| rev:text
| - It's 2:30 am, the bars are making last call, and you're hungry. Taco Bell? Nah, you had that last night. Nunzios? Nope, food poisoning is never a good way to end the night. You remember a friend who mentioned a Mecca of late night fare, called Steve's Lunch.
You figure you'll try it out, and shortly after arriving you quickly realize stopping at Steve's Lunch is the best of the questionable decisions you've made all night. I'm willing to bet you're not sober, nor are any of your fellow patrons.
If you know what's best for you, you'll order 4 chili-cheddar slaw dogs. While you wait for your little slices of meaty heaven to arrive, you might be fortunate enough to engage in such activities as figuring out the 5-song jukebox, admiring their handwritten signs informing guests they will not charge their phones, or discussing the dire state of the Browns with the cracked-out tranny hooker sitting to your right and the noticeably drunk uniformed officer working security.
Then it arrives. The (usually disgruntled) employer drops your dogs in front of you and rolls her eyes as she hastily demands "tap or bottle" in response to your request for water to help scarf down the dogs as quickly as possible. You grab the first dog, and greedily take a massive bite. Your palate is almost instantly bombarded with spicy chili, gooey cheddar, cool, crunchy slaw, and the perfectly prepared hot dog, all encased in a steamed bun. The ingredients, while alone are all delicious in their own regard, create a borderline orgasmic synergetic symphony of flavor.
You eat all four dogs as quickly as possible, barely chewing, face covered in chili, your manners all but forgotten in the midst of gastronomical ecstasy.
When you finally finish, you begin to realize these wonderful treats are reacting as an edible rocket fuel, ready to combust when combined with the unreasonable amount of alcohol in your stomach. You flag down the waitress, and pay her as quickly as possible. Don't forget to thank her for presenting you with the greatest thing you've ever eaten at 3:30 am. It's not her fault you've irresponsibly created an internal gastrointestinal Hiroshima in your gut.
You rush to your car, worried more about soiling yourself as a fully grown adult than the fact that you're several times over the legal limit.
After you've gotten home and resolved your issues, you'll sit back and reflect on the best hot dogs in Cleveland while you take down a double dose of Tums and ask yourself: was it worth it? You bet yer ass it was.
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