05.30.06

L.K.

Posted in BBQ, Korean, Little Korea, Manhattan, Meats at 5:04 pm by Administrator

At some point, you might have gone on a ride-along in a police cruiser to experience just how our blue boys keep us so safe. I’ve never gone, but I’ve always wanted to. I have, however, taken people on ride-alongs in my yellow cab. In fact, almost as much as I drive solo, I drive with a friend riding shotgun. As long as people aren’t too confused or afraid to get into a cab with two people in the front (some skittish New Yorkers seem to think we might be criminals or undercover cops), ride-alongs naturaly create a much more social atmosphere. The dynamic between three people rather than two, as well having the ice breaker of an unexpected third party, puts people at ease.

One night, I picked up my friend Jack after he played a late concert at the Bowery Ballroom with his band Sam Champion (I think they should be called Carey Schwindenhammer). He was amped because he’d just played an amazing show, and his enthusiasm was rubbing off on me as usual. We were cruising Alphabet City very late on a Tuesday not really expecting to find anyone on the desolate streets. But when I saw a hand shoot up from between two parked cars, I immediately swung the cab around in a tight u-turn on Avenue C.

We were happy to have company, but as we pulled up next to the girl with the outstretched arm, we both realized at the same moment that the girl looked terrifying. We could see that she was an Asian girl in her 20s, but she looked awful. She looked like she’d been murdered (choked to death, to be exact). Her hair was disheveled in a way that appeared as if she’d been shaken violently, her clothes looked like her Sunday best that she’d been buried in six months ago, she had two black eyes, her skin was full of burst blood vessels, and her face was deathly white. Black and purple bruises ringed her throat.

We shot each other bug-eyed looks as she opened the door, and I quickly said, “Don’t say a word” to Jack even though it is normally my rule that my ride-along copilot cheerfully great new fares with a smile and pleasant salutations. My heart was pounding as she told me, “32nd Street and Broadway” in a perfectly normal, un-undead voice.

Jack and I sat mationless as though she was The Predator and she might not see us if we didn’t move (although we were not coated in mud so if she was The Predator she would have been able to see our body heat). She immediately got on her cell phone and had a run of the mill “I’ll be there in ten minutes” kind of a conversation while we took turns eyeing her suspiciouly in the rear view. Her normal voice and bland conversation gave me some courage, so I asked her, “Excuse me miss . . . if you don’t mind my asking . . . I was wondering . . . what is up with you?” She was still making me nervous, and I felt like I’d just mustered the courage to ask a girl to the prom.

“Oooooooooh this?” she said, leaning forward through the window in the plastic divider. “Yes . . . that,” Jack replied. She paused for a moment, clearly reveling in the moment. “I’m a zombie. I’m an extra in that zombie movie they’ve been shooting all week. We just wrapped for the day,” she said, making perfect sense. “Ah, that makes perfect sense,” I said.

Now that everyone was at ease, and we’d all had a laugh about the whole night of the living dead scare, we resumed that three party rapport that makes conversation so much easier when I have a ride-along. The girl turned out to be all about “L.K.” or Little Korea. I had always called it Koreatown, but I guess I was wrong. She was on her way to a late night karaoke session that she was planning to do in her full zombie getup. Then she was going to eat Korean bbq at one of the 24-hour joints on that 32nd Street strip.

Now, I usually drive out to San Hai Jin Mi in Flushing for my Korean bbq, but this girl clearly knew her way around L.K. here in Manhattan. As we turned onto the strip, she pointed out certain black cars lining the street that she claimed automatically take you to Korean whore houses if you get in. I saw that there was much I could learn from her.

Before she jumped out, I asked her where she was going for Korean bbq after her 2am karaoke session (she’d already told me that the karaoke place was just for Koreans so I didn’t bother to remember which stair case she ascended for that). She told me that her friends always go to New York Kom Tang.

