table talk / By Joseph Byrd

Gone to the Dogs

The quest for the perfect hot dog

(April 3, 2008)  Coney Island was a seaside resort as early as the 1820s. Close enough to Manhattan to afford easy access by ferry, it was distant enough to be an escape from city routines. Walt Whitman wrote of “the long bare unfrequented shore I had all to myself … and where I loved after bathing to race up and down.” By the Civil War, it had a reputation for seedy, cheap hotels.

In 1867, the frankfurter was brought to Coney Island by Charles Feldman. His sausages were moderately popular as street food, but once he thought of using a small charcoal stove and adding a bun, the frankfurter became “the hot dog.”

“…there is one way to eat a hot dog: snuggled in a hot dog bun, with a thick ribbon of spicy mustard along its full length.”

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Nathan’s Hot Dog Stand, established 1919, promoted the hot dog into the gastronomic major leagues, though not without some Barnum-esque hype. Coney Island was by then a watering place of high society. The rich who trod the boardwalk couldn’t believe that anything that cost just a nickel could be good.

Rose Grant writes in Street Food (1989), “Long before it became the accepted way of business, Nathan did a bit of impromptu PR. He hired a few robust young men, dressed them in white coats, and staked them out in front of his stand. All they had to do was scarf down hot dogs and make a big to-do about how good they were. ‘Look,’ observed the high society types, ‘the doctors are eating them; they must be good.’ This was probably the first ‘doctor’s endorsement.’ The crowds came; Nathan became rich and famous.”

Grant continues, “Purists insist that there is one way to eat a hot dog: snuggled in a hot dog bun, with a thick ribbon of spicy mustard along its full length. The only permitted addition is warm sauerkraut.” That is correct: relish, onions, catsup, mayonnaise and other condiments destroy it. Legal, perhaps. But morally wrong. Terribly wrong.

When I first arrived in Manhattan, throughout the year, on certain street corners you could see the distinctive blue and yellow umbrellas of Sabrett hot dog vendors. In the winter, steam rose from the carts and the aroma wafted out and made noses twitch and stomachs growl.

Ah, Sabrett hot dogs. There was nothing like them, certainly not “Nathan’s.” Even in the ‘60s they cost a buck, expensive for street food. The company itself did not franchise; they merely sold the ingredients, and if a vendor complied with their rules they allowed his propane-heated pushcart to sport one of their magic umbrellas.

A decade later, in New York on business, I visited Sabrett headquarters, and found to my amazement, an order form with a considerable array of frankfurters in various sizes, as well as fresh buns to match each frank. Five pounds was the minimum sausage order — in a box, frozen. Small buns by the dozen to match the dogs. A distinctive mustard — neither American, nor Deli, nor Dijon — but something in between, a depth and tartness perfectly complimenting the garlicky richness of the franks. And, of course, fresh sauerkraut, never canned. Like the mustard, it came in refrigerated gallon containers. In its original state, it was nearly raw, mild and al dente. Long, slow heating in a warm compartment in the cart gave it the perfect tang and consistency.

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