The best hotdog in existence. Located in Hollywood, it looks like a hotdog stand stayed in the same place for so long that it grew roots.

One does not do something so bland as to chew a Pink's hotdog. You gnaw it until the outer skin *POP*'s and then you gulp the spicy innards (and other choice animal bits).

After devouring a Pink's hotdog, do not be the rude bastard you want to be and breathe in anyone's general vicinity until at least four hours and eight breath-mints later.

The spices are far more secret than the addiction factor of cigarettes or even the secret sauce on some of McDonald's burgers.
It does, however, contain onions, mustard. It has a bun softer than, say, cotton, yet thicker than Homer Simpson's skull.

I am sad to say that it has been quite some time since I had one. I was, in fact, about nine when I had my first and last one. It is the only decent memory of living in L.A. I've carried with me to Nashville. I beg those of you know of Pink's to tell me the current status of it and elaborate on what I've already said.

Go downtown, people. Get a Pink's. You'll never be the same again.

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