Entries associated with the tag "hot dogs":

This week in Omnivorous I profiled Vienna Beef VP Bob Schwartz, whose new book Never Put Ketchup on a Hot Dog is a warm and fuzzy history of classic Chicago hot dog stands. Schwartz is a gregarious and funny guy--that's his license plate in the photo--and despite his book's provocative title (provocative to outsiders anyway) it is fairly good natured when it comes to the raging controversies that flare up from time to time when debating hot dogma. If you don't know what I'm talking about check out the minor shitstorm that broke when contributor David Hammond dared to slag Jimmy's Red Hots. Hey, you guys are friends! (But for the record, I wondered what Hammond was smoking too.)

I bring this up because that distinguished Investigator of South Side Culinary Oddities Peter Engler referred me to a few old newspaper clips during my research that challenge some of the conventional wisdom passed down through the ages about the origins of the "Depression sandwich." For one thing the legend of Fluky's founder Abe Drexler pioneering what we know today as the Chicago hot dog "dragged through the garden" seems somewhat flawed given this passage by Charles Leroux from the Tribune of May 17, 1975:

There are a half-dozen or so hot dog stands that have grown into shrines to the Chicago-style pup—steamed poppy-seed bun; big slices of tomato, pickle, etc. One of these is Fluky's, 6749 N. Western Av. There, under a three-story revolving hot dog sign, you can sit in the spacious parking lot and have a dog (50 cents, 89 cents for a double) with the works (mustard, catsup, relish, onion, pickle, hot peppers, tomato slices).  

That's right--"the works" at Fluky's at one time included "catsup."

I come from a land where it is perfectly acceptable to dress franks with ketchup, but I really don't have a dog in this fight. I only point it out--with apologies to Schwartz--to suggest that the wiener police ought to take a deep breath and concentrate on their own condiments.

We have 20 other hot dog joints in the listings, orthodox and reformed.

When I went to impresario Dion Antic's new hot dog stand Rockstar Dogs on Saturday afternoon I brought along a devotee of recreational pole dancing to help out (all the professionals I know were still in bed). While I have strong, defensible opinions about hot dogs, and pretty firm views on rock 'n' roll, I know little about what makes a fine stripper pole. At the very least, I knew readers would need a semiqualified judgment on the matter before deciding whether it's worth attempting a pole dance for a free hot dog after 10 PM, or just coughing up $6 or $7 for a tube steak, fries, soda, and temporary tattoo and getting it over with.   

Rockstar inhabits a short, narrow, angry red corridor decorated with a pair of wall-mounted guitars and a bunch of framed black-and-whites of rock stars in their native habitats. It's a restrictive cattle-chute setup that's bound to inspire boozy pushfights and panicked stampedes among its intended customers. My adviser took one look at the pole installed in the corner just inside the front door and rolled her eyes. “That's no stripper pole,” she snorted. “There isn't enough space around the pole to do anything except lean on it.” And it doesn't spin.  

Aha. There's the evil genius of Antic's stripper pole promotion: Rockstar Dogs collects all the free PR that comes with planting a giant dildo in the front door without ever having to pay out in meat since the pole is impossible to use. I'm not positive I'd have seen through this clever ruse if I'd stumbled in at 3 AM, but there it is.     

As for the dogs, Rockstar is using Vienna beef franks with natural casing—a fine product. But are they worth $6 or $7 dollars? Hell no. They're just hot dogs. Granted, the toppings on these sausages, named for various artists and groups, are somewhat above par—Merkt's cheese on the J. Timberlake, nicely charred jalapenos on the bacon-wrapped Los Lobos. But you can't put lipstick on a pig, no matter how delicious (unless you're Doug Sohn, to whom RD will invite inevitable misguided comparisons).    

And then there's the idea that RD is filling some kind of void in the area's late-night stomach-coating options, even though it's located next door to the similarly cramped Taqueria Traspasada #2, a far better value (despite the absence of salchichas), to say nothing of las tres Pasaditas a little further north. And if it's really rock and dogs you're looking for, venture a bit farther west to Tommy's Rock and Roll Cafe, where you can actually put your hands on a genuine limited-edition Fernandes Boba Fett Star Wars Retrorocket AND snarf down a $2.99 footlong (vs. RD's $8 Tommy Lee).

For my seven dollars I want a stripper pole that spins. And a bigger temporary tattoo. With skulls. But my pole dancer thinks folks in her old town would be less picky:  “People would go crazy for this place in LA—because it's stupid.”

Rockstar Dogs, 801 N. Ashland, 312-421-2364 

Tommy's Rock and Roll Cafe, 2548 W. Chicago, 773-486-6768