The Eating Adventures of a Checker Cabbie
If you are fan of Eric BADLAAAAAAANDS Booker or Run DMC (or both) you will enjoy this 49 second video:
Famous Fat Dave and Badlands Rap
Let me just say this: it was the single greatest moment of my career.
Famous Fat Dave Video: Nathan’s Famous 4th of July Hot Dog Eating Competition Vs Eric Badlands Booker
Let me give you some advice. If you ever do a Nathan’s Famous hot dog eating competition, don’t do it for the FIRST time AT the original Nathan’s in Coney Island, WITHOUT ever training, AGAINST a legendary professional, ON CAMERA. If you do, you could end up looking foolish.
That’s basically what I did for the grand finale of the History Channel Dot Com Holiday Foods series. I went to the storied Stillwell and Surf location to take on the storied Eric BAAAAAAAADLAAAAAAANDS Booker in a mini three minute version of the 4th of July Nathan’s Famous hot dog eating competition.
Badlands has been a personal hero of mine for a number of years already, if only for the open mouthed poses he has mastered for the camera. But when I was told I’d be going up against him in battle, I did a little research. I knew he held some records, but I didn’t realize he held records for some of my favorite foods: cannoli . . . corned beef hash . . . candy bars . . . matzo balls . . . donuts . . . burritos . . . hamentashen! And it’s HIM up there in the middle of the big board staring at Tekeru The Tsunami Kobayashi, hot dogs at the ready.
I was intimidated to say the least. Badlands is a competitive eating Goliath, and I’m no David. I did spend a summer selling Nathan’s hot dogs at the Single A Cyclones ball park right next door to the original Nathan’s. And any hot dog I couldn’t sell, they’d let me take home for free to my endless bbq in the 2004 Summer of Awesome (as it came to be known). I’d eaten more than my fair share. Still, I thought I’d better train a little so as not to make a fool of myself.
As luck would have it, my best friend Greg bought me a sweet ticket to see my lowly Nats take on the mighty Phillies down at the ball park in Philadelphia the night before the contest. AND IT WAS DOLLAR DOG NIGHT!!!
It would have been the perfect opportunity to get some practice in. Never mind Badlands, I could see what I was up against internally. But the dogs in Philly have less snap than Nathan’s dogs. Nathan’s dogs, the ones at the flagship location at least (I don’t know why Nathan’s Famous would sully its good name by selling snapless franks in supermarkets and franchised locations the world over), are encased in real intestine so they taste way better but they’re harder to eat. It’s an entirely different experience biting through one of those.
I still should have tried eating one in Philly as fast as I could to see how I fared. Instead, I convinced myself that I’d die of nitrate poisoning if I ate a bunch of hot dogs the night before a hot dog eating competition, and so settled for a photo op with Greg, and only really ate two . . . slowly. Rookie mistake.
When the day came I was NOT prepared. After leaving Philly at 11pm, I had to stay up until about 430 writing a paper for school. I was on NO sleep. Aaaaaand I had a shoot early in the morning during which I had to eat a bunch of tacos (delicious tacos at Alma, but not the proper way to start my day).
By the time I got to Coney, I was so nervous. And worse, I felt like a pretender to the throne. People train for years, fight through dozens of qualifiers, suffer through endless heartbreak before they get to compete at Nathan’s against the likes of Badlands Booker. And here I was, a rank amateur, getting a shot at the champ just because I had cameras with me. Shame washed over me when I saw the big man approach.
But anyone who knows Badlands Booker knows he is a great guy. Truly a gentle giant. He greeted me with a “What’s good Famous?” and immediately put me at ease. Even the sight of dozens of hot dogs didn’t really effect me because I was having such a blast with Badlands mugging for the camera and such.
However, when I met the EMT on hand, I got nervous again. It’s funny that even though I should have felt better that there was a trained medic who would be just feet away while we competed, it made me more ill at ease. I guess I was thinking about how dumb I’d feel if I choked on a hot dog.
