The details in this story are almost entirely true, except for those that aren’t.  No names have been changed, because there would be no point.  I can only say this:  I have been keeping this story inside for a long time, and for reasons I’m not completely sure of, NOW …. in the smoldering embers of National Chili Dog Day …. seems to be the right time to tell it.

He looked at me through those dark shades and said the words I’d been waiting almost six months to hear.  “Call the airport kid, and tell ‘em to gas up the jet, I want a chili dog.”   By now I was used to the routine.  `The King’,  (or as his Mamma used to call him all those years ago in Tupelo, “Elvis”), was used to having whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it.

Though I didn’t realize it at the time, we were about to embark on a personal odyssey that would change the course of my life forever.  For me, this trek for the perfect tube-steak would be the culmination of the strangest six months of my life.   It had all begun innocently enough, late one night about six months earlier at Smitty’s Better Burger in Memphis, not far from the Graceland gates…

---

I was just out of college, looking for work and not having much luck.  That night, the same as I did once each week, I treated myself to a much needed over- indulgence at the best 24 hour diner in town.

“I’ll have a triple smash-burger with cheese, be sure and put one slice of cheese between each pair of beef patties and one on the top … that’s makes for a total of three pieces of cheese.  Save the raw onions, I need mine grilled.  Go heavy on everything else, including lettuce and tomato.  Give me a double order of your shoestring cheese fries, and a chocolate shake, extra thick.  Oh, and bring me a large glass of ice water.”  The waitress glared poison darts at me.  “So, ‘the usual’ hon?”    “Yep”.

From the booth behind me I heard a voice that I’d know anywhere.   “Hey kid, I think you got her “all shook up” with that order.”  It couldn’t be HIM, could it?  I turned and saw `The King of Rock and Roll’ sitting alone behind what can only be described as a mountain of cheeseburgers.   Looking him square in the eyes, (not an easy task, considering the eyes were not only behind all those cheeseburgers, but also hidden behind dark shades with flashy silver frames), I delivered the same line I had been delivering in one form or another for years.  “Maybe so Mr. Presley, but food is too important to just eat it without thinking about it.”

 

“Well, you sure do seem to know a thing or two about cheeseburgers.  Why don’t you join me, kid?”

I couldn’t believe it.  Here I was a poor kid of twenty-three, just out of college with no job, knowing that the meal I had just ordered would cut my net worth just about in half, and I was about to share some fast food with the man who was one of the wealthiest entertainers ever, and arguably the most recognizable person on planet Earth.  I got up and slid into his booth across the table from him. I had to marvel at not only how he put away the burgers, but also how he did so with the larger-than-life panache that just confirmed everything I thought knew about him.  He asked, “Where you from, kid?”   I replied I was from a small town in Missouri he’d likely never heard of.   “Try me” he said.   I replied I was from Mexico, Missouri.   “You mean the Firebrick and Saddle Horse capitol of the World, Mexico Missouri?”, he asked with a sly grin.

I asked how in the world he knew that?   He said “I lie in bed at night and read atlases for fun when I can’t sleep.”    Say what you will about Elvis, the man was a geographical savant.   “How about that!”  I exclaimed.   “I do that too!”  He flashed a smile and gave me a little approving nod of the head.    We made geographical small-talk until my food arrived.

As I dug into my own mound of meat and cheese, I was vaguely aware that he seemed particularly fascinated with the way I savored each and every succulent mouthful as if it might be my last bit of food in this life.  And like I said, I’ve never seen anyone who could put away cheeseburgers like Elvis.  So, over the next hour or so, more to his credit than mine, we talked about a little bit of everything and a lot about food, especially the greasy fast food that we both liked so much.  We talked about tacos and pizzas we’d eaten, and where the best shakes could be found. And the subtleties of New York cheesecake.   I think we could both tell that we had formed an instant, though unspoken bond.  We had become blood brothers of cholesterol.  Fat-gram friends.  Cheeseburger chums.

