What pops into mind when you hear the word “hotdog”? A blue corduroy skirt with a French poodle on a leash appliqué; on its collar were rhinestones and a yellow flower. It was my most favorite skirt when I was in my pre-teens. They now call it tweens. Maybe I was around 10 or 11 years old, starting to go out with my gang of girlfriends, starting to be aware of my surroundings.
My mother brought home from work the first foot-long hotdog I ever tasted. It was phenomenally delicious. It was long and thin in a 12-inch bun and it always came with its tiny package of yellow mustard. Then she told me she bought it in Brown Derby so on a Saturday afternoon my little group of girlfriends went to Brown Derby to have their famous foot-long hotdogs. Brown Derby was on Taft Avenue across Philippine General Hospital (PGH), when that area of town was genteel, not the traffic knots it is now. I remember it as an open restaurant, no air-conditioning, and it had a jukebox that you could play for 25 centavos. I don’t know why when I think of foot-long hotdogs “P1.50” pops into mind. Maybe that’s how much it cost in the early ’50s.
That was around the era when hotdogs started — the 1950s — and became the sausage trail. We had regular hotdogs and Vienna sausages, then we got footlongs and tiny ones called cocktail sausages. Then our children’s parties were called weenie roasts and we skewered hotdogs vertically on bamboo sticks and roasted them on barbecue grills. Then we put them in hotdog buns and slathered them with mustard or ketchup, depending on your taste, and pickle relish. For dessert, we also skewered marshmallows and grilled them, most often burnt them. It was hard to turn out a perfectly grilled marshmallow.
When we approached the ’60s, hotdogs got bigger until finally there were German frankfurters followed by the exotic stuff in the ’80s — Hungarian sausages, bratwurst — and whatever else you call the good ones that you buy in delicatessens before they were called delis. Those were the days. You bought hotdogs in packs or cans. You fried them and had them for breakfast and merienda. They became standard menu items in homes.
In the ’70s when I had four little children, hotdogs were always on my grocery list. My little son had a yaya who peeled his hotdogs for him, who got down on all fours so he could ride her while he watched TV, until I accidentally found out and got upset.
“Why do you let him do that to you? Do you have no respect for yourself?” I asked.
“I just want to make him happy,” she said, making me feel like a witch. She was small and thin. My son then was three years old, light enough for her but she should never have allowed him to do that. “What do you think of yourself? Are you a horse that he — no matter how small he is — can ride you? You should not let him do that.”
Gloop, that’s what I called my son sometimes, don’t ever do that again. They would do it again and again when I was not home.
Over the airwaves, a new music group was born. They called themselves the Hotdogs and they, too, were phenomenally delicious to my ears. “Manila, Manila, I keep coming back to Manila. . .” were the words of one of their hit songs. And “Ewan ko ba kung bakit type kita, hindi ka naman guapo...” I should have sung that myself. That described exactly my taste in men. They sang not only in Filipino but they sang in the vernacular, in the way people talked. They sang about the things we used to laugh about (and being Pinoy we know that’s almost everything) bringing a smile to our faces or making us giggle even when we were listening alone.
One day, they disappeared or I disappeared. My lifestyle changed. I turned into a serious working girl. I worked in advertising, remember. Media was of utmost importance to us. Now, I realized that maybe it was because one of its members left for good. That’s why they disbanded. But I don’t really know. Well, at least I knew some of them. I knew Greg Garcia, one of the prominent members of advertising society then. He was a good beloved friend of mine. His little brother, actually taller but younger, Dennis was a member of the Hotdog band. I had met Dennis a few times. Sandra Garcia, Greg and Dennis’s little sister, was also a friend and for a short while was a copywriter on the Coca-Cola account when I headed it at McCann-Erickson.
So when Sandra asked me to write that Ella del Rosario was back and would be singing with the Hotdogs again, I agreed. She will have a concert at Strumm’s on Dec. 14 and again at the Music Museum on Dec. 16 and 17. OMG! As I write this, I begin to remember Strumm’s. I have memories there. And also Music Museum. But I am old now, don’t want to go out at night, want to stay home and water my plants, love to make jewelry during the day. However, I encourage you all to go and listen to Ella del Rosario sing again and relive your memories again.
Even I as I write have this song repeating itself. “Ewan ko ba kung bakit type kita, hindi ka naman guapo... sa totoo lang ang pangit pangit mo (my words) pero TL ako sa iyo!”
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