But Where Were the Sport Peppers?

I've included pictures in this post!

So, this summer, Mr. Mustard, Baby Balsamic, and myself did a little midwestern roadtrip to visit a variety of friends and family members. We journeyed from St. Paul to Wisconsin (cheese curds!) to Michigan (depressing cities!) to Chicago, a great city that I had never visited before.

But I was familiar, oh so familiar with their hot dogs. You see, duckies, millions of years ago, at the dawn of time, when I was in college and there was ANOTHER Bush in office, I worked at a delightful Oakland establishment, Colonel Mustard's, which specialized in Chicago-style hot dogs. I went through intensive hot dog boot camp (keep your minds out of the gutters!) where I had to learn the essentials to craft a Chicago-style hot dog. We used Viennia Beef hot dogs and allowed the customer to choose a small one (Captain), big one (Colonel), or a Polish (really big). The processed meat was placed lovingly in a steamed bun, then slathered with the customer's choice of mild or hot mustard, then relish, sliced tomatoes, pickle spears, celery salt (VERY IMPORTANT), and, if the customer so chose, sport peppers. These are little pickled peppers which strike some wimpy humans as too hot, but not the superior beings who roam the planet (like you and me).

Of course, it was during this time that I discovered that I don't have a lot of aptitude for customer service. I find most of them inane. Some people would stare and stare and stare at the menu board for freaking hours where it clearly stated that we had Captains, Colonels, or Polish dogs. Then they would turn to me and say, "I want a hot dog." And I would have to ASK them what kind. It was painful. But I was still polite. Don't get me started on the state of customer service today.

Okay rant off.

Anyway, I had to enjoy a hot dog in the capital of the hot dog world so we entered a crowded joint called, appropriately enough, The Weiner Circle. You know, I JUST figured out that that's a play on the phrase "Winner's Circle." That's mildly amusing. Anyway, I ordered my hot dog, and they, as all us hot dog workers since the dawn of time, asked "Do you want sport peppers on that?" And I, being a good American and not a communist loser, said "YES!!!"

I was 3/4 of the way through my dog when I realized that there were no sport peppers. I felt betrayed by the workers, the hot dog, and the entire city of Chicago, but most of all, by myself, because I had not noticed that the sport peppers were missing from the experience. I am hanging my head in shame right now.

But I'll go and have a Colonel to cheer myself up.

Condiment Grrl

Baby Balsamic and I enjoy some quality mother/daughter dipping time.

A thing of beauty, even without the sport peppers