying a red plastic pitcher of water, winked at me, and served the couple with more water, then walked back into the kitchen--maybe, just maybe, my foot long chili dog is being prepared for me to help my hunger which was now more severe than being famished. It was more like a full-grown Bengal tiger had went down my throat and hit the bottom of my stomach and was now very angry at being trapped. Rough, nasty, and bloody! This is how a raging Bengal tiger treats the owner of an empty stomach belonging to a human being.
Time went by. No more people came into the restaurant. Uh, oh, what's this? My waitress coming my way smiling like she had good news. How stupid could I feel? She said that my foot long chili dog was next to be prepared, and I asked her, just me and the couple over there are the only customers in here and the couple have finished whatever they were eating, so what is with my foot long next to be prepared? Did the chef have to perform some mysterious ritual and do some secret physical exercises in order to just lay a raw frankfurter on the grill and open a can of chili? I am by no means a gourmet chef, but how hard could it be to just produce an American-made foot long chili dog?
The waitress walked back into the kitchen. Another half hour. Bengal tiger was now trying to cut himself out of my stomach upward towards my throat? I drank the glass of water that I happened to score from someone else's table that the customers (hours ago) did not drink. God bless picky customers. The waitress came back to my table NOT bringing fresh water in her red, plastic pitcher and she looked puzzled.
"Sir, your foot, uh, long thing, uhh, is not going to have all that you ordered," she said never making eye-contact.
"What things are you talking about?" I quickly asked being driven by hunger and the Bengal tiger.
"Uhhh, the hot peppers and onions, but we do have the frankfurter that we can cook and put it into a bowl of chili?" she explained.
"No bun? Do you mean to tell you that you do not have buns for customers to eat buns with their foot long franks and the chili, onions, and peppers?" I argued.
"I go ask the chef. No prob---leeem! Me fix!" she said almost running. I did feel empowered to have stood for myself.
(Another half hour passed. Still no more customers, but the Bengal tiger was beginning to cut through the back of my throat and I knew that others would wonder at seeing a Bengal tiger's head in the back of my mouth.)
"Ahhh, we fix. Look-eeee, we make foot long hotta dog, chili, and some celery. Good, huh?" she said laughing while I stared at my foot long hot dog.
" . . .well, since it has been almost three hours since I have eaten, and you failed to put ALL of my condiments on my order, so I guess that I am going to sit here and eat this dish, but do not look for me to pay for it!" I said looking determined.
With the force of that Bengal tiger, I took a huge bite of my order and frankly (no pun intended), it wasn't that bad. I took another bite and wiped off the chili which turned out to be decent--not excellent, but since I was no food critic, I ate the rest of my order without complaint.
"Chef say, you pay for order or he call police," the waitress somehow appeared in front of me.
"How much do I owe?" I asked.
"You pay three-DollAH! That is all. Three-DollAH," and stuck out her hand for me to get my money.
"Here's two-DollAH and eighty-cents . . .all that I have. And I do want to see the chef!" I told the waitress who stuck my money into her apron very quickly.
"What problem, sir? Was order good, or not?" The chef had walked to my table. I expected him to be wielding a meat cleaver, but he didn't. He appeared serious.
"No real problem, sir. All except you failed to put my chopped hot green peppers and white onions, and a dab of horse radish on my foot long, so what's up?" I said very humbly.
"Sir, this is NO Mexican restaurant! We have trouble finding frankfurter so that why your order take long time . . .besides, this is a Pizza restaurant!" Chef said.
I handed him and the waitress a Twenty-dollar bill for their trouble and my restaurant ignorance."
June 24, 2019____________________________________________________
even with the mix-up of restaurants, which was MY fault, I still have that hunger for foot long hogs with chili, chopped hot green peppers and onions with a dab of horse radish and one day I will make some in my kitchen.
I am no longer famished. And the Bengal tiger is sleeping.
© 2019 Kenneth Avery