Badlands told me it’d be a good showing if I ate five in the three minutes we had. I decided I could down 7, at which point Badlands said, “Oh it’s like that, then we’re ON.” That’s how inexperienced I was. I didn’t even know I was challenging the pro when I was challenging him.
I stupidly decided NOT to dunk my hot dogs in water on the logic that dunking is gross and I could eat more if I was actually enjoying them. The competition began, with three cameras set up, a four person film crew, Ryan Nerz – author of the hilarious “Eat This Book” – announcing, the EMT standing by, and about 20 onlookers gathered round. And on my very first bite I immediately realized, “There is NO way I’m gonna eat 7 hot dogs.”
The bread expanded rapidly into every corner of my mouth. The bite I took must have been far to big. I couldn’t swallow if my life depended on it. But I only had three minutes to compete and Badlands was chomping through two dogs and buns (dunked) at a time. So, prematurely, I dunked my dog and took another big bite. Now it felt my whole head was filled with wet bun and chewed up hot dog. There was nowhere for it go. It just went in circles around my mouth. It was not pleasant. And I was making a fool of myself.
After a full minute I hadn’t even finished one. By the time I recovered from the original bite, half the competition was over. I managed to nearly choke on a couple of occasions too because I’d be chewing all that wet bun up front and a stray piece of hot dog would try to escape down my throat. I felt like I could end up like the little girl Moonlight Graham had to save in Field Of Dreams. That’s not how I wanted it to go down.
When three minutes were up I’d eaten less than 3 hot dogs (and I’d chipmunked the last 3/4 of a dog, Major League Eating lingo meaning I had just shoved it into my cheeks) while Badlands swallowed ELEVEN. That’s a really good pace for him considering the real competition is four times longer and his personal best is 30 and a half.
When I finally downed my chipmunked hot dog, I said, “I’m not even full,” and Badland responded with “You wanna go again?!? Let’s GO.” With that, we were off for, as Ryan Nerz put it, “An unprecedented one minute overtime.” None of that part made the cut for HistoryChannel.com so I’ll tell you, I managed just one more hot dog while Badlands downed another FIVE. What a pro.
Badlands had been semiretired from the competitive eating circuit when I met him. He’d lost 120 pounds (then gained another 40) he told me. He’d gone from an XXXXXXL Nathan’s tee shirt to an XXXXL. Everyone wanted to know if he was going to get back into the game. Last week, I heard he won a qualifier in Camden New Jersey and he will be ON STAGE tomorrow at the 4th of July Nathan’s Famous International Hot Dog Eating Competition. I’d like to think I had a little something to do with it.
Missed the video link at the top? Here it is again: Famous Fat Dave Vs. Badlands Booker At Nathan’s
(Post-competition it’s a classic Badlands pose)
(Badlands Booker you’re my hero)
(Badlands, Melissa, me, and a lemonade)
(Badlands, Ryan Nerz, Me, and the Crew. Thanks History.com)
Visit www.FamousFatDave.com for five borough eating tours where the original Nathan’s Famous is a classic stop
On August 20, 2001 my brother Josh moved in with his special lady friend Tracy in Boreum Hill Brooklyn. Soon thereafter, I began driving a yellow cab. Two of the first three garages at which I worked were located in Brooklyn, so it quickly became something of a tradition for me to stop by their apartment on Mondays (Josh’s day off) to relax and eat before my night shift began.
And what a neighborhood in which to eat. Less than a block off Smith Street, the world was our oyster when it came to ordering. I’d always spend the first chunk of my Monday shift gleefully stuffed with pannini from Pannino’teca, a rueben from Salonike, or a burger from Bar Tabac.
It was a perfect setup for me. Relax and eat, eat and relax, and then go out and face the city being of sound mind and full belly. But then some ominous developments began to occur. Josh and Tracy got engaged. Josh and Tracy got married. Josh and Tracy began talking about moving to the suburbs. Josh and Tracy had a baby — Milo. Josh and Tracy bought a station wagon.
