By: Grant Tillery
Hot dogs are the bastard child of the sausage family. They’re the butt of innumerable phallic jokes and derided as mystery-meat atrocities. The taste of mass-market wieners (including the beloved Oscar Mayer brand) does nothing to improve these perceptions.
Sometimes though, hot dogs transcend. After eating several bites of a top-notch frankfurter, bad memories of subpar ballpark fare disappear. No longer is the hot dog just a vehicle for ketchup, mustard, onions and relish — it becomes a canvas for a co-opted American art form, if art and food indeed intersect.