Sek Pau Mei

The misadventures of the heart and sometimes, the stomach.

Midnight Supper Series: Japadog



“Do you even know where it is?” I said through chattering teeth, “I can’t feel my fingers and my face is numb.”

“It’s just around the corner. Walk faster and you won’t feel so cold.” he quickened his pace, forcing me to keep up.

We finally found it, tucked between two intersections, a bright orange stand in the middle of nowhere, selling an American favourite with a Japanese twist.

“Do you want me to order for you?” he asked. I grunted behind my layers of scarves and sweaters. It’s too cold and I just want to go back to the hotel, stand under a blistering hot shower.

The man behind the stand spoke no English, merely nods at the order and soon we hear the sound of pork sausages spitting in its own fat, the wafting smell of bread toasting on a hot grill.

The sausage snugly nestled between the roll, an artistic squiggle of ‘special sauce’ and the final flourish of bonito flakes. Repeat.

Soon, two hot dogs in glistening grease paper were exchanged for a fistful of Canadian dollars, gratefully accepted by freezing hands.

The roll was generously buttered and toasted to perfection: crusty on the outside, its soft interior the perfect vehicle for meat juices and melted fat. Biting down, the sausage snaps gratuitously, just like it should.

“It’s good, yes?” said he, almost smug. I have ‘special sauce’ on my lips and fingers, bonito flakes caught in my hair, all over the layers of scarves and sweaters.

It’s only 4pm but it’s already dark out and so so cold.

But standing here by the bright orange hotdog stand with my brother, I realized that the cold doesn’t bother me anyway.


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