I tried my hardest to convince them that Milo would grow up to be much cooler if he grew up in Brooklyn rather than the ‘burbs as we had. But Josh countered with some nonsense about sending Milo to a good public school and giving him a backyard to play in. As well as Josh and Tracy are doing, you’ve pretty much got to be a millionaire to buy a place with a backyard in that part of Brooklyn and send your kids to private school.
Before I knew it, they’d bought a house in Westchester, and they were packing their things. I’d grown quite attached to their neighborhood in the five years they lived there together. But I guess I could understand them wanting to give Milo a backyard and a good school. Plus, I fully admit that it’s nice to be a little further away from the Gowanus Projects than a quarter block.
It was with a heavy heart that I drove over to Josh and Tracy’s for my last Monday lunch. Tracy was at work, but Josh and I decided to head over to Montague Street in Brooklyn Heights to do our final lunch right. We took Milo to Teresa’s where he was an instant hit with the Polish waitresses. And they were a hit with him.
The blintz was a hit with me. I ordered the pierogies, which I’d had many times before and never left me disappointed. Boiled and served with apple sauce and onions, Teresa’s pierogies are as close to the gut-busters I had in Krakow as any I’ve tasted in New York.
But I’d never orderd their blintzes before. I’m used to blintzes being mediocre at best. The filling always seems to be too sweet for me, as though some uncaring cook just stuffed it with Smucker’s jelly. And the outside is always too mushy.
But the blintzes that Josh ordered that day were a thousand times better than any blintz I’ve ever tried. The outside was just crispy enough to change the entire texture of the treat from the usual “blah” to the rare “delicate and gourmet.” The sweet farmer’s cheese filling was by no means overwhelmingly sweet. So much so that it benefited from more sweetness being shaken onto it from above in the form of powdered sugar. And the plum butter gave the whole thing a down home flavor.
Milo dug it the most:
Josh and I had never eaten at Teresa’s together, and that meal just made me more wistful than ever. Now, when I drive the cab on Mondays, I’ve got no anchor to throw before I start working. I just have to dive right in.
I’ve been up to Westchester a few times already. They’re supposed to have great Mexican food on North Avenue. But the burritos we had at El Jalisco were merely pretty good, though they were clearly authentic. Milo loved them because they were covered with two slices of melted Muenster – his fave.
Watching Milo enjoy them so much made me like them a little more. But he won’t remember the superior burritos at California Taqueria on Court Street. Maybe we’ll find better burritos somewhere else in Westchester.
The whole family went out for some Turkish food one evening at Turqoise in the next town over from Josh and Tracy’s house. The meal was delicious, especially the stuffed grape leaves jammed with pine nuts. But Milo enjoyed the milk more than anything else:
I still prefer Kapadokya in Brooklyn Heights for Turkish food. I took Josh there for his bachelor party, and we ordered from there a few times afterwards:
I was starting to wonder if Westchester was going to yield any great food. We heard there was great whitefish salad at one deli, but when we went they were sold out. We heard Walter’s has the best hot dogs in the whole New York area, but when we went they were closed.
Yesterday, Josh threw his first barbeque at the house. Melissa and I brought some Merguez sausage and a whole wheel of parsley and cheese pork sausage from Pino’s on Sullivan Street. The wheel, once unwound, went over big:
Milo couldn’t resist it.
So there we were, deep into the suburbs. Brooklyn was already a distant memory. Milo won’t ever remember it. I took stock.
Josh was firing up the grill. Kids were running around the backyard as we played football and baseball. The sun was shining through the clouds, and the shadows were short. People were spread out across Josh and Tracy’s big house. Parking was plentiful. And everyone was relaxing and eating, eating and relaxing – including me.
