Lunch in Argentina. Fries by McCain.
Mendoza, Argentina is technically a desert.
It blooms with olives and cypress and grapes thanks to the ingenuity of the indians, who, hundreds of years ago, rerouted runoff from the snowcapped peaks of the Andes into channels that irrigate the region and babble down the flat, shaded streets of the city.
The streams provide a fresh, clean quality, one that can only be sullied by the eating of a gigantic hot dog.
The day of our visit to Mr. Dog, there were bees everywhere, buzzing greedily as they absorbed the sweet marinaded trash outside the restaurant. I slid tentatively up to the counter, Metallica blaring and an impatient stare awaiting my order. The "pancho" section of the menu displayed four options: Pancho simplé, Pancho *something*, Pancho *something else* and Pancho con Pancho. I was confused and flustered.
This was one of those moments I'll never get back, I remember thinking. Why had I come all this way, to Mendoza, if not to get the baddest pancho the city could offer? Surely I must go for the fourth and obviously most awesome choice, the Pancho con Pancho.
Combo? Sure, I'll take the combo. Si, Coke, gracias. Straight fries.
I had no idea what a Pancho con Pancho would be, but I did some quick thinking. "Pancho" must be a hot dog. I know "con" means "with". Ergo, Pancho con Pancho must mean a hot dog, topped with another hot dog!
I was wrong, in the most delightful way. Before my eyes appeared a 10-inch dog, covered thick with slabs of salty local ham, and graced with a half-inch of gooey melted cheese. Pancho con Pancho! Pork with pork!
Never before had I eaten so much salt. I left the dregs of my Coke for the bees, their buzzing thanks drowning out the rolling streams.