Jack and I had just eaten, so I returned this Memorial Day weekend with my best friend Jennifer from back home in Maryland and her dad. Jennifer is half Guatemalan, half Palestinian, and half Irish. She’s got a lot of ethnicity in her is what I’m trying to say, so I felt the need to entertain her with some authentic ethnic food when I got the call that’d she’d be coming in to Penn Station with less than an hour to kill in the city. New York Kom Tang is just a block away from the trains, so, banking on the zombie’s recommendation, I showed them the way to L.K.

(a feast already and our second bbq dish hadn’t even been cooked yet)

We got a nice table at a huge window overlooking 32nd Street, and we were made to feel welcome immediately with wide smiles and plentiful unordered appetizers. The owner helped us choose from the expansive menu (although he tried to convince us to get two orders of the same thing for some reason), and we ended up going with bulgogi (my favorite dish at my place out in Flushing) and jeyook gui.

The bugogi, messy slices of sirloin, came first and was grilled on a metal plate over the charcoals in our table. We had no idea what to put in it, and a Korean woman came by to flip the meat and add the whole pieces of garlic and sliced peppers. Had she not arrived, Jennifer would have taken over, and her plan was to put the spicy kimchi into the pan. Thankfully, Jennifer restrained herself and we all enjoyed bulgogi done right along with our myriad appetizers.

(Jeyook gui and glowing charcoal)

The jeyook gui, neater slices of broiled pork, came second and was grilled without the metal plate. I found it to be delicious, especially inside a leaf of letuce smeared with a red paste that looked super spicy but wasn’t.

(Our bulgogi lady and our jeyook gui man)

So the meal was a hit. Both meat dishes were stupendous (though the bulgogi in Flushing is still much better and clearly worth the trip), and all of the appetizers were great. Being native Marylanders, both Jennifer and I were fascinated by the raw crab covered in gobs of red paste. I chickened out, I must admit, but in my defense I was stuffed by the time we got around to it. Jennifer said it was “fine, but it’d be better with Old Bay.” Once I realized that the red paste wasn’t only not too spicy but absolutely delicious, I began to eat it right out of the spoon:

I wonder why I hadn’t ever taken a restaurant recommendation from a zombie before.

New York Kom Tang, 32nd St btwn Broadway and 5th Ave, Little Korea, Manhattan

Visit www.famousfatdave.com for a chuckle or to book an eating tour

Permalink 20 Comments

05.26.06

Back In Nam

Posted in On The Open Road, Southeast Asian, Vietnamese at 7:10 am by Administrator

If you were to ask someone from my parents’ generation to conjure an image of Vietnam, he might well speak of sitting at the dinner table and watching the siege of Khe San on the evening news. He would recall seeing huge US Air Force C-130s landing on the base’s airstrip under heavy fire, then unloading ammunition and medical supplies. Before their propellers fell silent, scores of wounded American soldiers were loaded onto the cargo planes to take off again under more heavy fire.

Nearly 40 years after those nightly newscasts, I visited Vietnam without the company of the US Air Force. I hadn’t considered that I too might have to be medivaced out of the country a broken man. Although the last shot fired in anger at an American by the man in the black pajamas was now more than a quarter century ago, I found Vietnam a harsh and torturous place. My own tour in Nam nearly resulted in yet another American casualty. However, the extent of my injuries reached only to the sensitive area around my upper buttocks and lower back.

Weeks of touring the country exacted a heavy toll on my tender, fleshy backside. Whereas my countrymen had arrived in country lean, mean fighting machines after six weeks on Paris Island, I had prepared myself only with extra shifts seated behind the wheel of my yellow cab. My job gives me the flexibility to travel, but driving 12 hours a day, exercising only my right foot upon my Crown Victoria’s pedals, turns my body to mush. Hard traveling through the Mekong Delta on a wooden boat and across the Central Highlands on a Soviet era motorcycle had tightened my atrophied lower back into excruciating knots.