Teresa’s, 80 Montague Street at Hicks, Brooklyn Heights
Kapadokya, 142 Montague Street at Henry, Brooklyn Height
Pino Prime Meats, 149 Sullivan Street, SoHo, Manhattan
Turqoise, 1895 Palmer Ave, Larchmont, Westchester
El Jalisco, Somewhere on North Avenue 576-4008, New Rochelle, Westchester
Famous Fat Dave, 5 Borough Eating Tours, New York City
Chicago is where I learned how to be a cabbie. Not how to drive, but how to act. Visiting Chicago about once a year to spend time with my large (and growing) extended family has resulted in my taking countless cabs in that town. But the single most influential cab ride of my life came just before I got my own hack license in 2001. From downtown Chicago, I took a cab to the airport after my cousin Laurie’s wedding.
My Sri Lankan cabbie was keen to chat with me once I showed interest in the profession we were soon to share. We talked of life and love and Chicago winters. He told me about his Tamil mother and Sinhalese father, and how, even though he was half Tamil, he blamed the Tamil Tigers for the endless violence in his homeland. He hoped that now, after September 11th, America would understand Sri Lanka’s enduring plight and come to its aid.
Knowing that was an unlikely proposition, I tried to move on to a lighter topic, so I asked him where to find the greatest Chicago hot dog. With that, his sad eyes lit up. He told me we were about to pass his favorite place. I was ready to take a mental note and make a trip to this Superdawg the next time I was in town, but my super cabbie suggested that we pull off the tollway and grab a couple of dogs for the road.
I’d never heard of such a thing. Aren’t cab drivers always in a hurry? Aren’t they always grumps who just talk on their cell phones, drive recklessly, and never dream of taking a break to dine with a fare? I was shocked, but I accepted the invitation just in time for us to swerve off the highway and make the exit.
(Superdawg picture from their website because I didn’t have a digital camera back in the day)
I immediately saw Superdawg’s appeal to a cab driver: it was a drive-in. Not a drive-thru, but a drive-in. A hold out from 1948 complete with “Suddenserv” car hops. The hot dogs were, in a word, heavenly. But I couldn’t desribe them any better than Superdawg does:
“Not a wiener – not a frankfurter – not a red hot – but our exclusive… Superdawg™. On a poppy seed bun, we tenderly place the loveliest, juiciest creation of pure beef hot dog (no pork, no veal, no cereal, no filler), formally dressed with all the trimmings, escorted by our often imitated, but never equaled, Superfries™. Served with all the trimmings – golden mustard, tangy piccalilli, kosher dill pickle, chopped Spanish onions and a memorable hot pepper.”
My cabbie devoured his Superdawg in about 60 seconds flat, a skill I would have to master if I was going to be a real cabbie back in New York. I was still polishing off my second dog as we rolled into O’Hare with just minutes to spare. That Sri Lankan Superdawg-loving peace-loving kinda-smelly cabbie is my role model to this day. He’d fit neatly into my family too.
My uncle Norm is a major Superdawg fan, but the rest of the family is loyal to Big Herm’s Hot Dog Palace in Skokie. Usually, Big Herm’s is the first stop we make upon our arrival. Big Herm’s hot dogs aren’t as thick or juicy as that Superdawg I had, but they are more flavorful and have more snap. To me, Big Herm’s serves the quintessential Chicago dogs.
(A char dog on the left; a classic steamed dog on the right)
And unlike at Superdawg, Big Herm’s puts a couple slices of tomato on the dog (note to New Yorkers who put ketchup on their hot dogs: actual tomatoes are better). My family is never as comfortable and at ease with itself as it is when it’s chowing down at Big Herm’s. Chicago, more specifically Chicago hot dogs, are in my blood. Here, a small sampling of the family can’t be bothered to smile for the picture because everyone is too busy eating:
My cousin Anna eats her hot dogs with nothing but ketchup, and the shame of it all is stamped clearly on her face.
I’d been to Big Herm’s a couple dozen times, and I was in the mood to explore. So my cousin Jeremy Weinstein, back from Hollywood where he is on his way to collecting a mantle full of Best Editor Oscars, took me to The Wieners Cirlce after a night out on the North Side.
I’d heard stories about the Wieners Circle, but I had a hard time believing them. I’d heard that drunken hoardes of white Chicagoans descend upon the black counter girls every night to shout whatever wretched, base thoughts come into their meatheads.
