Tom Warner

A hot dog stand in Chicago. I reached for the ketchup. The man behind the counter said one word. "No." I froze. I understood. I had nearly broken a sacred law. His name was Sal. He held a mustard bottle in each hand and had the calm of a man who has turned away kings. He told me the dog already had mustard, relish, onion, tomato, a pickle, peppers, and celery salt. He told me it was "dragged through the garden." He told me ketchup would never touch it. I bowed. I had been shown the code. I asked Sal who decreed this law. He shrugged. "That's just how it is here." A law so old its author is forgotten. The strongest kind. Then a man two stools down asked for ketchup for his child. Sal allowed it. "Eight and under," he said. So the law holds one mercy. Below eight winters, a child is innocent. At eight, he becomes responsible for his own honor. I found this more beautiful than anything in my own country. I have not put ketchup on anything since. Not on eggs. Not on rice. A vow does not check what is on the plate. I flew home. At a stand in my own city, a boy reached for the red bottle. I caught his wrist. "You are over eight," I said. He did not know what I meant. His mother was upset. I tried to explain the garden. I tried to explain Sal. I am now asked not to return to that stand. I have appointed myself guardian of a law from a city I visited once, for a single afternoon. So tell me, America. Who forbade the red sauce on the sausage, and in what year? And if no one remembers, who am I now serving?