When the waitress came around and asked if everything was okay, I lavished praise on the burger and fries, but had to admit to her that the shake was just a little too thin to suit.  Now, obviously impressed that I was sitting with Elvis, and in a total reversal of the surly attitude she had shown me earlier, she offered to make another.  “That’s okay, the kid doesn’t need another one.” Elvis interjected.  I gave him a quizzical look.  He explained, “I just got a commercial shake blender for the house.”

“Cool,” I said, “you mean one of those big restaurant jobs with the stainless steel cups?”  “That’s right,” he said, “why don’t you come back to Graceland with me and I’ll make you the best chocolate shake you ever tried to suck through a straw.”

When we finished our feast, Elvis left a couple of Franklins for the waitress, and we left together.

---

It was well after midnight when we pulled through those big iron gates of Graceland in his shiny brand new Cadillac convertible, but the place was lit up like Fort Knox.  Well, at least he could afford the electric bill.  We went straight to the `Jungle Room’, Elvis’ favorite spot to unwind, and he got behind the bar and proceeded to make two of the biggest, thickest, chocolatiest shakes that had ever been mixed.  He turned on the TV … reruns of “Leave it to Beaver”.   Elvis said, “You know, that Eddie Haskell just slays me.”   Go figure.  We sat there into the wee hours, watching TV and enjoying the shakes.  All the while, we continued our food discussion, talking about the best of the best of the best diner and greasy-spoon fare. Just two gluttons for the grease.

 

The irony was palpable. Me, as relatively insignificant as a grease spot, and him, the King “Greaser” of them all. Unbelievable.  I wished that my college buddies had a picture of this.

 

When the swinging tail, shifting eye Felix the Cat clock on the wall indicated it was approaching 3am, I figured it was time to leave.  “Mr. Presley, that was absolutely the best shake I’ve ever had, and it’s been an honor to share a burger with you, but I guess I’d better be getting on home so you can go to bed.”

 

“Well kid, I’ve enjoyed talking food with you. It’s not everyday that you find somebody who understands the joys of burgers and good food the way you do.   Here, take these,” he said tossing me the keys to the new Caddy, “She’s yours.”

 

I was speechless.  I had heard that he gave these away all the time, but I was stunned. After a few moments had passed I was able to mutter, “Thanks, but you see, I’ve got this 1964 Ford Falcon that belonged to my Mom.  I’m really fond of it.  I appreciate the offer, but why don’t you just keep the Caddie, or give it to someone who really could use it.”  I handed the keys back.

 

What was I saying?  Here he was offering me a car worth more money than I’d ever seen in one place at one time, and I was turning him down.  “What do you do anyway, kid?”  I guess he thought I must be either independently wealthy, crazy, or both to refuse his offer.

 

“Actually, I don’t have a job.  I’ve had some really good interviews this week though, and I hope I’ll get an offer in a few days.”  It was a rather large lie.  I had no serious prospects at all.

Now he was curious.  “What kind of job are you trying to get?”

“Well, I … I just got out of college with a degree in geography.” I stammered, staring at the way my shoes sank in his thick shag carpet.  Being geography major is not the sort of thing that typically makes a person’s chest swell with pride.

“So you’re a college boy, eh?  I never had much use for college boys, but I’ll admit that I like you.  Kid, I’ll tell you what, how about if you stay here at Graceland.  I’ll have a room fixed up for you.  You’ll get a salary that’s more than fair and you can be my personal geography advisor.”

I must confess that I really did kind of like the way he called me “Kid”, but again, I was momentarily speechless.  Finally I mumbled,  “Mr. Presley, I just don’t know what to say.  I guess `Thank you’ would be a start.  I’ll take you up on your offer. But first, tell me what a man like you needs with a personal geography advisor?”

He chuckled. “Are you kidding?  I’m not offering you a free ride son. Your job is to crack open the old Rand-McNally and study that sucker.  I want you to know that atlas forwards and back, inside and outside. And I’m not just talking about roads and towns.  If I want to know where the best place is in the whole USA to go for grilled peanut butter and banana sandwiches in the middle of the night, you had better be able to tell me.  If I want the best biscuits and gravy that money can buy, I don’t want to spend two days trying to find them.  I want YOU to have the answer.  It’s going to be hard work, but I think you’re the right one for the job.  Hell, kid… I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody so right for this job.  So kid, YOU tell ME …. do I need a geography advisor or what?”

