The stand sells hot dogs called italianos because the avocado, mayo, and ketchup covering the meat look like the Italian flag. Tía Ileana once told me people in Italy don’t eat hot dogs that way—it’s only a Chilean thing. Frankie buys two cans of Coke from the stand as well. The cans are so cold that chips of ice cling to them and don’t melt until we get to his building. Back in the apartment, he pops in the CD of Kill ’Em All and sets our italianos on a large plate. Steam rises from the still-warm hot dogs. He takes a half-full bottle of pisco from under the sink. My breath rushes past my throat. “I thought you didn’t drink.” “I don’t drink much,” Frankie says. “But today’s special. Because you’re here.” He puts on a show of mixing our drinks. “Two piscolas,” he announces, handing one to me. He’s made mine strong. I can definitely taste the pisco over the Coke. After a few sips, I pour in more Coke. “You’d make a lousy bartender,” I say. “You’re supposed to water down the drinks.