If you give a counter girl $10, you could order a “chocolate shake” that is not on the menu. Now, I love milk shakes, so I was excited to hear of a special shake that’s not on the menu the way The In And Out Burger offers things not on the menu. But at The Wieners Circle, the chocolate shake is just a counter girl who lifts her shirt up and shakes her saggy boobs in everyone’s face for a nanosecond.
(This woman’s official job is to pour the melted cheese, but she also serves chocolate shakes)
When I arrived, I found the stories to be true. Actually, it was much crazier than I had heard. Racist comments are shouted out like orders Insults of every type are hurled back and forth. I was treated to a “chocolate shake” because the guy in front of me ordered one. I wish he hadn’t. I had my camera turned off when the “chocolate shake” came, but take a look at what happened just afterwards and you’ll get a better idea of the atmosphere in there:
Wieners Circle Vanilla Shake Video (18 seconds)
(A char dog that I bought “for the table,” and then proceeded to eat all but one bite of myself)
I noticed there was one black girl there eating hot dogs with her white friends at a picnic table out front. She did not look happy. Jeremy and I decided she must be dying a little on the inside. Appalled as I was, I got over it soon after a counter girl flicked me off and called me the “NEXT C*CKSUCKER IN LINE.”
(The screen is a new addition; They’ve taken their cue from the chicken wire protecting the Blues Brothers on stage)
The hot dogs, though they didn’t compare to Superdawg or Big Herm’s, were so good. After muscling my way through a dangerously drunk crowd of overweight Chicagoans, they really hit the spot. Any dog that comes with an entire pickle spear (or two on occasion in the Wieners Circle’s case) is just fine as far as I’m concerned. Chicagoans eat their hot dogs the way New Yorkers eat their pizza. So in my yellow cab, thanks in large part to my Chicago cabbie role model, I wouldn’t hesistate to stop and grab a slice with my fare.
Superdawg, 6363 N. Milwaukee Avenue, Chicago, IL
Big Herm’s Hot Dog Palace, 3406 Dempster St., Skokie, IL
The Wieners Circle, 2622 N. Clark Street, Chicago, IL
Visit www.famousfatdave.com for an eating tour on which we can stop for New York hot dogs/ Chicago style hot dogs/ and deep fried Jersey hot dogs
I swear I was planning to go to work yesterday. But when I woke up and saw the sun pouring through my window, I thought better of it. It was one of those glorious spring days with just a few puffy white clouds scattered amidst a sky of unbelievable blue. I felt like Ferris Bueller except I didn’t have to fake a stomach cramp and lick my palms. I just had to call the garage and tell them not to expect me. No one would be hailing a cab on such a nice day anyhow.
At that point, Melissa, my sweet Thai girlfriend (how did she get so sweet? years of practice), was actually playing the Cameron role in the story. She had woken up before dawn, and by the time I came out from under the covers, she’d already put in a full day’s work. She was back home in bed already, dead set on napping away the afternoon. “I’m dying,” she said, referring to the fact that she’d not had a full night’s sleep in weeks. “You’re not dying, you just can’t think of anything good to do,” I said, hoping she’d (and you’d) catch the reference. She didn’t budge.
But she bowed to my logic when I pleaded with her, “How many times are we both going to be free in the afternoon when the Yankees are playing a day game at The Stadium?” As she looked out the window at that beautiful sky, I watched Cameron slowly melt away. Before I had my teeth brushed and my mohawk tamed, there was my Sloane, cowboy boots and all, ready to go. She rubbed her bleary eyes, and we were Bronx bound.
A weekday game with a 1:05 start, and it was sold out. God bless this city. And God bless scalpers who get desperate within minutes of the National Anthem. I handled the shady negotiating, bought the tickets, and then scouted out the best empty seats in the house that we could sneak into without an usher bothering us. Melissa, once she got over her fear of being booted from our stolen seats, bought us our breakfast:
A Yankee Stadium hot dog used to taste like someone took a Dodger dog, dropped it on the floor, stepped on it, and then put it on a bun. Then they got worse. There was a very trying period sometime during the height of the steroid era (we’ve entered the HGH era) when hot dog vendors at The Stadium didn’t even have buns. They served dogs in small wedges of bread sliced three quarters of the way through as though we were too stupid to know the difference between a hot dog bun and a piece of Wonder Bread.
