Showing posts with label hot dogs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hot dogs. Show all posts

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Ursuline Concord

Our Lady of Prompt Succor, hasten to help us!

From Hollygrove to Holy Cross, New Orleans glows.  The city radiates a magical aura from the bend in the river to Pontchartrain Park.  The sun rises in the east, a flower blossoming.  The sun sets in the west, locked away in a tomb.  If you can get from the West End to the Lower Ninth Ward in an evening, you will be back again the next day.  Desire is a state of mind that has nothing to do with Florida, but plenty to do with sunshine and retiring from the concerns of the workaday world.  

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

The hot dog's answer to turducken.

Boudin.
I think I've found the perfect New Orleans hot dog.  It didn't come from a Lucky Dogs cart in the quarter.

I was patrolling down St. Roche Avenue around lunchtime and spied a cart in the neutral ground.  I felt a little gnawing in my middle and the smell from the cart tempted me to stop.  I'm glad I did.

The proprietor served me a wiener that sums up New Orleans. It was over the top in it's meat-centricity and reliance on local cuisine.  Allow me to paint you a picture...

Your typical American hot dog:
It didn't look anything like this.

The man handed me a half a baguette in which was sandwiched a frankfurter.  He dressed it with a butter knife slathered with coarsely ground mustard.  On top of that he added a generous layer of shredded roast duck.  The juice out of the duck drenched the bread.  "Would you like some holy trinity with that?" he asked.  I assented and he dipped a spoon into a chaffing tray and ladled the sandwich with a confit of simmered bell pepper, onion and celery, better than any pickled relish.

That was one succulent dog.  Price: $5.50.  With a soda and small bag of chips: $6.50.

I asked why he didn't use boudin.  "Boudin is too expensive.  The duck drives the price up enough as it is.  I use Nathan's franks and they match the duck well enough.  Boudin would be too rich."  Words after my own heart but I don't doubt that many of his patrons wouldn't mind biting into a rich pork and pork liver sausage for lunch.

As it was, it was a meal that stuck with me and repeated itself all day.  Much better than the fare at Lucky's which I tend to toss in the trash after a few bites as money wasted.

A summary of New Orleans' hot dog market.  Here's another (each sentence in this paragraph is a link)!  Here's how they do it in Boston. 

New Orleans is not a hot dog town.  This gent's on the right track to make it one.  Just add duck.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Hot dogs or turducken?

Open 24 hours a day
There is no more beautiful sight than Bud's Broiler, especially in the wee, small hours of the morning.  Located up by City Park, about a half hour from my humble abode by bicycle, this is the place that robbed me of my chance to meet President Obama.  I didn't really mind.  While I'm not a hamburger fan, Bud's serves a hot dog unlike any other in the Crescent City.  Cut in quarters with barbeque sauce on a hamburger bun, it a treat.

Not having any family in New Orleans we are looking for a place to have Thanksgiving dinner.  I figure Bud's is a good choice if they are open Thanksgiving Day.  I'll have to make a trip after work; their website doesn't say.

Not that I think a hot dog meal will go down well with the lady of the house.  She's got something else in mind....

Friday, July 30, 2010

Lucky Dogs: a review

Your humble narrator.

We visited the French Quarter last night on a mission:  to eat a Lucky Dog.  As noted previously, Lucky Dogs don't have the best reputation at this blog or with anyone I've talked to.  [Representative review here .]  I had eaten one before and the experience is detailed somewhere in the archives for those with more patience than I have to find it.  The lady of the house had never tried one.  Let the games begin!

The carts were at just about every Bourbon Street intersection.  The Quarter is the only place you can find Lucky Dogs and there were often two carts, each on opposing corners.  We walked the length of Bourbon Street and doubled back and selected our cart.

The guy was nice enough.  He made a big show of applying hand sanitizer and then reusing some plastic gloves that were on the cart.  We ordered one Lucky Dog ($5.50) and one Regular Dog ($4.50) and told the proprietor to fix them as he saw fit since he's the expert.  He made both with chili sauce, mustard, ketchup and diced onion.  He said he sells at least a hundred a night.

