The sun shows brightly outside the L.A. Convention Center, cooking the pavement so that one can feel the dry heat radiating off the concrete surfaces of downtown. The benches and steps are littered with loose papers; the waste left behind from convention attendees who are bustling to and fro, their ID badges hanging around their necks like cowbells. The crowd is an odd mix of cliché computer geeks with short sleeve button down shirts tucked into pants pulled up above their belly buttons, wire frame glasses, un-kept balding hair, and a penchant for sneezing. Amidst the army of geeks are the “new geeks”: Jeans, sneakers, piercings, tattoos, and black t-shirts that let you know in plain white letters how much smarter they are than you.
South across 9th St, a four lane road cluttered in heavy California traffic, a family of seven Mexican immigrants are working a hot grill; catering to an insanely long line. Curious, and more than a little hungry, I position myself at the crosswalk and wait for my light to turn.
It’s hard for me to stand still without letting my knees bend a little. My feet beg me to sit down, worn out from roughly 5 miles of walking all around the show floor. I’m weary of the large crowds, the flashing lights and heavy techno music of the exposition. Beyond my hunger, I’m looking for rest. The heat of the afternoon intensifies my discomforts, causing beads of sweat to appear on my brow.
The cars stop, the light turns from STOP to WALK, and I cross the street to the adjacent sidewalk where I catch my first glimpse of what the Mexicans are cooking. Large hot dogs lay in rows along the griddle – meaty, horizontal cylinders wrapped in strips of fatty bacon. The street chef taps one on its side with his tongs, and it rolls over lazily, like a log floating down a river, exposing the crisper red bacon that had just a moment ago been pressed tightly to the heat. Small beads of hot grease pop up like excited jumping beans, enjoying the bustling cocktail party of the grill, complete with its own sizzling orchestra. On the opposite end of the griddle, rows of onion slices and green bell papers enjoy the show of protein from their vantage point, caramelizing at their ends. The smell is intoxicating.
The food line moves quickly, and I as get closer to the grill I can hear the broken communication between the vendor and his customers. First the customer says, “One dog please.” The vendor then asks, “Water?” “Sure,” the customer responds. The street chef then turns to his daughter – at best guess 9 years old – who is guarding a large gray garbage can full of ice and bottled waters, and gestures for her to give one to the patron. The customer smiles, pays $2.50 for his food, and the transaction is over. Simple. Fast. No hassle. I smile to myself; it’s a brilliantly run operation.
Finally, it’s my turn. I follow the customs I have just witnessed, asking for one dog. I say yes to the water, and watch the vendor speak in Spanish to his daughter. He then takes one of the bacon-wrapped hot dogs with his tongs, lays it in a bun with hot onions and bell peppers, and squeezes from a plastic bottle a thick beige colored sauce, laying it in a perfect line straight down the center of the hot dog. I hand him my $2.50, take my hot dog and water, and head back across the street where I can enjoy my newfound delicacy.
I sit under the shade of a small, leafy tree, set my bottle of water down between my feet, and, grasping the bun with both hands, direct the hot dog towards my mouth, taking a generous bite. I don’t know for sure if it’s my fatigue, my hunger, or a combination of the two, but it tastes so good, and I don’t know how to say it better than that. The meat of the dog isn’t overpowering, the bacon adds subtle hints of flavor instead of that all-too-familiar gristle-like taste. The peppers and onions work to neutralize the heaviness of the meat, and the sauce adds a perfect touch of tangy sweetness.
As I turn to wave to the Hispanic family, thanking them for their wonderful product which is still making my cheeks bulge, my eyes catch the sad story of how L.A. works. A police car slows and stops at the curb next to the hot dog grill. I can see through the driver’s window the passenger window roll down. The driver’s partner sticks his head out. He doesn’t speak a word; he simply stares at the vendor and his family. The policemen have no intentions of arrest, they are simply looking to scare them away, and it works. The Mexican street chef shouts a few orders in Spanish to his family. They quickly throw a lid on the can of water, throw their supplies in a white plastic bag, and hurriedly scoot everything around the corner, down the street, and out of site. The police officer ducks his head back into his cruiser, rolls up the window, and they drive off in the opposite direction, content in their display of power.
I finish my food with a fresh sense of guilt, washing it down with the ice cold water. Finding a trash can among the maze of geeks, I throw my garbage away and head back into the Convention Center. My spirits had just been raised with the witness of close family and great food, and dashed only moments later by a badge and a gun. As I flash my ID to the security guard standing outside the show floor, I wonder how often the Mexican street chef and his family set up shop each day, on some empty street corner, only to be chased away by law enforcers with no intention of enforcing any laws at all.
That night, in the hotel room, my father and I discussed the events of the hot dog grill. It turned into a gripe session about power, government, and cocky police officers who loved throwing their weight around. With no appreciation for the heart in the struggle of life, and no intention of standing for any laws, these egotistical, lazy “jock-cops” simply throw their weight around, creating fear in innocent people trying to make an honest living, and not solving any problems at all.
The next day, as I stepped out of the Convention Center once more, looking south across 9th St I saw the Hispanic family selling their wonderful food. I smiled, gave them a big way-to-go cheer in my mind, looked both ways, and jay-walked towards my new favorite restaurant: the 9th St Grill, home of the world famous Mexican Bacon-Wrapped Hot Dog.
Oh man, those dogs were so good. I was down at the convention center last October for a different event. I kept going out to see if the vendors were there. I wanted one of those well-remembered dogs. Alas, they were absent. I guess the Microsoft PDT doesn’t draw a big enough crowd.
Great read.
Wow, what a great read, Furnando. By the middle, my mouth was watering and I was feeling pretty jazzed about the way this essay was working itself out. Then the description of L.A. Law Enforcement put a dagger in my heart, which promptly caused deflation and the desire to burst into tears. How dare they! What a triumph, however, to read the ending paragraph. Awesome. Way to go. I just really really liked this.
Your writing is extraordinary.
And dang–I want a Mexican Bacon-Wrapped Hot Dog! That sounds awesome!
I just read this a second time. I didn’t catch the way you waited for the light to change on the first day, but on the second day you jay-walked. Ha! Very subtly and effectively applied. I dig it.
Yeah, that was well done. In action and in word!