(The Mekong Delta)

At the end of my journey, already in agony, I traveled to Hanoi by bus. I had not yet learned to become a savvy Vietnam traveler, so, stupidly, I chose a seat above the wheel well, cutting my leg room by more than half. As a result, I spent the entire length of the ride from Hoi An to Hanoi in a one-legged quasi fetal position. It was as though I was performing a jackknife off the high dive with 17 hours of hang time. I had discovered a new definition of pain and suffering.

(Everyone travels rough in Vietnam; Look closely and you’ll see the guy in pink holding one kid on the bike in front of him and two behind)

I was laying flat on a marble bench by Hoan Kiem, one of Hanoi’s many lakes, when I was approached by a young man who wanted to sell me post cards. When I told him that I didn’t want any, he took the rejection as a cue to take a break from hocking his wares. He sat next to me on the park bench and introduced himself as Pham Van Tai in excellent English. We conversed quite freely, and I learned that in addition to selling post cards to tourists he was a college graduate and drove a taxi. We shared a moment that trascended our nations’ stormy past relations when I responded that I too was a college graduate who drove a taxi back in New York.

By this point in the conversation I felt comfortable enough with him to complain, and I regaled him with my harrowing tale of woe on the bus the night before. When Tai heard this he excitedly told me about Hanoi’s famous back remedy in Lang Le Mai, otherwise known throughout Vietnam as “Snake Village.”

Since I had nothing on my agenda for the rest of the day aside from laying flat on my back, I agreed to go with Tai in his taxi. His taxi, it turned out, was a yellow cab similar to my own that he had to borrow from his cousin. He took me across a bridge over the Red River and deep into an outer borough of Hanoi. After reaching a concrete village of sorts on what must have been the outskirts of town, I started to notice paintings of snakes on every other building as we bumped along the wet dirt sideroads.

(Of course I didn’t have my camera when I met Tai, but this is a good shot of my brethren yellow cab in Hanoi)

We arrived at our destination, a three-story bunker of a building with glass, waterless aquariums full of slithering snakes lining either side of the doorway. The proprietor came out to greet us promptly. He immediately got down to business with Tai as his interpreter. Neither of them had explained to me what the back remedy was exactly. He offered me a cobra for $40US or a water snake for $25US. I had gleaned that I would be in some way eating this remedy, and I had not paid more than $2US for a meal in Vietnam yet, so I opted for the less expensive option on the menu. Tai took it upon himself to try to convince me to buy the cobra because, in addition to curing my ailing back, it would give me the stamina to have “boom-boom” 4 or 5 times that night. I told Tai that I had a girlfriend back in New York, to which he replied that this would be only for fun. “I am not trying to make a baby back at home Tai. That is just for fun too.” Silence filled the air, and a perplexed frown washed over his face.

The proprietor sat me down at a small table inside the building, set with 2 jiggers, each half filled with a particularly strong vodka. Before I could ask Tai what I was supposed to do, I was was hissed at by an unsettlingly large water snake being held in front of me. The proprietor then brandished a razor blade on a stick, startling me further. As I watched, slack-jawed, he pierced the underside of the snake’s writhing body, made a 2 inch long incision, and squeezed the thick, oozing blood into one of the jiggers on the table until it was full. He then reached his finger into the wound and pulled out the snake’s still-beating, gnocchi-shaped heart and plopped it into the same jigger, causing blood to spill out over the sides and stain the table cloth red. I looked up at Tai in amazement, and he motioned for me to drink the cup. So, with the water snake still hissing at me, I took the harshest shot of my life and, involuntarily, pounded the empty glass back down on the table.

I smiled proudly at Tai, but my expression quickly shifted to nervous consternation when I remembered the other half-filled jigger. By the time I looked back to the table, the proprietor was digging his finger into the snake’s body closer to its tail. Out came another small organ, this one turning the vodka an unholy neon blue color. The snake was taken away, and I was left there with Tai and my shot, now turning aqua, now teal, now turquoise. Tai had lost the English word for this organ, and for some reason, I refused to drink it until he remembered, as if pancreas was somehow more appetizing than spleen. At the end of my listing of every single organ I could remember from 6th grade biology class, Tai recalled the words “gall bladder.” After a few more moments of hesitation, I took that shot as well. Replacing the heart shot in its short-lived spot at the top of the chart, the gall bladder shot quickly became the harshest shot of my life.