The Regular Dog is a standard hot dog on a standard issue white bun.  The Lucky Dog is a larger version served on an oversized roll dusted with cornmeal.  Besides the Lucky Dog being bigger, especially in the bread department, there is no difference.  If I were to fathom a guess about the sausage's contents, I would say chicken and pork.  

We walked down the street and found a place to eat our dinner.  My instinctive reaction: "This is a bad dog."  My companion's: "It's not a bad dog, it's just not a good dog."  We finished all but a bite of the regular and got down about three quarters of the larger version.   

About ten minutes later my companion said, "What's that aftertaste?  That was a bad dog!"

We settled into Cafe du Monde for a cup of coffee and sipped at our cups, all the while feeling our stomachs complain of what we put in them.  Poor stomachs!  Lucky Lucky Dogs.  No wonder they don't want competition in the Quarter.    

Friday, July 16, 2010

New Orleans hot dogs

As you can see from the Urban Spoon page about New Orleans hot dogs, Bud's Broiler scores high on the list.  I think of this as a hamburger joint rather than hot dog heaven.  Other entries are in Metarie, outside proper city limits.

Lucky Dogs scores a poor seventh place showing.  This isn't remarkable considering their reputation on the street.  Still, even if it is food fit only for drunks who have no sense left in their heads, I may want to revisit the monopolistic competition to see what they offer exactly beyond convenience and flashy carts.  To me, a hot dog is all about the cooking and the condiments.  Once you've got that down, the rest is gravy.

I'll be checking out Bud's Broiler soon.  There's a picturesque shop by Delgado Community College on City Park Avenue.  It didn't too seem busy when I passed by today around noon, but this is the summer semester.   I'm not much of a hamburger man myself, but I'm married to a woman from Hamburg.  I wonder what that really makes me?

Thursday, July 08, 2010

State of New Orleans' hot dog market

I went to City Hall to find out why the only hot dog carts seem to be Lucky Dogs' carts in the French Quarter.  A very nice (anonymous) lady at the applicable office told me Lucky has a monopoly on the Quarter, which I had already read about.  The Supreme Court has upheld it so if you want a dog, or any other cart food in the Quarter, you're out of luck.  They've cornered the market.

She also said, in passing, "Its too bad too because their hot dogs are the worst!"  At least I'm not the only one to think so (I assumed she wasn't punning).  Lucky's puts on a good show.  Their carts are well designed and attractive.  It's the sausage that isn't up to snuff.  Well, to be honest, it's the meat, the bread and the condiments, but the carts are spot on and the vendors themselves are the nicest people on earth.

A salute to Lucky Dogs for good design, good help and a lock on the market!  Well played, gentlemen, well played, indeed.

Monday, July 05, 2010

New England hot dogs and New Orleans hot dogs

I don't follow a lot of sports.  While I haven't been able to escape the recent World Cup coverage, it's mostly out of the corner of my eye.  Even when I was dragged to watch the recent Uruguay vs. Germany match, I read the newspaper and took along some clerical work to keep me occupied between goals.
There is one sport I do follow every year however and one athlete I particularly admire.  I salute Joey Chestnut and his fourth consecutive victory, earning him the right to wear the coveted Mustard Yellow Belt.  I am almost ashamed to admit that I am fascinated by competitive eating.  I've never been to Coney Island myself and it's probably not in my future anytime soon, but I sometimes daydream that I will one day go heat-to-head against Joey Chestnut.

The lady of the house scoffs at my ambitions and shuts off the conversation as soon as I start discussing my aspirations.  We used to go to Spike's Junkyard Dogs where you can get a free tee shirt and your picture on the wall if you can eat six dogs.  My record is two dogs in a half hour. I have some training to do before I can match Joey Chestnut's accomplishment of this year's 54 in ten minutes, and this isn't even his career best.

When I lived in Boston, I would stop at Downtown Crossing and grab a hot dog from one of the Boston's Best carts.  It was a cheap meal on the run.  In New Orleans, I can get into condition by visiting the various Lucky Dogs carts scattered around the French Quarter.  The fact is though that I don't like Lucky's dogs.  I tried one once and I didn't finish it.  Not because it was too much for my frail stomach, it just didn't taste good.

