When most people think of Target, they think of the cheap underwear and the "slightly cleaner than Walmart" ambiance. Rarely do people think of the food stand at the front of the store and the hotdog-munching opportunity it represents.
The meat looks and tastes like your standard Oscar Mayer quarter pounder, fleshy, spongy and redolent with that smoked pork twang. The bun was slightly stale around the outside and the condiment rack was stunning in its sparse lackluster stock. Is there anything more depressing than squeezing anemic pustules of relish out of a miniature packet? Relish should be stored in brimming vats, it should be dolloped with a long-handled ladle. Pre-packed relish is a sure sign of apathetic laziness on the part of the hotdog proprietors.
Target Dog: Grade C minus
The sensation of getting a giant cardboard box in the mail, a box that you weren’t expecting, but which you are certain is filled with presents and goodies, that sensation is not unlike the feeling one gets when one notices a new hotdog stand. The proprietress said that she hadn’t given the stand a name yet, but the working title is "Mom’s Hotdog Express":
The stand, a trailer painted to look roughly like a hotdog, sits on cinderblocks on the eastside of I-35 on 38th and a half street. You have to shout to be heard over the upper and lower deck of the interstate and the four lanes of frontage road. But this is a friendly establishment, shouting is just a part of the informal ambiance. When you lean into the window of the trailer, next to the barstools, propane tank, and garbage can, the smell of charcoal wafting from the tin chimney, with the upper deck of I35 towering over you, it feels a little like a scene from Bladerunner.
The menu is cryptic, but the proprietress, "Mom", is happy to guide you through it. The only thing you need to know is written in magic marker on a paper taped to the side: "Mexican hotdogs." What we mean when we say "Mexian hotdog" is hotdog meat wrapped in a juicy, flexible spiral of bacon. Then it is topped with fried onions, raw onions, mustard, tomato, and relish. The bun is moist and pliant, quickly sopping up the juice of the condiments like a baguette mopping up a plate of wine-sauce.
"Mom" serves the Mexican hotdog with chips (my serving happened to be the bottom of the bag, "Mom" sent her son to go and get a new bag from the fiesta), and a Hillcountry Fare soda (which in blind taste tests in indistinguishable from the namebrands it immitates). All of this for only $3.50. It may very well be the last true cuisine and the last value for your buck on the planet.
Mom’s Mexican Hotdog: Grade A plus