Tai and I then sat down to the best meal I had in all of Vietnam. We drank snake wine until we were drunk, and stuffed ourselves with soup of snake, fried snake, steamed snake, grilled snake, boiled snake, sauteed snake, barbequed snake, and roasted snake with rice. Tai and I talked of life as we munched on our snake spring rolls, and I felt a closer connection with him than I have had with any of my fellow cabbies in Cha Cha’s garage back in New York. I am sure our friendship would have blossomed had I not left for the 20-hour flight to America the next day. My back, however, was good as new.

Visit www.famousfatdave.com for a hoot or to book an eating tour

Permalink 9 Comments

05.25.06

Chicken and Cricket

Posted in Howard Beach, Queens at 3:24 am by Administrator

I lucked out and caught a fare to JFK Airport early in my shift yesterday. Some cabbies hate going to JFK because it can take forever to get there and even longer waiting in line for a fare back. But I am always psyched.

After dropping off a fare at JFK, cabbies usually pull into the Central Taxi Hold. The massive lot is designed for us to pull up at the end of the last of about 50 lines with around 20 cabs in each. The result, on a busy day like yesterday, is a sight that is something almost biblical to behold:

Since gasoline has become a commodity akin to the spice (read that in a breathy whisper) in Dune or gasoline in Mad Max: Road Warrior, I was glad to give my engine a rest yesterday. Once parked, I ventured into the cafeteria for my 6 p.m. breakfast of champions.

Nothing looked particularly good, so I asked a portly cabbie nearby if the chicken he was eating was tasty. “It’s just plain chicken and rice,” he told me. Sometimes they’ll have some good biryani or Haitian potato soup, but yesterday they just had plain chicken and rice:

The guy I asked about his chicken turned out to be quite friendly. His name was Dejonge, and he’d had his hack license for 28 years since he arrived from Guyana. He told me he used to drive the cab only rarely because he’d made a career as an orderly at Mt. Sinai Medical Center on Madison Avenue and 101st Street. But they’d recently fired him because his salary “had gotten too high.” So here he was, eating chicken with me at JFK because he was the only Guyanese there and I was the only Jew. We made an odd pair in a place where people break off into ethnic groups like it’s 1991 in the Balkans.

The Russians always stand outside – no matter what the weather – and play backgammon over a metal trash can. The Nigerians usually stand around inside and argue loudly about politics in Africa and life in New York and occasionally American Idol. And the Haitians are always inside playing rowdy games of dominos and shouting their French over the Nigerians’ English. It is all very intimidating:

When I walked outside into the bright late evening sunshine, I saw a few Indians in the adjoining lot beginning a friendly game of cricket. I’ve never played cricket, and I don’t know the rules, but, as a fan(atic) of the game of baseball, I am fascinated by the sport.

On past visits to the Central Taxi Hold, I’d witnessed epic matches in that adjoining lot between well-organized Pakistani and Indian squads who had come with everything short of uniforms. So when I saw that they could use an extra player, I was quick to offer my services as an old NYU Fightin’ Violet (NO, I’m not ashamed of that name) outfielder.

I asked the Indian cabbie in the suit and tie who seemed to be the one in charge how to play. He told me, “You just play.” I did, and I had a blast. I played a little in what would be known in baseball as right field, and then mostly in what would be known in baseball as left field. I was feeling pretty good running around chasing down batted balls, especially because I was officially at work. It sure beat sitting on my butt feeling my body waste away beneath me.

But then it was time for me to bat. I’d never held a cricket bat before, so the whole experience was very exciting for me. I know they don’t call it a “pitch” in cricket, but everyone was speaking in Hindi so I didn’t pick up any of the lingo I would have if my first game had been with Englishmen. Anyway, the first pitch I saw bounced high and nearly caught me in the throat as I swung wildly. I guess it was the cricket equivalent of chin music. They saw I was not good, and I was thrown a slow easy one. This, I’m sure, was the cricket equivalent of a meatball, but I whiffed terribly anyway.