Boston has plenty of good hot dogs.  Speed's of course is in a class by itself (scroll down their page a bit to read the Wall Street Journal review).  I can't even finish one of Speed's creations though the condiments set the culinary standard for what best complements hot dog flavor.

There seems to be a shortage of hot dog carts in New Orleans.  I understand that Lucky Dogs has an exclusive franchise in the French Quarter, but what about anywhere else?  The CBD (Central Business District to our non-New Orleanian readers) and Audubon Park can certainly sustain a cart.  These are just the two most obvious locales aching for a hot dog cart.  It will take a trip to City Hall to discover the answer to this burning question.

Monday, May 24, 2010

A last Boston bath

What would you do if you only had two weeks left in Boston?
I walked a few blocks from my house to Carson Beach and then walked the rest of the way along the tideline to Castle Island on the tip of South Boston.  I figure this will be one of the last times I'll be able to feel sand and broken bits of granite pebbles and shells under my bare feet.  There don't seem to be many (any?) beaches in New Orleans.

High temps in the air yesterday were seventy-two degrees bit the surf in Dorchester Bay was as bath-like as the late spring Atlantic ever is in New England.  I couldn't say it was cold.  Rather, it was brisk and refreshing.  It felt like home and in a month or two it won't be much warmer.  It felt like the beach from the halcyon days of my youth.  New England Atlantic: blue as a slab of gray steel and as welcoming as flint and puddleglum: may children forever play in your spray.

It is a far, far different and more sparkling world than that carved out by muddy Ole Man River.

At Castle Island I had a lunch of $1.60 hot dog's at Sullivan's and I walked around the fort and watched the airplanes coast down to landing across the harbor.

There are other things to do these last two weeks, but this was a pleasant thing to do to start ticking down the list.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Goings on between Dot and the 'bury


Are they shooting a movie in Dudley Square?  I drove by where the new police station is going up and the cops in hi-viz lime jackets were directing traffic or, rather, watching traffic go by.  There were a couple of trucks on the northern corner unloading sound equipment and spot lights big enough to qualify as Klieg lights, though I doubt any premiers are debuting.  The trucks blocked my view, but it looked like a film crew and maybe some caterers, hair stylists and, dare I suggest, actors were blocking out scenes between the back of the Silver Slipper Restaurant and Drain's House of Style.

The Silver Slipper and Drain's are certainly two Boston landmarks that deserve to be commemorated on film.  Too bad they couldn't have been worked into the verisimilitude of "The Friends of Eddie Coyle."

Further up Warren Avenue, I noticed that Gyro King has closed down in Grove Hall!  One of the reasons I had meandered in that direction was for a gyro.  The other reason was because today was wonderful motorcycle weather after yesterday's relentless rain.  I had taken a shortcut to Blue Hill Avenue and instead of the most beautiful Shwarm-tastic sign in all the Boston metro area, I saw a colorful sign for "Chifipi"

Stuck in traffic about a half block away, I wondered what this Chifipi could be.  I had to navigate traffic on two wheels as I passed but I can tell you this based on the logo painted on the front window: Chi stands for chicken, Fi stands for fish, and though I can't be sure I'll bet dollars to donuts that Pi stands for pizza.  This doesn't bode well, gentle reader.  It takes specialization to become King of anything, be it with gyro meat or purple prose.  I don't know any cook yet who has mastered the trifecta of chicken, fish and pizza pie.

It's worth a future investigation though.




I saw The Friends of Eddie Coyle recently at the Brattle.  Good movie.  Pretty much how the world saw Boston in 1973 and the cinematic image hasn't changed too much if you consider Mystic River, et al.  The Athens of America.

Monday, June 29, 2009

Five hundred miles from Mattapan

In a Roy Roger's restaurant on the New Jersey Turnpike, I've loaded up my roast beef sandwich with pickles and condiments from the 'fixin's bar' and all I can think about is a Simco hot dog in Mattpan. I've ridden my Little Ninja motorcycle for miles along interstate asphalt, but I would have rather navigated River Road between Lower Mills and Mattapan Square, then just nudge the front tire a little north along Blue Hill Avenue to Simco. Mattapan....Mattapan...You haunt my hunger for good things.

