at long last

Saturday afternoon marked a huge milestone for the missus and me.

We were feeling particularly adventurous on account of Heather and Tom coming out to visit, so we thought we’d try to catch a ferry out to Ellis Island. What the hell, right?

Of course, the moment we arrived at the dock, we realized what a terrible, silly mistake we’d made. The half-mile line looked like we were already on Ellis Island, circa 1892. Sooty faces, malnourished babies, huddled masses. We aborted mission when we saw mustachioed men inspecting the line for measles and cholera.

So we decided to try another, far simpler staple of New York City.

The dirty water dog.

Crissy and I had wanted to try a street dog since we got here, but we just hadn’t gotten around to it. And I have to say, the hot dog itself was pretty good. When you’re dying for a quick snack, it’s hard to beat good old fashioned hooves n’ snouts.

But you know what I think is really weird about New York? You cannot for the life of you get yellow mustard in this city. It just doesn’t exist out here. Mustard only comes in the spicy brown variety.

How is it possible that a city of 8 million people can all be denied the wonder that is yellow mustard? There’s something like twenty-five thousand street vendors in this city, and you mean to tell me that not a single one of them serves yellow mustard? Is it just me, or is that completely insane?

Watching my brother-in-law, Tom (a native Chicago Southsider and hotdog enthusiast), eat a hotdog sans yellow mustard was like watching a Tuscan chef dine at the Olive Garden. The shameless bastardization of his native cuisine was almost too much to bear.

Not wanting to be rude and insult the custom of our new city, he closed his eyes, held his nose, and swallowed the hotdog in three bites. Then he wiped a single tear from his cheek.