It was embarrassing, but not nearly as embarrassing as my first collegiate baseball at bat (That day, I thought the first pitch was going right for my ear so I jerked backwards and fell down, only to realize it was a curveball when the umpire called it a strike as I sat in the dirt; the second pitch actually was thrown right at my ear but I swung anyway and nearly got decapitated; the third pitch was nowhere near the strike zone but I took a mighty hack because I knew I was no match for a real college pitcher by that point, and I wanted to go down swinging rather than looking). I failed to protect my wickets, but the Indian cabbies were nice about it and told me “not bad.” It was bad though.

The game quickly evolved into a real hard-nosed match, and I was glad to be a part of it. Once the Sikh guy showed up, people really began playing for keeps, and he was a legitimate power hitter. We actually drew a small audience of people walking their dogs on the road behind us and cabbies on the other side of the fence in front of us:

I managed not to embarass myself too much more and was enjoying myself immensely when the game degenerated into a Hindi shouting match over something I couldn’t begin to understand. I thought we were supposed to “just play.”

I actually hoped that the line of cabs would move slowly so I could play longer, but just as the arguement ended, my line began to move and I had to run off. I don’t think they believed I was a real cabbie until I proved it to them by actually jumping into a my yellow taxi as they watched. At JFK’s Central Taxi Hold, there aren’t many Jewish kids playing cricket. But I shouldn’t pretend I’m some kind of pioneer. There aren’t many Guyanese orderlies eating chicken and rice there either.

Visit www.famousfatdave.com for a chortle or book an eating tour

If you want to go to the Central Taxi Hold, drive into JFK Airport and then out on the JFK Expressway. Look for the small sign saying “Cenral Taxi Hold” at the bottom of a list of other things. Park in one of the “15 Minute” spots just as you enter the lot (they are generally used by Muslims while they pray). Let me know if the Haitians let you play dominos with them.

(This is how you’re supposed to protect your wickets)

Permalink 9 Comments

05.22.06

Road Trip USA

Posted in BBQ, Meats, On The Open Road, Sweets at 10:26 am by Administrator

I can assure you that most cab drivers on this planet do not take road trips when they go on holiday. It takes a special kind of mania for a man to drive 20+ hours during his vacation from a job that entails driving as much as 12 hours a day.

But I love driving. And the miles you put behind you on a road trip are of an entirely different species from the miles that creep by in the city. Cruise control for a cab driver is like sweet, slow sex.

My roadtrip to North Carolina this weekend was exactly what the doctor ordered. I left New York City behind, and, after my pit stop at Rutt’s Hut, I headed rapidly south and west. Waiting for me in his farm house was my best friend of 20 years: Ian.

Ian has had a disproportionately strong influence on my life. It was Ian who convinced me when I was ten to refrain from wearing shoes for an entire summer (the bottoms of my feet have never been the same). It was Ian who convinced me when I was 19 to shoot the swollen falls on my first time in a canoe at Little Falls on the Potomac River (we almost made it; three other guys died that same day at Little Falls but they were drunk, they’d stolen the canoe, and they did it at night). It was Ian again who convinced me when I was 22 that the Gobi Desert in Outer Mongolia would a great place to spend the high holidays (I got very sick on fermented horse milk, a theme that will reemerge in this post). And it was Ian who convinced me last summer to sail from Cape Cod to Bar Harbor on open water even though I had no idea how to be a deck hand (I spent about 18 hours of the journey incapacitated from seasickness).

(Leaning overboard left me in th pefect position to view the sea creatures; but it was the Guss pickles onboard that cured my seasickness)

Without Ian, I’d probably never make it outside my cellphone coverage. But I’d like to think that I’ve had an effect on his existence as well. I’m sure it was more my doing than his that drove us to ride our bikes to the Giant after school for months in 8th grade to eat french bread and artichoke hearts on the sidewalk. And I’d like to think that I had something to do with the fact that, during my trip to visit him in Maine a few years back, we spent a day finding the perfect live lobsters, playing with them while that ran around his bathtub, boiling them, and feasting.