The Mass Pike was clotted with commuter car traffic. The Jersey Pike is full of trucks rumbling its featureless miles after miles after miles. The interstate is unlike Mattapan's streets. Mattapan...thick with action and interaction on a pace that isn't about efficiency, but community. Mattapan: schoolgirls, schoolboys, stumblebums, and matrons bent by the weight of overfull grocery sacks, the handles groaning between the crooks of their fingers....Mattapan: full of hustle and bustle and trusses and push-up bras...Mattapan: dense and rich, poor yet wealthy with flimflam and barleycorn...bombast and bravado, machismo and demure Haitian school marms.

Mattapan, caught like a fly on the enticing web of the Blue Star Memorial Highway, Dwight D. Eisenhower's brainchild, I miss your thicket of byways and contrary, convoluted, misdirected streets. Mattapan, I would rather eat a Simco hot dog while perched on the bridge over the commuter rail tracks than a roast beef sandwich at a formica table in a rest stop in New Jersey, even though there is a rest room at this New Jersey rest stop. In Mattapan, people's private business is part of the public sphere.

Friday, January 02, 2009

An overworked icon.


We were at Landmark Center the other day (before the snow) and noticed a familiar face while en route to the art store. If I recall recent franchise business news, UFood Grill is the recently renamed and rebranded Know Fat! restaurant chain. Any name would have been better and UFood is okay, I guess though I'm still not tempted to try it. The new mascot is a curious selection.

Isn't this winking cutie the guy from the Tedeschi candy bags?? Who licensed his appearance on behalf of the UFood chain? Does Tedeschi know he serves two masters? I doubt there's a lot of overlap between customer bases but where does a mascot draw the line? I'm all for making a buck and I realize times are tough, but how can this chipper imp keep smiling when he's appearing all over town? With one more endorsement, he may become the most overworked icon in Boston.

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Matta-pannus

This story is bizarre beyond being believable, but here we go anyway. Someone has to tell it and I was present and accounted for.

I received an email recently from an agent of the Massachusetts Executive Office of Health and Human Services. It read, "Mr. King, We understand you are familiar with events occurring in Dorchester that may not be followed by the usual news media or government agencies. We request a meeting to discuss some unusual, medical occurrences that have taken place in Dorchester and would like to learn your insight on developments concerning a demonstrable uptick in back alley surgical procedures. [italics mine]." This certainly seemed like my bread and butter so I agreed to an interview on the eleventh floor of One Ashburton Place downtown.

The agent and I sat at an empty conference table while nibbling catered sandwiches delivered from rebecca's cafe (lower case for proper nouns dictated by rebecca's corporate HQ). The agent asked me what I knew about illicit, unlicensed surgeries being performed in Dorchester. I admitted that this development hasn't registered on my radar.

A little back story: Over the past few years Mass Medicaid has been approving and paying for gastric bypass surgery for beneficiaries whose overall health is threatened by morbid obesity. As one would expect, rerouting a person's esophagus more directly to the small intestine is an expensive affair, even at government rates. The surgery is generally successful in alleviating the condition it is supposed to cure. Patients on average lose between 65% to 80% of excess body fat very quickly. This rapid weight loss often results in the patient acquiring a pannus about the patient's midsection.

Pannus is the Latin word for cloth though in this case it may be more properly translated as 'apron.' The patient's skin cannot contract as quickly as the excess fat being lost and hence an apron of empty skin develops that, in some cases without the underlying support, can hang almost to the knees. The Health and Human Services agent informed me that rumor on the street is that Mass Medicaid considers removal of this pannus after gastric bypass surgery isn't covered by the program since it is considered cosmetic surgery rather than therapeutic. I could see the reasoning. After all, I don't see any supermodels with an apron of excess belly skin strutting the catwalk, not even at Boston fashion shows.

The agent explained that some panniculectomies, as the surgical removal of this apron is called, are medically necessary. The underside of the pannus is often subject to dermatitis either of the fungal kind because of difficulties in keeping these deep folds clean and dry, or of the mechanical kind due to excessive rubbing against other surfaces. She emphasized that when medically justified the surgical removal of excess belly skin is a covered service under Mass Medicaid guidelines. This sounded reasonable to me.

