“I’ve never had a bacon-wrapped hot dog.”
My friend almost choked, even though he wasn’t eating anything at the time. He coughed and gasped for air.
“What?!” he finally exclaimed.
His reaction was as incredulous as Diego’s and everyone else’s in the comments to my Obama town hall recap.
Yes, I’ve lived in LA [county, Hacienda Heights isn’t in the city] my entire life and never had the desire to eat a danger dog or Salvi Dog or TJ Dog or Club Dog.
I remember my introduction to the bacon-wrapped hot dog: July 5, 1994.
I was 13 years old and caught up in World Cup fever. Mexico and Bulgaria were playing in the round of 16. I’d gone over to my friend Star’s house in Walnut to watch the game with her family. Her mom, Angelita, and tías were in the kitchen working on lunch while everyone else watched the game in suspense.
Star has the honor of being the first and only person to ever offer me a bacon-wrapped hot dog.
I looked at it like I look at cauliflower, with pure disdain and disgust.
“You’ve never had one of these?” Star asked incredulously?
“Don’t you want to try one?” her sister, Miriam, chimed in.
“Nope. That just looks weird. I like my hot dogs plain. Just a little ketchup, mayo and maybe mustard.”
They shrugged their shoulders and asked their mom for a bacon-less weenie. I enjoyed my plain hot dog and chalked up the difference in hot dog preference to the girls’ Guadalajara origins.
Mexico and Bulgaria tied with one goal each. Bulgaria later won the game in penales. It was excruciating.
The events of that day have been repeated several times since. Every time Mexico loses in the Mundial or loses to the US I feel as crappy as I did 13 years ago. And every time I see a bacon-wrapped hot dog, I scrunch my nose and give it the cara de fuchi.
Simply put, no se me antojan.