(I was worried Ian had become too immersed in southern culture when I saw the bathtub on his lawn in NC, but I guess I was relieved when I found out it was a solar powered hot tub he built himself)

So when I arrived in North Carolina, Ian was ready for me. He lives in the middle of what the locals call “The Triangle” (the area between Raleigh, Durham, and Chapel Hill). Knowing what floats my boat, he took me (and our friend Nanda) in his pick up truck on a Three City Triangle Eating Tour On The Wheels Of Steel.

The first stop on the tour was breakfast. When Ian told me we were going to a franchised chain restaurant with almost 50 locations, I can’t say I was excited. I was happy to see that we drove past the spot on the white side of town and purposely hit the one in the black neighborhood because it had a reputation for cooking with more butter.

It is called Biscuitville, and it turned out to be exactly what I always imagined the south to be like. Their motto is “Biscuits the way your grandma made them, only faster,” and they only serve and are only open for breakfast. Everyone knew everyone there (at least they acted like they did), and the cashiers were so friendly I thought they must have known me. The biscuits, being made in plain sight by three honest to goodness southern black grandmas, were ridiculously good. They were all served hot, flaky, and buttery.

Biscuitville serves all the classic southern dishes, and they put them in a fresh biscuit. I had the chicken fried steak on a biscuit. Even after a day of debaucherous eating, I went to sleep thinking about my biscuit, dreamt about my biscuit, and woke of drooling over my biscuit. On my way back up I-95 the next morning, I pulled off for a biscuit with country ham, and I dreamt the same dream the next night.

But in the Triangle, barbeque is king. Ian had two bbq joints in store for us on the tour. The first was named, aptly, BBQ Joint. This being my first eating tour in North Carolina, I had no idea that NC BBQ is proudly distinct from the more common varieties you might find in Arkansas or Texas. NC BBQ’s main difference, as far as I could tell, is that it is made with a healthy portion of vinegar. BBQ Joint was mouth-watering:

but I must say the vinegar was overpowering. It was as if they were so proud of the vinegar angle, that they killed the pulled pork with it. When I tasted it, I was felt like telling the chef, “Okay, I get it. BBQ around here is vinegary. Point taken.”

The second place Ian took me nailed it. The bbq at Hog Heaven was a perfectly balanced blend of tangy bbq sauce, salty pulled pork, and almost sweet vinegar. And the hush puppies went so well it made me think I should have some fried fritters with every meal regardless of if I am in the south.

Ian concluded the eating tour, fittingly for a man living on a farm, on a farm. We pulled up to Maple View Farm feeling a little weighed down from the day of eating. But I found some room in belly when I looked at the bins of homemade ice cream just steps away from the Holstein cows who supplied the milk. We sat on rocking chairs and devoured cookies and cream, butter pecan, and vanilla ice cream feeling like true southern gentlemen with our southern belle.

Everyone was ready to go, but I hesistated when I caught sight of the refridgerator of fresh whole milk. Something about cold milk in a glass container is simply irresistable to me. I bought a half gallon glass jar, and tried to finish it on the premises because it was delicious enough to try to down in one gulp (and I’m a cheap bastard who wanted his glass deposit back).

As you might imagine, half a gallon of whole milk on top of buttery biscuits, chicken fried steak, two kinds of bbq, hush puppies, and ice cream left me feeling less than stellar. As I writhed in pain on the flat bed of Ian’s pick up truck while we bumped down the dirt road to the Eno River state park, I wondered how Ian would convince me to take the ten mile hike he had in store for me next.

Visit www.famousfatdave.com for a guffaw or to book an eating tour

Permalink 13 Comments

05.19.06

Get Yer REEEEED HOTS

Posted in Brooklyn, Coney Island, Hot Dogs, New Jersey at 9:58 am by Administrator

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: