This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Our neighbor Stacy Hemingway looked flustered. We called her Stacy Hem and Haw because that's what she did best. She had volunteered to host a Fourth of July cookout, but with only a week to go, she was completely unprepared and complaining about having too much to do. I reached into my cooler to pull out a few ice-cold Leinenkugel's Summer Shandy beer and passed them around to the impromptu gathering of neighbors milling about on my driveway. I grinned as a few of our neighbors rolled their eyes at Stacy's outburst. "I'll take care of the dogs and music," I offered. My wife Anita turned towards me with a glance that after 8 years of marriage I immediately understood to mean, "Have you lost your mind? This isn't even our party. Grilling for a 100 plus?! You're going to DJ?" I offered up a smile, signaling that I would fill her in once everyone had left. I proceeded to ask Stacy rapid-fire questions about the party, hoping to prompt her into a concrete plan. As dusk began to fall, the neighbors dissipated, satisfied that the cookout would be a success - especially since everyone had taken my lead and volunteered to assist in some manner.
"You know I know flavors, my love, and you also know that the block parties the last few years were devoid of them. Imma elevate a July 4th staple and show them what hotdog deliciousness is all about," I explained to my wife once we were back inside our home. "Plus, the music is always lame. Let's get people dancing and shaking their rumps," I implored. Anita sighed and provided a barely perceptible nod of approval. I chuckled and promised her that the hotdogs would be the best she'd never taste - she's a vegetarian. I'm an unabashed foodie, having tried exotic dishes all around the world: Zebu in Madagascar; Minke Whale and Horse in Iceland; and all the delicacies at the Carnivore restaurant in Nairobi, Kenya. I attribute my love of food to growing up in New York City, which exposed me to a multicultural smorgasbord of tastes.
My plan was to braise the hotdogs in light beer and then skillet sear and butter baste for a nutty and rich flavor blast. The first step was to purchase quality ingredients, starting with Hebrew National Beef Franks and Martin's Potato Rolls. The condiments consisted of: Dole pineapple cubes, Heinz Sweet Relish, Heinz Tomato Ketchup, French's Yellow Mustard, Bubbies Sauerkraut, and diced onions. To add a professional touch, I purchased printed Foil Hot Dog Bags through Amazon Prime.
On the morning of the Fourth, for each batch of 12 hotdogs, I poured 2 cans of the Summer Shandy beer into a large pot and brought the beer to a low boil. I then added the hotdogs, turning them every so often until they turned plump and slightly darker. After drying the hotdogs off on a paper towel, I transferred them to a piping hot cast iron skillet with two tablespoons of butter, quickly basting and rolling them as they developed a nice brown color on all sides. While I was dealing with the hotdogs, Anita laid out hotdog buns on a cookie sheet pan, split them open, and brushed melted butter on the insides. She then set the oven's broiler setting to 500 degrees Fahrenheit and broiled several batches of buns for about a minute each or until they turned golden.
I proceeded to slow cook a dozen bacon strips for a special batch, and after cooling, wrapped each strip around each hotdog. The finishing touch was to pack the hotdogs and buns into the foil bags. After only two and a half hours of cooking, I prepared for myself a bacon-wrapped hotdog with all the fixings - mustard, ketchup, sauerkraut, pineapple cubes, diced onions, and a dash of relish. I bit into the most divine hotdog I've ever tasted and purred with contentment as Anita watched with fascination and no small amount of revulsion due to her vegetarian meat disgust sensitivity. I wondered if I should have taken the time to make some red onion sauce - like the ones served from the New York City Sabrett hotdog carts. “Next time,” I mused.
The hotdogs were a big hit at the cookout and were devoured within minutes. One child commented to his father that the hotdogs were “killer.” The dad turned to me with a straight face and declared that I would now be known as a Sicario - which translates to hitman or hired killer in Spanish. The moniker, Sausage Sicario was born.