Dominique Blain & Michelle Novielli Ryersonian Staff

What does your hotdog say about you?

The “weird combo aficionado”
Whenever friends catch a glimpse of your hotdog, their natural response is always: “ughh, how can you eat that?” You chow down on combos of sauerkraut, olives and mustard, or mayonnaise, bacon bits and barbecue sauce. To the untrained eye, your choice in toppings may seem slightly odd. But then again, what do people know? You’re a street meat artiste, with a keen eye for condiments and a sophisticated palate. Why waste time with ketchup or relish? They’re so bourgeois. You rage against conventionality from the comfort of your own hotdog bun. Take that, The Man.

The “bang-foryour-two-bucker”
You treat the condiment station like it’s a salad bar. Your hotdog is loaded with absolutely everything in sight: pickles, bacon bits andolives, which you don’t even particularly like. And why shouldn’t you? It’s not like you’re made of money – you’ve got rent to pay and beer to buy. After forking out $2, not even Ernie the Hotdog Man himself could stop you from getting your money’s worth. In other words, you are the classic frugal student who counts pennies as frequently as the folks at RAMSS count their hate mail.

The “street meat neat freak”
The lines of mustard and mayonnaise on your hotdog are so straight, it looks like you applied them with a ruler. There are no blobs, spurts or spatters of condiments on your street meat. You apply everything with neurotic precision. Other than you and the hotdog makeup artists at Oscar Mayer, nobody actually dispenses ketchup in a perfectly proportioned squiggly line. A true neat freak, you’re the type to pocket a healthy handful of napkins in case you or 12 of your friends have a hotdog-related spill. Your tidy tendencies even lead you to wipe down the nozzle of squeezable condiments when you finish using them. Don’t think your friends haven’t noticed.

The “one topping wonder”
It’s red. It’s tomato-based. And it’s the only topping that ever makes it onto your hotdog. For you, ketchup is the universal condiment. You slop it on eggs, bologna sandwiches and macaroni and cheese. Some may call you picky, but you’d much rather think of yourself as someone with a discriminating sense of taste. Your reliance on ketchup has led to a sense of entitlement. Whenever there’s a crowd at the condiment station, you don’t hesitate to throw a few elbows so you can get to your precious ketchup. Everyone else can help themselves to the soggy hot peppers or the lonesome bottle of Dijon mustard. God knows, you’re certainly not going to touch them.