Yes, chili dogs. Those wonderful hot dogs with lots of chili on them, and mustard and onions on the chili, the mere mention of which makes my mouth water, my heart rate speed up and my stomach literally beg to be fed as many of these delights as it can hold.
I had my first chili dog when I was 12. My father took me to Atlanta's legendary Varsity, the world's largest outdoor drive-in.
My father ordered me a chili dog. I took the first bite of it and I was hooked.
During my three years in exile in Chicago I formulated a scheme to get chili dogs from the Varsity delivered to me.
I started dating a girl I met on a trip back home to Atlanta. Every other week I would fly her to Chicago.
"And would you mind," I would ask, "stopping by the Varsity on your way to the airport and bringing me 14 dozen chili dogs?"
'It's me or the dogs,' she said
Later, it became clearly evident to the young lady that I looked forward to the chili dogs more than I looked forward to seeing her.
"It's me or the chili dogs," she eventually said.
I often wonder whatever happened to her.
I had heart surgery in 1982. The doctors said I could have anything I wanted to eat for my pre-operation dinner.
I sent for Varsity chili dogs. Had I died under the knife the next day, at least I would have had a satisfying last meal.
For years I've tried to decide why Varsity chili dogs remain the best I've ever eaten.
The hot dogs are good and so is the chili, but it's the buns that really do it. The Varsity, somebody was telling me, steams its buns. There's nothing better than a steamy bun.
But I must admit my chili dog addiction is becoming a problem.
I can't eat them like I used to and not pay a painful price.
Ecstasy followed by agony
The other night, for instance, I went to the Varsity and had three chili dogs with mustard and raw onions.
I also had an order of french fries and I topped that off with a Varsity fried apple pie with ice cream on it.
I went to bed at 11. The chili dogs hit at about 2.
My stomach felt like I had eaten a large box of nails. It made strange sounds like "goooorp!" and "brriiip!"
I got out of bed, took six Rolaids, two Alka-Seltzers and drank a six-pack of Maalox. Nothing helped.
I'll never eat another chili dog, I said to myself.
Those addicted to any substance often say things like that but they rarely stick to it.
I know I'll be back at the Varsity soon, wolfing down chili dogs. And, later, the agony and the "goooorps" and "brriiips" will be back.
My stomach and I simply will have to learn to live with a certain fact.
That is, chili dogs always bark at night.