Of dogs and horses

There's nothing like the smell of fried onions coming from a hotdog stand - that intense, intoxicating, "oh-so-yummy' aroma accompanied by the equally tantalising sound of the onions sizzling on the hot grill. There's always a stand by the Palace Theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue that makes me stop to entertain the idea of getting a hotdog no matter how full I am from a meal in Chinatown. I suppose that's great publicity for you.

While I've always managed to resist temptation with the Shaftesbury Avenue stall, munching on a hotdog piled high with sauteed onions and oozing brown sauce and ketchup seemed like just the right thing to do at the racecourse.

And so there we were, hotdogs in hand (the meat-lover uncharacteristically decided on fried noodles for some reason), squinting, cheering, soaking up the atmosphere.

I love how hotdogs are one of those comforting, universal things that seem right for any occasion - even a day at the racecourse.

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