A Carolina Reaper Made Me Scared of Hot Dogs
The strange correlation between cartons of milk, a high school restroom, and street hot dog vendors.
I’ve noticed that after every sporting event or concert I attend a flock of hot dog vendors can be found, circling the venue.
These carts are tailor-made to produce the most delicious scent known to mankind. Onions, peppers, and bacon combine for a near irresistible smell — it’s a smart marketing tactic. But with so many carts magically multiplying after events end, how can there be a winner?
I have always wondered if the carts are all independent competitors, or if they work as a unit. There are enough drunken fans for multiple vendors, but often there are dozens of them competing for sales. I mean there’s never a line at any one. Is there a head hot dog vendor? Are the ones outside stadiums pawns in a larger operation? These are questions I have a hard time wrapping my head around.
I have only had two experiences with these hot dogs. While the smell is undeniably delicious, I have my doubts about the cleanliness of the grills being used. I remember seeing a middle-aged woman who was grilling up some dogs ash her cigarette dangerously close to the hot dog buns after a San Francisco Giants baseball game. I don’t think this means all hot dog entrepreneurs are chain smokers or unclean, but it was a mental image that was hard to shake.
The first time I had one of these dogs was with my dad after a Giants game. We typically ate at the stadium, but every time we made the trek from the parking lot or BART station to the ballpark and walked past all those sizzling grills, one of us would comment on how we need to give them a shot.
I chose a bacon wrapped dog for my first one. I was excited, but caught off guard when it was strangely very spicy, at least to my ten year old taste buds. When I was younger I hated spicy food — if anything was too hot I didn’t really enjoy it so that was the temporary end of my hot dog eating career.
But as I grew older I realized spice could be a route to glory. Despite my dislike of zesty foods , I often order the spiciest item on the menu whenever I am out with friends for the theatrics. I like to stroke my ego by showing off how tough and unfazed I am by spice.
Last school year one day at lunch there was a crowd surrounding one of my classmates. I shifted through the crowd and saw an underclassman holding a small baggy with a skull on it. It was a Carolina Reaper pepper, which was apparently the hottest in the world.
The moment I saw the pepper, and more importantly the crowd surrounding the pepper, I knew that I was going to eat it. I admittedly love attention, and will always fold in front of a crowd. If a group of my classmates surrounded me and chanted “cut your penis off!”, I’d probably do it for the glory — it’s a character flaw.
I immediately regretted eating the pepper. I knew it was going to be hot, but I had no idea the prolonged psychological and physiological pain it would put me through. In the moments before I popped it in my mouth, I wanted all the cameras on me. I was smiling, laughing, and making sure that everyone was aware of how brave I was for taking on the world’s spiciest pepper. “It’s the hottest pepper in the world,” I repeated over and over again, so no one would forget. The prestige of it being the hottest in the world was very appealing to me — if it was say, the third hottest pepper in the world, I doubt I would have eaten it.
When I finally ate it, I was in immediate pain. The charisma and confidence I was filled with from the attention turned into anger and hysteria. I frantically scattered to the cafeteria and cut to the front of the line of students waiting for their lunch. I grabbed as many cartons of milk as I could and locked myself in a nearby restroom.
The pain reached its climax about 15 minutes after I ate the pepper. It was unlike anything I had experienced — it wasn’t just that my mouth was hot, but every part of my body from my toes to my intestines felt like they were on fire. I considered calling my therapist to guide me through this crisis, but I was concerned about my therapist to patient privacy being violated if any urinators heard me from the stall I had been hiding in.
Eventually, the pain became bearable enough for me to return to class. My eyes had become bloodshot red, practically the same shade that the pepper was. I don’t think my eyes were red from crying, I don’t remember doing so — but to all my classmates, it seemed that I had. The glory I thought I would receive from eating the pepper was no where to be found. Instead of compliments on how brave I was, I got concerned looks from my friends, and reminders from my teachers that I can always talk to a wellness counselor if something was bothering me.
Experiences like that have ruined my spicy foods game for me — I can’t enjoy a hot chicken sandwich without getting flashbacks from my bout with the Reaper.
But what about those dogs? And that irresistible smell? My next experience would come years later, at a Giants game with some friends. And this time even Reaper flashbacks couldn’t stop me.
I can be a destructive eater. When I start to binge, it can be hard to stop. One of the worst places to binge from a financial standpoint is any sort of stadium or venue. It’s easy to spend nearly a hundred dollars on a meal and a few snacks while at the ballpark.
The hot dog vendors are a financially friendly binge alternative if you are looking to consume a repulsive amount of calories without taking a chunk out of your college fund.
I thoroughly enjoyed the three dogs I purchased. I could see them being a future indulgence whenever I let go of my health. I see now that you can’t let my bad experiences with spice cloud my judgment about dogs. I may never understand the global street hot dog economy, but it’s one this binge eater is willing to support.
