“They’re delicious. They’re good. It’s the best way to eat hot dogs. Wrap a piece of bread around it…” Charlie starts to say. “What kind of bread?” It’s no use talking about food of any kind with Chef Pat at the Uptowner after a few gin & tonics. The ads he takes out in the local weekly decry Chef Pat “Caterer to the Stars.” Apparently he means he did the spread at REO Speedwagon’s Wisconsin State Fair gig last summer and one time he made some burritos for Anthony Hopkins. “Whatever. White bread. Wonder Bread. Or whatever. But the soft kind.† Charlie clears his throat noisily. Something might have been spat on the floor. “Okay. So wrap it, roll it, stick a toothpick in it. And throw it in the toaster oven for a few minutes.” He takes a big swig of beer and starts picking at the Pabst label on the bottle. “Gotta take the crust off, though,” says Chef Pat. Both men suddenly, for the first time in their conversation in the last 45 minutes, look at each other. Charlie breathes a big, loud breath through his nose. “Hell, no. Leave it on. It’s delicious.” Charlie puts down his tall rum and coke for one breathless moment, picks a piece of lint from his beard, and nods, agreeing with himself, the evening.