Once upon a time, I announced, “I bought a hot dog
from the Hot Dog Lady.” To be more precise: Forty plus years ago, when the “Hot
Dog Lady,” as she was affectionately known, plied her trade on Broadway, often
in the vicinity of the neighborhood OTB—
Off-Track Betting for those who have forgotten. Every now and
then, I treated myself to a plain Sabrett frankfurter—no mustard, onions, or
sauerkraut—plucked from her wagon’s well of “dirty water.”
The Hot Dog Lady endured for quite a while, part of
the local fabric for years. A tall, lanky, intense-looking young fellow manned
the cart from time to time. I often wondered if he was the Hot Dog Lady’s son—a
chip off the old block. There was always something menacing about the guy, though.
But, then again, he had big shoes to fill. Nowadays, there are vendors aplenty
on the Hot Dog Lady’s former turf—and not one is peddling frankfurters.
A news story I read today inspired this curious trip
down memory lane. It cataloged the hot dog prices at America’s various ballparks.
A frank at Citi Field, home of the New York Mets, costs $7.19, I learned. A peculiar
price tag, no? I couldn’t imagine the vendor patrolling the now defunct Shea
Stadium in the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s—and repeatedly hollering “Hey, hot dog!”—making
change on that.
There was nothing like a hot dog at a baseball game.
When I was a fan, the official hot dog of the Mets varied from year to year. Interchangeably
delicious in that sporting milieu, I remember Schickhaus, Tobin’s, and Kahn’s. brands. A friend of mine brought packs of Tobin’s—purchased at Duffy’s, a local
butcher—to our backyard barbecues in the mid-1980s. Yes, the hot dog is a
peculiar beast, incredibly alluring in many settings and remarkably gross in
others.
While barbecued wieners typically kick franks up a
notch, I do recall a
dog of dogs from a past brand called Plymouth Rock.
How could such an iconic name for such an iconic food staple have been so bad,
you ask, that even a charcoal fire couldn’t save? I don’t know, but the hot dogs were nasty. Their ghastly gray appearance and
one picture is worth a
thousand words taste left an indelible mark. The Plymouth Rock hot dog brand is extinct, apparently, which doesn’t surprise me. Happily, the Rock remains.
The hot dog has long mattered. It sustained me throughout high
school and is among my fondest memories of my secondary education. The
cafeteria featured Monday through Friday specials, along with a daily
frankfurter alternative. They were thirty-five cents when I commenced high school
and fifty cents when I graduated. The hot dogs maintained their delectableness from beginning to end.
“How much is that dog in the window?” I wondered once
upon a time. Riviera Pizza had added frankfurters to its menu. My favorite
pizza place up the block, Sam’s, had no such option. The franks rested on a
griddle in the front window and cast an enticing aroma to passersby. I purchased
a couple
once at fifty cents a pop. Tasty! At around the same time, my
family’s automobile excursions to visit the maternal grandparents brought us past
a place called Hot Dog Johnny’s in Buttzville, New Jersey. While Dad wasn’t
inclined to stop, he eventually relented. The hot dogs were nothing to write
home about—deep-fried and shriveled looking—but the ambience was second to
none.
Lastly, in 1978, the Mets acquired a player named
Willie Montanez, who was considered a “hot dog” in those days. His on-the-field
antics, including a unique homerun trot, were the exception to the baseball
rule. But Willie was our hot dog and we relished him for one brief shining
moment. The hot dogs are the rule in present-day baseball, but they, somehow,
have lost their appeal. It’s a hot dog thing…
