Pink's leaves me blue

I finally ventured over to La Brea and Melrose for my much anticipated sample of Pinks World Famous Hot dogs. The queue at Pinks is always at least 15 strong no matter what the time of day. During peak hours it can be up to 30 people. I went at midnight and it was still busy. Pink's is one of those LA institutions that tourists and locals love just the same.

Many of the 'dogs' are named after famous people and things (none of which I can remember so I'll make them up), the top shop T, which was massively overpriced, the pug, which is just a really ugly pointless dog, and the circus skills class, seemed like a good idea when you bought it.

Anyway, the line moved painfully slow given the millon staff members they had on that night but after a ridiculously long wait (even for a Brit) I ordered a standard chilli dog. I couldn't make head nor tail of the rest of the menu. Hahaha. Head nor tail. Dog. Nevermind.

I got home in breakneck speed, having food fantasies all the way there, would this be as awesome as the hotdog of June 1981 that Ma Osho had conjured up that summer barbeque or would it top that New York hot dog of May 2007, on the corner of 34th and Broadway. Surely not. I still think about biting into that grilled not boiled (yes, you read me right) dog. Nmmm

I sat down on my sofa, said a small thank you to Ramsey Oliver, the God of food and bit into my first, and as it would turn out, last Pink's hot dog. It was frigging disgusting. What I didn't realise was chilli meant literally slathering some indistiguishable meat sauce all over the sausage which itself seemed to be some hideous combination of horse meat and shoe leather. From the plastic baggy skin to the gunge type chilli this was all shades of wrong.

Naturally I finished it, washing it down with a tub of regret. Delicious. I'm sure, with the right conditions, a following wind and enough booze in you to clean all the Queen's silver, a Pink's dog is probably yummy but for me, it just was not what I would consider.... food.