There comes a time in every man´s life when it is imperative to leave a warm hearth and hunt for something to eat. And in Catemaco, near the midnight hour, that becomes a little problematical on a weekday.
Unfortunately, I found my prey on a downtown street corner cluttered with hot dog stands that usually are ashamed to show themselves during the day time. And I stuffed myself with mystery meat weiners atop stale buns, slothered with mayonaise, tomatoes, onions and chiles, and I even tolerated the chef´s robbery of a handful of pesos more than he charged his next Mexican customer, oblivious to having heard me order my dog food in Spanish.
I mean, NAFTA, neoliberalism, yankee imperialism and all the other good stuff aside, WHAT happened to Mexican culture and its knife wielding "tacos de carne asada" choppers?
Yes, I could possibly die for a Nathan´s foot long, or one of those kosher monsters with saurkraut and mustard in beautiful downtown Catemaco, but this derivative cultural ethnocide with hot dogs has got to stop.
As for now I am totally weaned off Catemaco weiners
