This time of night, the only question is how many hot dogs to clip into the can of baked beans in the pot on the stove. One is paltry and sad—you can cut them into skinny pennies but you’re still blatantly a hobo. Two is dull, merely respectable, just not enough. Three has a luxuriousness to it, without the tacky ostentation of four: Four is greed. Four is Hollywood. So, three. Three hot dogs in the baked beans. Makes one feel one is doing well. Fancy, but not an awful person.