Even so, it had always been my dream to vend hot dogs at Yankee Stadium. One year I waited in line for hours in the bitter March winds off the Harlem River only to be turned away for not having a social security card on hand. The next year, after spending hours in line at the Social Security Office, I spent hours in line at The Stadium waiting for my second shot at the big leagues.
But some of the desperate, unemployed denizens of the South Bronx tried to cut in line, and some other desperate, unemployed denizens of the South Bronx with overdeveloped senses of propriety didn’t let it go. The shouting match turned into a fist fight, the fist fight turned into a brawl, and I high tailed it all the way to Coney Island where I languished selling hot dogs in Single A ball for a summer.
Melissa, knowing how hard it is out here for a vendor, tipped ours handsomely. They started using real buns again a couple of years ago, and they switched from Sabrett’s to Nathan’s. Although these bulk variety Nathan’s dogs have zero snap, they are wonderfully meaty. Maybe it had something to do with my stellar mood, but I thought that hot dog was so choice:
So was the cotton candy:
If you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up.
Unlike Ferris, I didn’t catch a foul ball. And the Yankees lost miserably. Yet, I believe the game was blessed. No one shouted for me to take my hat off during God Bless America during the 7th inning stretch, so I gotta say it was a good day. Sparky Anderson sat right near us:
We watched as a man proposed to his pink ARod jersey-wearing girlfriend who said “YES” and then cheered wildly while simultaneously staring at her new ring when ARod hit a monster home run just minutes later:
ARod was clutch!!!. . . for this happy couple
Then my idol, Bernie Williams, jacked one out of the park just for me:
Bernie Williams, you’re my hero.
Plus we were witness to 21-year-old Melky Cabrera’s first career home run. We can always boast we saw the first of many, if Joe Torre is right about him.
Had I driven the cab yesterday, I probably would not have made a dime. I think I needed the day off. Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.
(This shot goes out to all my straight female readers, my gay readers, and my male readers who are confident in their heterosexuality. . . To the Upper East Side nubiles)
Visit www.famousfatdave.com to book an eating tour. The question is what aren’t we going to eat.
(You’re still here? It’s over. . . Go back to work.)
A lot of people, I am told, apply for good jobs when they graduate from college. They enter the work force swinging, and they don’t stop until they’ve retired to that beach house or country home 50 years later. A lot of people, my parents often tell me, keep their eyes on the prize so they can land that six figure salary and send their own kids to college.
My parents dropped a cool hundred grand on my four years at NYU. And when I graduated, I wasted no time. The ink on my degree wasn’t dry yet, and I filled out my very first job application. I drove down to Coney Island, walked up to the first cashier I saw at Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs, and demanded an application and a hot dog with sour kraut and onions.
I neglected to mention my college degree to them. I also neglected to mention that I planned to triple the value of my hourly wage by consuming enough hot dogs to train for the International Hot Dog Eating Contest like Badlands Booker. Yet the manager looked at me like I was crazy and told me he’d get back to me. I called every day for weeks until I was finally informed that I was “overqualified.” I didn’t feel overqualified, and I was heartbroken.
(The true king of the open mouthed photo op and a personal hero of mine: Badlands Booker)
You have to understand, I am the type of person who stops for a hot dog on his way to eat ribs. I’ve based my entire philosphy of cab-driving on a chance encounter I had with a Chicago cabbie who pulled off the highway to get a Super Dog with me on the way to O’Hare.