Who could argue with logic like that?    A quick handshake, and it was a done deal. We never even talked money.   Didn’t have to.

So here we were, six months and who knows how many thousands of gluttonous miles later, about to embark on what for me promised to be the trip to end all trips.  The Queen Mother of Junk Food Junkets.  I’d been dropping hints for a couple of months that we should make this trip.  See, I had always considered the greatest of all possible culinary delights to be the Great American Chili Dog.  Not just any old “chili dog” you might whip up without a thought.  No, the Great American Chili Dog has to be prepared just so, and you have to start with the right ingredients. Not everyone has the wherewithal and common sense to do it correctly.  But before I get too far ahead…..

---

On the way to the airport in the limo we quaffed root beers and popped M&M’s and Cherry PEZ by the handful.  In the car were Colonel Parker (the man who unleashed Elvis on the world), Elvis, myself and a handful of `hangers on’ that occasionally made these trips with us.  By now Elvis was so used to leaving the arrangements to me that he never really gave a thought to where we were going.  He would name the menu, and I would name the destination.  So I guess that when the question came up, it was the first time he had really given a thought as to where we might be going for Chili Dogs.  “So, where are we headed kid?”   “Chicago” I said matter-of-factly.

 

Someone gasped.  Nobody said a word.  I noticed that the Colonel was wiping a few drops of perspiration from his forehead.  Elvis had his eyes closed and if I didn’t know better I’d have sworn that he was fighting back tears, and maybe even moaning a bit.  I got the idea that I had said something very wrong. Very wrong indeed.  The silence was thick enough to spread with a spatula.

 

Finally Colonel Parker spoke … very formally, it seemed.   “Elvis,” he said, “will NOT go to Chicago.”

 

I would later find out that there had been some very heavy unpleasantness involving Elvis, a cadre of tiny circus clowns, and a nude volleyball game in a hotel room in the Windy City after one of his shows a few years back.   He was definitely a man of strange and powerful passions.   For now though, I was flabbergasted.  Chicago was the undisputed fountainhead of frankfurters.  I had to think of something and think of it quick.  “Uh, well, uh, ….. Atlanta.  There are chili dogs in Atlanta.”  That’s all.  I had no idea what I was saying.  It was silent all the way to the jet.

 

When we touched down in Atlanta I excused myself to the restroom, and quickly found a pay phone and called a second cousin of mine who lived there.  “Hi Stan, how’s everything. …. Uh huh.  Look, I don’t have time to explain, but this is really important.  Where do I go for the best chili dog in Atlanta? …. That’s right, I said `chili dog’.”  I got the directions to a diner downtown near Georgia Tech.  Stan said it was iconic.  We got in the rented limo and headed into town.  I said a prayer.

 

At the diner, everything appeared copasetic.  Colonel Tom went inside, found the owner and flipped a fist-full of C-notes.  The guy cleared the place out for us.  The last thing we needed was a bunch of gawkers while we tried to savor our dogs.  From the smell and the look of the place it was obvious they knew how to sling hash. I hadn’t been in a place like this since Varsity year in college.  In the words of `The Bard’ it was  “… just all eat-up with atmosphere”.  (No, Shakespeare didn’t say that. Bard Hawkins, an old college buddy used to say it all the time.  I’m not really sure what it means). On the menu, at the top of the Hot Dog section, were those sacred words….  “We Proudly Serve Vienna All Beef Wieners”.  The first hurdle was cleared.  I breathed a small sigh of relief.

 

The owner himself waited on us.  “Elvis, this is an honor.  What’ll you have, what’ll you have?”  The King flashed that famous half-grin, half-sneer at the two waitresses who were busy swooning behind the counter.  “Tell him kid” He said.

