few things in this world are better than a downtown dog, wrapped naughtily in bacon, fried on a happenstance griddle, covered in grilled onions…onions that have in turn been frying in the pork fat released from the swine that lovingly cradles a defiantly skanky oscar meyer wiener. turns out i like to eat cheeks, beaks, and assholes more than the next guy.
few things are better than that except for maybe those lovely little puppies served out of similar carts in las plazas de ocotlan. i remember my fat little 11 year-old self greedily scarfing down one or two or three. they were laced with something between a mayo and a crema and came in a steamy bun. surrounded by the sounds of spanish, dazzled by the liveliness of a townsquare, and hungry because i was always hungry, i would look forward to those weekend trips into ocotlan and those hotdogs…my grandmother was always too nice to deny me as many as i wanted, besides, i was a growing boy.
perhaps only other sensuous pleasures––drinking beer, making love, smoking hand roll cigs, smelling the moistened earth of a rural mexican village just after a summer rainstorm––can compare to the experience that a good assbinder affords.
naturally, oscar meyer is shit and should only be consumed when extremely intoxicated or at a baseball game. since i am not white the latter does not apply to me, and since i live in sTa and have easy access to a milieu of tortilla-wrapped delicacies nor does the former.
but my experiences abroad, and specifically with the german-version assbinders, have learned this beaner another, distinct species of assbinder––a species that has been developed over centuries. it’s no wonder my adult palate was re-introduced to all the goodness that can be an assbinder while in germany what with their weißwurst und bratwurst und polischer kielbasa und currywurst und, und, und.
seeing the currywurst man as i exited berlin’s s-bahn at the mitte stop was as unbelievable as watching a woman pump out a lump of wriggling flesh the size of a watermelon. similarly unbelievable not because the currywurst man excreted assbinder from some bodily orifice, but because it was, quite frankly, a remarkable sight: the currywurst man had a flaming-hot griddle strapped to his chest upon which he rotated sizzling assbinders, while he loaded them up with curry-ketchup, conversed with patrons, received money and gave change, and (all the while) managed to not topple over.
the thing to do in germany is drink beer and eat assbinder.
well, it’s not really, but it is a great place to start.
* * *
i sat there listening to professor terror. it was a tuesday night. we were covering barthes’ camera lucida, or kant’s sublime or some such. it was around week ten and by this time i had not so coincidentally befriended the sharpest, most well-read chick in class (who was also, therefore, the hottest). we snickered about the something just as our break approached, and she leaned in real close to tell me about some place she had been to the night before.
“i think it’s called the sausage kitchen,” she said, “but not sausage kitchen in english, sausage kitchen in german.” “like wurstküche,” i say, leaning in a little closer while staring at the piercing just above her lip. “yeah, i don’t know, is that how you say sausage kitchen in german?” “yeah,” i say.
i sit back and listen to her account of this new place in little tokyo. i listen to her say something about a tiny entry space, a long hallway, and the diverse, cool crowd. i interrupt and ask about the assbinder.
what she describes tells me only one thing: i must go to this assbinder kitchen, this wurstküche… .