The agent leaned in so close that her hair was in my egg salad, "Do you know, Mr. King, that we have seen a twenty-seven patients at Boston hospitals who are suffering complications from panniculectomies performed for private payment in unlicensed operating theaters in the Dorchester area?" I admitted that didn't know that. She continued, "Most of these beneficiaries are eligible for coverage under Mass Medicaid rules from contracted providers but they don't go there because they've been told the Commonwealth is cutting back on reimbursement for this procedure. They are going to unlicensed surgeons to correct their deformity and paying out of pocket. Granted, it's a reasonable fee considering the work being done, but it often much more than what Mass Medicaid has determined to be the proper reimbursement rate. Naturally, providers not certified by the Commonwealth don't always adhere to the standards we here at the Executive Office of Health and Human Services beleive to be in people's best interest. The system is starting to see the consequences in post-operative infections and sponges being left in the wounds." It was all news to me.

She said, "Do you know where most of these operations are performed?" I knew the answer already before she said it, "Mattapan."

Of course, Mattapan, that neighborhood where all sorts of trickery hatches without breaking egg shells. Mattapan...Where truth and falsehood exchange hats and every passing face is an enigma that asks. "How do you do?" Mattapan... Where fake IDs are passports. Mattapan... Where every shyster and accountant and hedge fund manager proudly hangs a store-bought diploma behind his desk. Mattapan... Where the best hot dogs are served, where best suits are tailored, and where the most well-attended churches make room to shelter their congregations. Mattapan.... Sweet, trusty, shady, sparkling, sparking Mattapan, the part of Boston that is most a'glow with unbridled opportunity. Mattapan...

The agent asked me if I could shed any light on the department's statistics. I said no and I thanked her for the sandwich. Exiting onto Ashburton Place, I looked at Boston's skyline looming and stretching to the south. I was only a few miles from Mattapan but I was a world away, slender and stylishly dressed in a bespoke suit and a shirt sporting folded-over cuffs. I get my tailoring done in Mattapan by an unlicensed tailor. If I needed a panniculectomy, I might consider the unlicensed neighborhood surgeons headquartered in that part of Boston. It is a place known as much for its bargain quality as for skirting around regulations. The two go hand in hand. Let the buyer beware and do due diligence. Any sawbones with a paring knife and a bottle of rubbing alcohol can hang his or her shingle in Mattapan but so can any respectable surgeon. You roll the dice for relief and the chance to improve your condition. You take your chances but there are worse places than Mattapan. There aren't any statistics for all the successful operations.

Saturday, August 30, 2008

Weiner Relay

When the Peppermint Squad makes a collective decision, it doesn't need to be unanimous to stick, but once it sticks it is glue and then the rubber meets the road. A few months back the gang had been chilling at thier secret base, the location of which still hasn't been revealed (nor will it be soon). They hatched a plan for a weiner relay through Dorchester, with one detour through Newmarket Square just across the Dot border in Roxbury but, this being Boston, no one really knows what is what since it is all Boston all the time. The second to last stop was at Castle Island, technically South Boston but part of Dorchester historically. Though it is all one city now, territorialism is still important and Dorchester historians track one time line while South Boston Historians have thier own particular Year Zero. In South Boston, the calander starts with BB: Before Boston Annexation. Current years are demarked AB: Absolutely Bostonian.

The first Peppermint Motor Scooter Weiner Relay was run today. The official transcript is being prepared by the Peppermint Squad's club secretary as this dispatch is being written. Eveyone has had thier fill of important actions that have seen the light of day and will live on in legend until no one is left to tell the tale. Word has already trickled to other motor scooter fraternities and sororities and thier envy has been conveyed by the usual street-telegraphic means: tin can phones, stacatto piston shots out of broken mufflers, nose-rubbing gestures across the bar at Yaz's International Dublin House, a red sneaker on top of the light pole at the intersection of Adams Street and Columbia Road, and a fresh fish on the front steps of a certain reporter's house a few blocks from the Savin Hill T station. Something has happened.

Big things happened in Dorchester today. Big things happened bigger than anyone can imagine or the participants expected. Napoleon never thought he would be emporer when he started his career, likewise Tiny Phillips, president of the Peppermint Squad didn't realize that once this inaugural weiner relay went through its first lap, the event would promise to run in perpetuity.

What started as a whim promises to become a tenet.

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