 

“Bring us a couple of Chili Dogs with cheese and onions” I said, “just the smallest smear of mustard, with Cheese fries on the side and a Frosted Orange.”  While we waited, Elvis fiddled with the toothpick dispenser.  I nervously tried to keep an eye on the preparation of the feast that was going on behind the counter.  A guy with a huge belly covered with a dirty white T-shirt and even dirtier apron, (a planned part of the ambience no doubt), opened a pot and with a pair of tongs reached in and pulled a once beautiful Vienna All Beef Wiener out of the water.  It was pale and wrinkled and had split open from the excess heat of the boiling water. The actual process that split our dogs wide open is called osmosis, which involves the movement of water across a selectively permeable membrane … but that’s another story.  Trust me though… it’s no good for hot dogs.  Then he reached into a plastic bag and pulled out one of those little hot dog buns like you buy in an eight-pack at the grocers on the Fourth of July.  He plopped the dripping dog onto this tiny cold bun and reached for a squirt bottle of bright yellow mustard.  Soon the dog was swimming in yellow goo. Next, out came the container of two-day-old minced onions that he spooned onto the goo.  I was aghast.  I could feel the blood leaving my face. When he dipped a ladle full of what was obviously canned chili and beans onto the wilted wiener, I slumped on the bar stool and put my head in my hands.   BEANS!  For God’s sake, beans.

 

Elvis, always astute, glanced at me and realized this wasn’t going so well.  “Hey kid, this isn’t what we’re looking for is it?”  he sort of half-asked, half-declared.  I just shook my head.  He had the Colonel give the guy another C-note for his trouble and we split.   I’ll bet the guy still tells that story to his unbelieving buddies.  Nine hundred bucks for 15 minutes worth of “Cooking for the King.” … who never even ate a bite.  Not bad work if you can get it.

 

Back in the air, Elvis spoke to me again for the first time since leaving the diner.  “Don’t worry kid, it’s not your fault.  Where to now?”   I was sick to my stomach.  “D.C…. Washington D.C.”  There’s no telling where in the world that answer came from.  I had dated a girl named Katie from DC for a while in college. We had spent a very enjoyable spring break there.  To the best of my recollection, while we did some pretty weird and kinky things that week … (let’s just say I’m not welcome at the Library of Congress any more) …. none of them involved chili dogs.  That’s probably just because we didn’t think of it at the time.

 

When we touched down at the airport, I once again excused myself and went looking for the pay phone.   “Hello Katie, … yeah it’s me.  How’ve you been? ….  Yeah, I know it’s been a long time.  … I’ve missed you too, babe. A lot.  Listen, I know this seems odd, but I need to know where the best chili dog in DC can be had. … That’s right, I said `chili dog’.”    She had the name of a place.  Of course she did.  “Is it really good, though?”  O asked.   “Have I ever steered you wrong when it comes to wieners?”    “YES!!!” I said.  “And thanks for that, by the way.  But now I’m talking about hot dogs!”

 

Soon we hopped in another rented limo and headed for Georgetown.  At the address Katie had given me, we found a posh little eatery that had “Trendy” written all over it.  Elvis gave me a doubtful look.

 

“Let me go in and check it out” I said.  Once inside, my heart sank.  This was unmistakably that worst of all possible eateries, …  Posh, Upscale, and Snotty.   The Maitre’d approached and looking at me somewhat askance asked, “May I help you?”   “A dear longtime friend recommended this place for your chili dogs.  May I ask how you prepare them?”  From the way he bristled at my question and took on that slightly superior air that the Maitre’d in a Posh, Upscale, and Snotty bar always has, you could see his response coming from a mile away.

 

“Sir I assure you that we use only the finest ingredients in all of our dishes.”  This was more than I could stand.  The accumulated frustrations of my previous twenty-three and a half years burst forth and I grabbed him by the collar and proceeded to shake him for all I was worth.

 

“LISTEN YOU PISS-ANT PIPSQUEAK, I’VE GOT THE KING OF ROCK ‘N ROLL WAITING OUTSIDE IN THE LIMO AND HE’S LOOKING FOR THE BEST DAMN CHILI DOG MONEY CAN BUY.  NOW ARE YOU GONNA TELL ME ABOUT YOUR DOGS, OR AM I GONNA HAVE TO STOMP YOUR SKINNY BUTT, RIGHT HERE IN THE MIDDLE OF ALL THESE STUPID  FICUS PLANTS?”

Obviously, I was a little keyed up.     As every patron in the restaurant looked on, the Maitre’d unfolded this tale of woe. –  “Well, sir, we take an oversized grass-fed beef frankfurter and split it in half, then grill it over an open mesquite flame.  We then serve it over grilled gluten-free Texas toast with a generous helping of Jalapeno & Black Bean Chili. It is lovingly topped with crumbled Mexican Farmers Cheese, and garnished with fresh organically Cilantro.  We serve it with side of sweet Spanish onion chutney.”  I sat down in the floor and began to sob.   He went to call the cops.   “It’s ok” I said.  “I’m leaving.

I returned to the limo.  “Holy cow, kid you look awful.” Elvis said.  “So, do their chili dogs measure up?”  “No way, Mr. Presley.  I wouldn’t serve what they called a chili dog to my worst enemy.”  From somewhere in the deep recesses of my memory I recalled hearing that in Cincinnati, they don’t put beans in your chili unless you ask for them. It was a long shot.  “Let’s go to Cincinnati,” I said.  On the way to the airport, I took out my address book and erased Katie’s number.

I didn’t know anybody who actually lived in Ohio and I hoped it stayed that way, so when I got to the pay phone at the airport I excused myself, found the Yellow Pages, and looked under W for Wieners.  There it was. Wally’s Wienie World.  I dialed.

“Wally’s Wienie World.  This is Wally.  Can I help you?”   Good.  The Top Guy.

Not that it has anything to do with this story, but you should ALWAYS try to deal with the Top Guy.  Good advice in life, regardless of the circumstance.

“Hello, I’m from out of town.  I was just wondering if your Chili Dogs were any good.”  Best not play my trump card, my `King’ card if you will, too soon.  “Best in Cincy.”    “Beans? I asked.   “Only if you want ‘em!”

Enough said.

At Wally’s we parked the limo, got out and briefly admired the view of the Skyline, and went in.  Wally took one look at Elvis and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear he almost wet his pants.  “Elvis!” he exclaimed. “… I mean, Mr. Presley, … uh, uh, what can I do for you?   Have a seat, … or a booth, … or a stool… or whatever you want”

Elvis was so cool. (Of course he was cool, he couldn’t help it.  Hell, he DEFINED cool every day.)   “Chill out, Wienie man.  We just want some dogs.  The kid here will fill you in on the details.  We’re tired, we’re hungry, and we’ve come a long way and like I said, we just want some dogs.”  Elvis looked at me so I ordered.  “We want some chili dogs, please hold the beans, with plenty of cheese and grilled onions, small slather of mustard.”

Wally pulled the buns out of a warmer on the steam table.  No poppy seeds, but at least it looked hefty enough to be acceptable.  He threw some sliced onions on the grill, and they started to gently sizzle.  What a wonderful sound.  And in a second, the sound was followed by a wonderful aroma as well.  Things were beginning to look up.  When he pulled a nondescript, gray, shriveled up wienie out of the steamer, my spirits sank somewhat.  But the chili looked really good, not ONE bean in sight, and there WAS that mound of finely grated cheese sitting nearby.  This might be okay after all.  Wally expertly assembled the component parts and sat them down in front of us.

Never judge a book by its cover.  It was all I could do to swallow that first bite.  If someone was seriously trying to pass this stuff off as chili, then they had a very warped sense of humor.  I will never be able to prove it, but I think Wally had been putting tablespoons sugar and cinnamon (!!!!) in his `Chili’.  It was sickeningly sweet.

Elvis and I each managed only a couple of bites before we both called it quits.  We just sat there.  He was the first to speak.  “Hey wienie man, this ain’t what we’re looking for.  I appreciate the effort, but your dogs just don’t cut it.  Colonel, give Wally a Cadillac.  Let’s go kid.”

Back in the jet Elvis looked at me and said, “Where to now kid?”  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.  He wanted to go on!  It was just unbelievable. It was like some sort of weird, recurring nightmare.  As for me, I’d had just about enough of this Hot Dog Hopscotch.  I just had to broach the subject one more time.

“Mr. Presley…  Elvis,” It was the first time I’d ever called him by his first name.  ” … I know this is painful but I have to say it.  If you want the best Chili Dogs, you have to go to Chicago. It’s as simple as that.  We can jet around the whole damn country, but we’d be wasting our time.  There is only one Holy Land of Hot Dogs, and that’s Chicago.  If we can’t go there, let’s just go on back to Graceland.  You’re paying me to know where the best of everything is, right?  I’m telling you.   It’s Chicago for Hot Dogs.  In the past six months, have I ever steered you wrong?  Even once?”

The Colonel and the rest of the entourage were pale as ghosts.  Nobody knew quite what to say.  Except for the dull roar of the jet engines, it was quiet for a long, long time.

Then, very softly, Elvis uttered a single word.

“Chicago.”

We flew on in wordless, reflective silence.  Who knows what personal demons (or clowns) The King was facing down.    I figured it would be into the wee hours when we landed. When we touched down I was the first to speak up.

” Hey boss, let’s do this right …just you and me, no entourage.  Just like that first night at Smitty’s.  And let’s skip the limo. You need to experience a Chicago cab ride.”

Outside on the sidewalk,  I flagged down a cabbie.

“Hey Habib…Where is the best late night Chili Dog in Chicago?” I asked, already expecting his answer.

“HA,” he laughed, “’Best Chili Dog’ indeed!  Those are fighting words in Chicago, my friend.  You ask twenty cabbies, you get twenty different answers!”

I insisted, “What about YOU though?  What answer do we get from YOU that won’t steer us wrong?”

He smiled.  No hesitation.  “That would be Freddie’s Famous Franks.  Hold on..”  He stepped on the gas.

Twenty minutes and nearly two hundred narrowly averted traffic accidents later, we pulled up in front of a small cinder-block building with a twenty-five foot fiberglass hot dog on top and a flashing neon sign that proudly proclaimed for all the world to see that this unlikely spot was the “Home of the Chicago Dog”

“I like it already.”  Elvis said.

I paid the cabbie, heavy tip … an ELVIS-sized tip … and we went in.

The aroma was surely as close to heaven as I’ll get in this life.  We sat at the counter.   There on the menu above the grill were those same sacred words we had seen all those miles ago in Atlanta.  “We Proudly Serve Vienna All Beef Wieners”.  I felt my pulse begin to quicken. I whispered to Elvis.  “I’ve got a good feeling about this.”

The waitress gave Elvis kind of a funny look, but I guess she decided it couldn’t really be him.

“Yeah?” she demanded.  Not, “May I help you gentlemen?” Not even “What’ll ya have?”  Just “Yeah?”

Her voice gave me the bona fide heebie-jeebies.  It made my skin crawl – like fingernails on a blackboard. Like a freight train locking up the wheels at ninety miles an hour.  Like a car crash you hear before you see it.  Like a…. like a waitress at the best damn diner you’ve ever been in.

“Two chili dogs with cheese and onions and mustard.  Two orders of cheese fries, and a pair of ice cold root beers.”  I knew that was all I needed to say.   When she sat the dogs down in front of us a few minutes later, I knew instantly that Pavlov was right.  It took all of my concentration to keep from drooling on the counter.  When the mixture of aromas rising from these steaming wieners hit me I think I almost passed out.

Damn.  This was it.  THIS was the real deal.

Words simply fail to describe the taste of that chili dog.

