Chili Dawgs Always Bark at Night. Lewis Grizzard

      Anyway, I don’t see what difference it makes whether or not you wear a tie into a restaurant at least as long as you are wearing a jacket and clean underwear.

      I told the Plaza maître d’ I didn’t own a tie, and he went into a closet and fetched one.

      It was black. Perfect for a blue blazer.

      The trouble was, I couldn’t remember how to tie a tie. Neither of my companions could either.

      Getting terribly hungry now, I asked for help from the lady checking coats. She did a little better than the rest of us. When she finished tying the tie around my neck, the thin part that’s supposed to be short was long, and the big part that’s supposed to be long was short.

      Although I now looked like a complete idiot, wearing an incorrectly tied tie with a golf shirt, I was shown to my table.

      I chuckled as I recalled a sign I saw recently in one of Atlanta’s Long Horn Steak Houses. Long Horns don’t care much about pretension.

      The sign said NO SHIRT, NO SHOES, NO SERVICE. BRA AND PANTIES OPTIONAL.

      The meal was excellent. I got mayonnaise on my tie.

      My Dogged Addiction

      If you’re addicted to drugs or alcohol, you can go someplace like the Betty Ford Clinic and get help.

      But where do you go if you’re addicted to chili dogs?

      Yes, chili dogs. Those wonderful hot dogs with lots of chili on them and mustard and onions on the chili that 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 twelve. 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 fourteen dozen chili dogs.”

      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 what ever happened to her.

      I had heart surgery in 1982. The doctors said I could have anything I wanted to eat for my preoperation 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.

      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 eleven. The chili dogs hit at about two.

      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, woofing down chili dogs. And, later, the agony and the goooorfs 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.

      Breakfast with a Kick

      For years I have put up with modern-day nutritionists telling me what I can or cannot put into my stomach.

      At one time or other, I’ve sworn off red meat, eggs, bacon, sugar, and all sorts of other things I enjoy eating. If we listen to health-food advice, all we would be allowed to put in our stomachs would be something animals graze on, bee pollen, and various sorts of bran.

      I don’t know about anybody else, but eating a diet like that probably would make it necessary to spend a great deal of time in the bathroom, and I’ve other things to do.

      Anyway, I have put up with the nutritionists—as I would any other do-gooders—but now they have gotten personal.

      In case you missed it, the Coca-Cola Company is out with a campaign suggesting you drink Coke at breakfast.

      They might as well have suggested that along with your Coke you start the day with two Twinkies, a Little Debbie Snack Cake, and a Tootsie Roll. Various nutrition experts expressed shock and dismay (not to be confused with the rock group of the same name) at the thought that Americans might do something so ill-advised as chase down breakfast with a soft drink.

      “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, especially for children,” said one so-called food expert. “Coca-Cola should be more responsible and not suggest Americans start their day on a poor nutritional note.”

      Horsefeathers and grape nuts!

      I’ve been drinking Coke for breakfast for years. In Russia I couldn’t find a Coke, so I drank a Pepsi, warm. I’d saved what little ice I could find for the vodka. I’ll admit I’m no health specimen, but I don’t think I’d be in this good a shape without my Coke in the morning. You know how most of us feel when we get up—groggy and sluggish, ill-tempered, slack-eyed, and loop-legged.

      I might start with a cup of coffee, but all that usually does for me is get one of my eyes open and start a fire in a region just behind my navel.

      But a Coke. It goes down so smoothly. It puts out the fire. It refreshes—and bring on the day, I think I can make one more. I began drinking Coke for breakfast some twenty years ago when I had a job that demanded I be at work at five-thirty in the morning.

      That was when you could still find Coke in those little six-ounce bottles, as the Lord intended.

      I would start each day with a couple of those little Cokes, and if anybody had taken them away from me, I would have been a complete failure at my job and my career would have been ruined.

      One more thing, as a Southerner, I simply must stand fast against anybody who would want to take Coke, with its roots planted deeply in the South, away from me in the morning. Give them Coke and, perish the thought, grits could be next.

      Who Needs Self-service?

      Several days ago, I was eating in a fast-food restaurant. Which one isn’t that important here, but they have awful chili. It’s too runny and there’s too many tomatoes.

      A couple seated across from me finished their meal. The man got up first and headed for the exit.

      The woman said to the man, “Aren’t you going to clean off your part of the table?”

      The man said in reply, “Certainly not. I’m not an employee here. I just came in for lunch.”