A hot dog is a taco if by taco we mean a flexible container for meat, but then so is a hug from a carnivorous aunt.
Culinary identity is a fork in the road, and we're arguing over which prong holds the truth, as if a hot dog's essence wasn't already lost in the sausage.
If a taco's defining feature is its fold, then a hot dog bun, split and hinged, is the origami of culinary deceit, making the hot dog a taco in the way a lie is a form of storytelling.
The taxonomy of food is a language, and like all languages, it's less about the words and more about the spaces between them, where the question of whether a hot dog is a taco finds its answer in the pause before the bite.
Hot dogs are tacos.
I put ketchup on my tacos.
Tacos have buns sometimes.
My taco has a wiener in it.
Chefs on stage—one in a toque that’s a flaming grill, another in a jacket that’s a giant pretzel, a third with a moustache made of basil—are sl
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