Hot dogs, I must say, are one of my great passions. I consider it one of my worthiest accomplishments in life that it was my grilled hot dog during my bbq at my bungalow in Rockaway that was the first bit of meat my vegetarian friend Mark ate in close to a decade. “Is this a really, really good hot dog Dave? Or is this just what they taste like?” he asked, wide-eyed. I just smiled. Within days, he was eating multiple hot dogs per week, he was the star of the annual 7th Street Community Garden Pulled Pork Party, and he eventually moved to Argentina in part to partake of their bountiful and inexpensive steak.
During a stormy evening in Chicago a few years back, I was so overcome with the excitement of a coming hot dog run to Big Herm’s Hot Dog Palace that I decided to race the car to the store for the last long block. I was in the throws of a folk hero phase at the time and felt like the John Henry of the North Side that night. I jumped out of the car in the pouring rain and kept up for (as I recall) quite a while until my brother and cousins left me in the dust. The whole while I sang: “Big Davey when he was a babyyyy, settin on his mammy’s knee, picked up a hot dog in his little right hand, said this’ll be the death of me me meee, yes this’ll be the death of meeee.” As I ate that dog that night dripping wet, I felt I had become a sort of folk hero myself.
And I think I was right about it being the death of me. A couple of summers ago, I finally landed a job selling Nathan’s hot dogs in Coney Island. I worked as a vendor in the stands at the Brooklyn Cyclones minor league ball park. The Cyclones were not good that year, and crowds were sparse. That was not good for business (I’d take home $25 on a good night), but it was even worse for my diet. Since I got to keep the hot dogs I didn’t manage to sell, and the longer the season dragged on the more hot dogs I took home to my endless bbq, I realized almost too late that I was edging perilously close to actually becoming Ignatius J. Reilly. Ironically, since I had a rockin tan from living on the beach that summer, people kept telling me that I looked marvelous (tans have a slimming effect). I could honestly tell people, “Thank you, I’m on a hot dog diet.”
(Crucified by my own gluttony at Nathan’s Famous)
So when I saw A Hot Dog Program on PBS a few weeks ago documenting the nation’s best hot dogs, I was chomping at the bit. I’ve lived in New York for close to a decade, but I’d never heard of Rutt’s Hut just across the Hudson River in New Jersey. At Rutt’s Hut, they deep fry their hot dogs which burst open in the oil, and they serve them with a homemade relish that you can spread directly into the gaping wounds in the extra crispy dog. They are called “rippers,” and I had never conceived of something so enticing in my entire life of excess and gluttony.
Yesterday I made it out there at the beginning of a brief road trip I’m making down the eastern seaboard. I got lost and had to ask directions at an ice cream parlor. The girl there told me the deep fried hot dogs were “kind of gross,” but I paid her no mind.
When I arrived, I ordered myself “a hot dog,” too whimpy and out of my element to confidently ask for a “ripper.” What I got looked just like what I’d seen on the documentary:
My first, ravenous bite after so much anticipation and hullabaloo might be most appropriately described as the biggest disappointment I’ve had the displeasure to experience since the Yankees choked and then choked and then choked and then choked again in the 2004 American League Championship Series.
The skin looked the part, but it was almost rubbery. The relish was lacking something (I think it was the flavor of pickles). The meat inside had shrunken and shriveled and retreated from the lackluster casing. And the dog had not one bit of snap to it.
(This candid, greasy-mouthed shot of me eyeing the ripper says it all)
I marched back up to the counter, having heard one hefty local order a ”ripper” (or three) loud and clear. I asked for one “ripper” and was met with the same sad dog. I hung my head. I’d been duped.
As a consequence my faith in PBS has been shaken at its very core. How can I ever trust Public Broadcasting again, or, for that matter, any other grand public institution (regardless of the systemic corruption and cronyism). I let my belly down, so I’m going to blame some of the people in this room – and then I do not forgive. The next hot dog I eat, I assure you, will be from a place good enough to work for.
Nathan’s Famous, 1310 Surf Avenue, Coney Island, Brooklyn
Rutt’s Hut, 417 River Road, Clifton, New Jersey
Go to www.famousfatdave.com for a laugh or to book an eating tour
