The Hot Dog Lady and Hot Dogs

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…