• A hefty bun, sturdy enough to take being warmed on the steamer and still stand up to the combined weight of Hot Dog, Chili, Cheese and Onions.  Poppy seeds are pretty important, but not mandatory. Sesame seeds are for quiche-eaters.
• Vienna All Beef Wiener – steamed.  Not boiled. For God’s sake, absolutely NOT boiled. 
• A quick swipe of good, slightly spicy mustard.
• Good hot, thick, meaty chili.  Use plenty. No beans.  Beans are for cowboys.  Not too spicy, not too bland.   Absolutely NOT sweet. (Sorry Wally)
• A mound of finely grated cheddar cheese, not “cheese sauce” Grated in-house.
• Onions sliced thin, not chopped or diced.  Grilled gently until they begin to caramelize to a beautiful translucent golden color with just a hint of brown.

Elvis was clearly impressed.  “Looks great kid”, he said diving in.   I did likewise.  After a couple of bites I glanced over at Elvis.  He had a large mouthful of the stuff and was leaning back on the stool with his eyes closed.  I think I heard him moaning softly.  There was no need to say a word, so we ate on in silence.  When we finished, he ordered us each another one.

As we pushed back from the counter, he summoned the waitress over. “Thanks baby, that was great.”  He handed her two C-notes.  For the first time, it dawned on her that this was REALLY Elvis.  She looked at the bills and passed out in a heap on the tile behind the counter. …

Later, back on the plane, the Colonel asked Elvis how it was.  “The kid’s really outdone himself this time Colonel. He’s shown me some good food before, but this was great.  I’m ruined for ordinary hot dogs from now on.”

The sun was shining gold on Graceland when we pulled through those big gates again.  Inside the mansion, I bid Elvis goodnight.  But he stopped me.

“Kid, I know I threw you a real curve today. Thanks for standing up for your principles and forcing me to go to Chicago.  You taught me a lesson.  Getting the best of anything in life isn’t easy, but it’s worth the effort.  Hell, I should know that.  But I’d forgotten it and you reminded me.  And another thing, life’s no good unless you’ve got the courage to face your demons.”  He was squeezing my shoulder  “That was the best chili dog I ever ate.  Period.   Sleep tight.  You done good, kid. See you tomorrow.”

“Thanks Mr. Presley.”,  I stammered.

So there you go.  At least `The King’ wasn’t disappointed.  But was he right?  Sure, the chili dog was undeniably the best ever.  Maybe it was made somehow even better by the effort it took to get to it.  Sort of like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.  But was it really worth it?

I just didn’t know.

But what I do know is that I suddenly realized I was on an emotional rollercoaster and felt like I needed off.

I worked for Elvis for only two more months.  In those two months we made only one more trip.  San Antonio for tacos.  It just wasn’t the same anymore.  Something had changed.

When I quit, I told him it was because I knew that I had been to the mountain.  I had seen the other side.  I had gazed upon the Promised Land.

There is an old Spanish proverb that says “Talking of the bulls is not the same as being in the ring.”    Well, after the chili dogs that night at Freddie’s, my life should have been richer and more fulfilled.  But somehow it just wasn’t.  I felt diminished, less whole than I did before.  I knew that no culinary experience would ever measure up to that trip to Freddie’s.  It was all just “talking of the bulls”.

Elvis said that he understood.  And you know, I think just maybe he really did.  We parted friends, but I never heard from him again.

I’ve never eaten another chili dog.

It sure is hard to believe, but that was over forty years ago.

 

You know Elvis’ story.     He’s dead.

 

I always chuckle when I read about some beautician seeing him in Akron, or some auto mechanic working on his car in a side-street garage in Biloxi.   Because I know that IF he were still alive, he’d be in Chicago, at Freddie’s, sucking down some suds and chomping on chili dogs.

 

As for me, well, I moved to D.C. and married Katie.   Went to work for the government as a “free cheese” administrator.

 

I tell myself I’m helping to make the world “a better place.”

 

Katie opened a health food restaurant in Georgetown and feeds our kids tofu and bean sprouts.  I still drive my mom’s old ’64 Falcon.  But I’ve got a shiny 1973 Cadillac convertible out in the garage with just 37 miles on the odometer.

 

Every now and then when Katie and the kids have gone to bed, I’ll fix myself a chocolate shake, go out and sit in the Caddy with the top down, and listen to  “Don’t be Cruel” on the radio and think about Elvis, and Freddie’s, and the best damn chili dog that money can buy.