Hot Dog Magic
By NEAL POLLACK
reprinted from the New York Times
July 1, 2007

One Sunday, while we were visiting my parents in Phoenix, a guy I’d met on the Internet invited Elijah and me to a party. Normally I don’t bring my son to blind play dates with Internet strangers. But my Internet friend writes a good blog about children’s music, so I figured it was safe. The party started at 6. He promised Popsicles and a Slip ’n’ Slide - which are to a 4-year-old what beer and chicken wings are to a frat boy - but no food, so he advised us to eat beforehand.

I didn’t dwell on the strange custom of a dinnertime party without dinner. In the nonstop ticker-tape parade that has been my life, I’ve encountered much weirder. Instead, I set out to find the perfect restaurant that would make my son love me more than he already does. I came up with the Chicago Hamburger Company, a Phoenix institution famous for its hot dogs and Original Windy City Sliders. Plus: a Pac-Man machine.

"Elijah," I said. "Would you like to go to a restaurant that has famous hot dogs and the game where the yellow guy eats the ghosts?"

He nodded his head in a "gee, mister!" kind of way. "And maybe we could look for predators in the desert on the way?"

"Maybe," I said.

When I told my dad we were going for hot dogs, he said, "You should go to Costco." My dad is the only person on the planet who is known by his first name at Costco. He once worked as a quartermaster in the Army, so he feels at home among large pallets of canned foodstuffs. And he’s quick to share the good news about their hot dogs.

"Never," I said. On the scale of filial rebellion, I rank below Prince Hal and James Dean, but I was determined to purchase a hot dog from an independently owned business. The Chicago Hamburger Company turned out to be just a 10-minute drive from my parents’ house. It was also closed.

"Why is everything always closed in Phoenix?" Elijah asked.

"I don’t know, son," I said.

"I’m hungry," he said.

"We’ll find another place."

"I will only eat hot dogs."

"O.K."

"And also shrimp."

"That expands our options somewhat."

"But I will only drink water."

The retail options near the party were limited. One local tavern boasted the "Best of Phoenix Wine Burger." If I’d taken Elijah there, I would have reported myself to Child Protective Services. So I drove around Central Phoenix in a state of existential dread. It had been 20 years since I left this desert dump, and here I was again, lost in a scorching maze of car dealerships and crummy strip joints. Then I saw the sign: Costco. It didn’t occur to me to not pull into the lot. My kid wanted a hot dog, and here was salvation. I, the son, had at last become the father, or maybe it had happened long before. The truth is, I’ve been a Costco member since 2003.

"Elijah," I said. "We’re at Costco."

"It’s a miracle," he said.

Inside, I ordered him a hot dog and got myself a dubious slice of pizza.

"I want to sit somewhere clean," Elijah said, walking around the tables.The one he found was the exactly the same as all the others, though maybe they all just looked dirty under the flickering grayish fluorescent light that gave the eating area the ambience of an Eastern-bloc interrogation room. I went to get a couple of bottles of water and turned around just in time to see the hot dog slip out of Elijah’s hand and onto the floor.

"FIVE-SECOND RULE!" I shouted. Though five-tenths of a second probably would have been too long on that floor. Luckily, I got the second dog free. Elijah began to nibble, eagerly. And then he paused. There was a little blond hair hanging between his lips.

"Please tell me that’s your hair," I said.

"No," he said. "It’s a mystery hair."

"For God’s sake!" I said.

"I think Costco might be a magic place."

Twenty minutes later, we were at the party. To my relief, it was not some deranged, television-newsmagazine sting. The adults were mostly from my Internet friend’s church, and they were all mellow, kind and wholesome. There was indeed a Slip ’n’ Slide, with kids playing on it. Elijah couldn’t have been more excited if there had been camel rides. He slipped and slid and ate two Popsicles, a bowlful of popcorn and some goldfish crackers.

Meanwhile, I learned that my Internet friend’s wife had grown up near me. And their house reminded me a lot of the houses I’d played in during my childhood in Phoenix. I felt oddly comfortable. A game of Wiffle ball broke out. I pitched underhand, and the kids took turns hitting.

In one evening, I had been the rebellious son, the responsible dad and then the child again. I had lived the entire circle of life, minus death. But that slice of pizza began to take care of that. As it churned in my guts I started to feel very old, and yet strangely at peace. Then it got dark, and it was time to go home.



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