Illustration by Danny Elchert
I am not a fan of hot dogs. I do not order them at diners or baseball games, barbecues or carnivals. I would much rather have a grilled cheese or a beer, a hamburger or a funnel cake. Hot dogs are full of sodium. And nitrates. And fat. Sometimes they're made with pork. Sometimes they're made with beef. Sometimes they're made with pork and beef and encased in lamb intestine. But because hot dogs are the only food (regularly) sold by men who stand at carts on street corners in St. Louis, I will eat them any time of day or night, alone or with company, hungry or not. It's the concept of fluidity and convenience that fascinates me. It's not the product—it's the presentation.
At one point in my ongoing fascination with hot dog vendors, I arrived early to the cart, like that annoying girl who shows up to your party at the exact start time, ready to begin, board games and grape juice in hand.
"How much longer till you're ready?" I asked.
"Ten minutes."
"Ugh."
I slumped and walked away.
Another time (yes, this has happened more than once), I played it a little cooler, like someone who tries to ask you out but does it in a way that's vague enough that you don't feel completely awkward.
"Whaddya think? Like, 10? 15?"
"Yeah, probably 15 at the most."
"Ugh."
I slumped and walked away.
I offer these examples to prove that I am not, in fact, interested in the hot dog itself; I am merely intrigued by the immediacy of being able to approach a cart, greet a man, tell him what I want atop my 100 percent all-beef kosher dog, pay him and go on my way.
There are dogs made of beef (kosher or not); shanks; pork; half pork, half beef; and Polish sausage dogs. You can eat them in four bites or 14. The Loop's dog man told me you can buy one for $200 (bottle of Dom Pérignon included) at a stand in Chicago.
I like mine with mustard. And celery salt. No ketchup. No onions. No relish. According to the National Hot Dog & Sausage Council's 2005 survey, 32 percent of Americans prefer mustard, while only 23 percent opt for ketchup; it's the first time I've felt like I could relate to even a third of the population. When I visit the hot dog man, I tip him well, usually around $2 for a $3 frank. That's absurd, I know, but these guys live on tips. During an average night shift (10 p.m. to 3 a.m.), a hot dog vendor on the Loop will sell anywhere from 120 to 140 wieners, 300 on a good night. That means that if everyone gave him $2, he could make $260 for five hours of work—which is a nice thank-you for having to endure the extreme heat or cold and rain or snow and dealing with drunks and vegetarians who want soy dogs and customers without cash or picky people who throw fits because one of his hands isn't gloved.
There are many reasons to hang out with the hot dog man—free smells, free advice and potentially a free hot dog—but one of the best reasons is the people. On a chilly night in May, I stationed myself at the cart outside the Delmar Lounge for approximately 27 minutes while I decided whether I wanted to spend my last $4 on a gluttonous indulgence. In that time I learned just what a variety of toppings you can get: chili cheese, sauerkraut, onion, jalapeños, tomatoes, celery salt, hot sauce, relish, ketchup and mustard. I met a man named Lamar, who spat when he talked and offered me a copy of a magazine to benefit the homeless. I listened to a story from a stoned sous-chef and his equally stoned girlfriend about a disabled boy named Johnny, who bagged groceries and wrote people thank-you letters. I learned that this specific hot dog vendor (his hat read "Brownie") wanted to go back to school and major in journalism. I heard the term "street meat"for the first time. After all this, I unfortunately did not snag a free frank, but I walked away comforted by the fact that nowhere else in the city could one find such an eclectic mix of people accompanied by so many hot dogs.
Legend has it that a man named Feuchtwanger sold the first hot dog (sausage wrapped in a roll) at the World's Fair; the location is disputed (Chicago's Columbian Exposition in 1893 or St. Louis' 1904 Louisiana Purchase Exposition), but for reasons of loyalty, I'm going to assume that Forest Park is home to the weenie's premiere. Another of the hot dog's claims to fame is its association with baseball, which is said to have begun by the St. Louis Browns' owner in the 1890s. Some historians dispute this fact, and I do, too. If the hot dog was invented at our World's Fair, it stands to reason that it couldn't have become popular among baseball fans a decade earlier. (Plus, the Browns didn't even form till 1902.) Note to self: Never, ever trust Wikipedia.
About six months ago at the Waffle House, I ran into the man who used to sell me my tube steaks on the corner on the Loop. He is tall and attractive, drives several different cars and always wears a Cardinals hat. I hadn't seen him manning the cart in a while and asked where he'd been. He told me he had sold the business and moved on to yet another unique entrepreneurial venture: cleaning carpets (which he said was quite lucrative).
I bit into my raisin toast and nodded, sad that he, my favorite dog man, had retired, but hopeful that someone as passionate as me about street food had taken the reins and could guide the city in a direction where sidewalk vendors could be kings.
