977 Words About A Hot Dog

A blurry beacon in a hazy night.

In order to define the Perfect Hot Dog (or PHD if you’re acronym-inclined) we must first establish three irrefutable facts:

Fact One: No hot dog worth discussion exists outside of Chicago.

Fact Two: Vienna Beef

Fact Three: Finally, achieving the PHD requires the confluence of Place (Chicago), Ingredients (see Fact Two), Cost (reasonable), and, crucially, Time.

In order to illuminate the importance of that last element, Time, I fear that we must depart our solid footing on the brick wall of Science and Reason and wander onto the slippery sand dune of Hypothesis and Anecdote.

Imagine if you will, dear reader, those single digit, pre-dawn hours when night scandalously mingles with morning. It might be 3:00 or 3:30am near a busy intersection. Imagine the darkness. Imagine the confusion. Picture in your mind’s eye the drunken denizens of those nameless hours making their way in various grades of stumble towards speeding taxicabs or late-night buses.

Continue with me down this road of supposition a bit farther, if you would, and imagine that perhaps you have just emerged from work. Exhausted. Hungry. In no mood for dealing with the citizens of inebriation’s state who crowd your path. Where oh where shall you find sustenance in this dark  morning-night? Perhaps the smells of coffee beginning to trace their way from a nearby Donut shop remind you that morning is near, but alas, the doors of said shop are not yet open. The smell of tacos from another close-by establishment recalls you to the night. As you reluctantly drag your tired feet in the direction of the taqueria, the putrid smell of vomit pooling on the sidewalk in front of you turns your stomach and arrests your steps. Perhaps the numbers 7 and 11 glow at a slight distance and with a heavy heart you resign yourself to choosing some frozen item from that quarter...but wait! What’s that in the distance?

A yellow sign flashes like a cheery beacon. Yellow, the color of the sun. The color of happiness. The color of mustard. What hidden joy could this beacon illuminate? Your pace quickens in the direction of the cheerful light—can that be the outline of a hot dog on the sign? Oh happy thought a hot dog at this hour! Expeditious. Hot. Satisfying. QUICK (the same as expeditious, true, but it bears repeating). Yet, your feet slow. After all, the corner convenience store has things they call hot dogs. Dried up, shriveled casings kept at eternally tepid temperatures. Not all hot dogs are created equal. Will this be the right sort of dog? You arrive yet one step closer and your heart leaps for now you can make out another phrase on the sign: “Vienna Beef.” Oh! How you internally sing and dance! Truly you have found sanctuary! You arrive yet closer and, joy of joys, the next words you can make out are that sweet, sweet phrase “Hand-Cut Fries,” the ideal accessory for any meat and bun pair.

At last. You arrive. Let us imagine that the sign reads “RedHot Ranch.” The operation is as it should be. Small. Spare. Efficient. Inside its confines the sign lists reasonable and affordable prices: something in the neighborhood of $3 for a Polish, $1.75 or so for a hot dog and fries. “Everything?” the young man behind the counter inquires—if you’d like, for the sake of the story, you can imagine that his eyes are warm pools of understanding and compassion. We can also imagine a halo-like, hot-dog scented aura emanating from his person. “Everything.” you affirm without hesitation. Fries (hand-cut!) are dropped into the fryer. A juicy Vienna Beef hot dog is whisked from somewhere and efficiently, yet carefully, nestled into a bun. What happens next will vary in each person’s individual narrative journey. Perhaps you dive in right there, elbows propped on the counter, green relish dribbling down your chin.  Perhaps you sit on the bench outside and taunt drunken passerby with your eyes while your mouth devours your delicious redhot. Or, perhaps you can accompany me just a bit further on this mental exercise.

Join me as I dash out of the steamy warmth of RedHot Ranch and cross the street just in time to catch the bus. Travel with me as I anxiously forbear from eating my hot dog on the way home, sweating in fear that it will be cold when I arrive. Smell that delicious, beefy smell as I commend myself on my patience. Run with me from the bus to my front door and up the stairs. Imagine if you will, how I burst into my kitchen practically drooling with anticipation. Imagine my hesitation when I unwrap the dog to find that the fries have been wrapped up in the same foil as the hot dog, followed by my joy as I realize that each fry is now thoroughly inundated with hot dog steam. Close your eyes and imagine that first, juicy bite that includes a little bit of everything: succulent Vienna Beef, onions, peppers, relish, mustard. Feel tears of delight well up in your eyes as you eat one fry after another---each fry just ever so slightly, just perfectly soggy with hot dog steam. You start to feel full, but you can’t let even one little bit of hot dog remain neglected and uneaten on your plate. As the contented haze of Hot Dog Perfection (HDP) settles over you, you can’t imagine having any greater joy and satisfaction than you have in this moment. Now, reader, now if you have followed me down this path of anecdote and hypothesis, if you have tasted and smelled and felt with me, only now do you finally understand the importance of Timing in achieving hot dog perfection. The ingredients can bring a dog close to perfection, but that crucial last piece is all in the Timing.