I got suckered into driving a couple of gals to Tacoma with the promise of an unbelievable hot dog. I was a bit suspicious as there was little mention of the actual restaurant, and the legend of the particular dog was seemingly untraceable to an original source. Fair thee well. I decided to go anyway. It was a rainy Sunday, and the promise of seeing some of Tacoma's local flavor was intriguing.
Of course these chicks were late, and I don't make a habit of Driving Miss Daisies unless I'm getting my passport stamped to Bonetown. I had second thoughts about this adventure from the get.
Tacoma is a pretty much a dump. My friend Peezy once said that he wanted to shit in every dryer in Schaumburg, Illinois because it was such a terrible place. I had similar feelings about Tacoma. There were a ton of foreclosed houses, and I saw at least 40 inches of butt crack while cruising the strip.
A fancy shmancy new school fusion sports bar called Masa? You must be joking. This can't be the place where I've heard rumors of an unbelievable hot dog.
I'm very rarely ever wrong. In fact, I can't recall a time I've ever second guessed my inherent ability to sniff out amazing food in the past.
It happened in Tacoma. Behold! the Tijuana Dog. An all beef frank, wrapped in bacon, swimming in a molten hot queso sauce, and topped with pico de gallo.
Crushing bacon wrapped all beef isn't just a hobby, it's a fucking religion. I pray to the altar of Intestinal Fortitude. In the house of God, I'm the High Priest of Meat.
Alice and Manny felt bad for dragging me all the way to Tacoma, so they bought my Tijuana Dog. I also got to snap this keep sake of some girl-on-girl gobbling that is officially a permanent feature in my Spank Bank. Thanks ladies!