Hot off the press, here 'tis. The third issue of MULCH features a whole mess of music recommendations as well as a collection of essays. Topics include food, fashion, music and culture. Gary Blaster shows up again, answering a reader's question about genetic mutation and revealing his true identity. You can find MULCH in Portland at Powell's on Burnside (while supplies last) or you can get in touch with me and I'll mail you one.
Friday, May 21, 2010
MULCH no. 3
Hot off the press, here 'tis. The third issue of MULCH features a whole mess of music recommendations as well as a collection of essays. Topics include food, fashion, music and culture. Gary Blaster shows up again, answering a reader's question about genetic mutation and revealing his true identity. You can find MULCH in Portland at Powell's on Burnside (while supplies last) or you can get in touch with me and I'll mail you one.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Sooo Bro
Who likes hot dogs? I know I do. Despite the common knowledge that they’re composed of lips and assholes, something just feels right the moment you bite into one, like hitting a homer. Though it’s a German food, we Americans have made it as connected to our culture as apple pie. It’s no surprise then that hot dogs are sold at almost every American sporting event, fair and festival. In fact, more hot dogs are consumed at baseball games than the storied peanuts and cracker jacks.
My appreciation of the hot dog is a deep one. Fed them as a child, I’ve always enjoyed their unique texture and familiar but hard-to-characterize flavor. It was that appreciation, and a hearty craving, that brought me to a Portland hot dog vendor last week. Bro-Dog sits among several other food carts in the pod at Southwest Fifth and Stark. It boasts as diverse a menu as you’d expect from a hot dog stand – that is to say, it’s not all that varied. While the hot dog turned out to be fine, the real treat was interacting with the guy who runs the joint.
A 30-ish man in flip-flops, cargo shorts and a T-shirt that read “Ask Me About My 10” Wiener,” he greeted me as I approached. “Hey dude! What-cha thinkin bout?” he hollered as I glanced at the set of choices. “Thinkin bout a dog, eh bro?”
“Yeah, man,” I responded. It was true: I was thinking about a hot dog.
“Dude, we got that chicken-apple dog – sooo bomb,” he emphatically stated, nodding with wide-eyed sincerity. “Or the jalapeno-cheddar dog, we got that one too, bro. It’s like ‘BOOM,’ for real!”
Clearly, this guy was serious about his frankfurters. I weighed my options as he went on about the Polish dog (“hella tight, bro; you bite into that one and it’s just like ‘aah yeeeah.’”) and busied himself behind the counter.
After he affably helped me make a choice according to my level of hunger and threw my dog (a 10-inch all-beef) on the grill, he asked if I wanted grilled sauerkraut or onions. ‘Grilled sauerkraut?’ I thought. “Yeah, man. That’d be great.”
“You got it, dude! It’s all you, baby!”
Really, the guy was pleasant enough, the hot dog was tasty, and I left satisfied. I just found it all funny; it was as if the local chapter of a fraternity had set up a hot dog stand as a fundraiser. This bro was just so bro. I guess the old adage is true: you can take the wiener out of the frat, but you can’t take the frat out of the wiener.
My appreciation of the hot dog is a deep one. Fed them as a child, I’ve always enjoyed their unique texture and familiar but hard-to-characterize flavor. It was that appreciation, and a hearty craving, that brought me to a Portland hot dog vendor last week. Bro-Dog sits among several other food carts in the pod at Southwest Fifth and Stark. It boasts as diverse a menu as you’d expect from a hot dog stand – that is to say, it’s not all that varied. While the hot dog turned out to be fine, the real treat was interacting with the guy who runs the joint.
A 30-ish man in flip-flops, cargo shorts and a T-shirt that read “Ask Me About My 10” Wiener,” he greeted me as I approached. “Hey dude! What-cha thinkin bout?” he hollered as I glanced at the set of choices. “Thinkin bout a dog, eh bro?”
“Yeah, man,” I responded. It was true: I was thinking about a hot dog.
“Dude, we got that chicken-apple dog – sooo bomb,” he emphatically stated, nodding with wide-eyed sincerity. “Or the jalapeno-cheddar dog, we got that one too, bro. It’s like ‘BOOM,’ for real!”
Clearly, this guy was serious about his frankfurters. I weighed my options as he went on about the Polish dog (“hella tight, bro; you bite into that one and it’s just like ‘aah yeeeah.’”) and busied himself behind the counter.
After he affably helped me make a choice according to my level of hunger and threw my dog (a 10-inch all-beef) on the grill, he asked if I wanted grilled sauerkraut or onions. ‘Grilled sauerkraut?’ I thought. “Yeah, man. That’d be great.”
“You got it, dude! It’s all you, baby!”
Really, the guy was pleasant enough, the hot dog was tasty, and I left satisfied. I just found it all funny; it was as if the local chapter of a fraternity had set up a hot dog stand as a fundraiser. This bro was just so bro. I guess the old adage is true: you can take the wiener out of the frat, but you can’t take the frat out of the wiener.
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