One of the
things I really miss now I’m back in England is a proper hotdog. Okay, I know
probably half of you are disgusted by now and are just straining at the leash
to tell me all about the bugs and the rats hairs and the diseases and all the
other hotdog horror stories, But hey, a coke and a hotdog, what more can the
hungover ask. And the tradition is a noble one and even comes with it's own landmarks
Nathan’s on Coney Island, Pinks in Hollywood, but I’m no frankensnob, I’m just
as happy with a Sabrett from a pushcart in Manhattan or the ones in the 7/11
revolving on those hot rollers. I take
my dog with mustard and ketchup. I like relish but it tends to get on your
shirt. And that's my sunday dog tale and I’m sticking to it.
Click heref or Billie Holiday
The secret
word is Bun
Yossarian -- RIP
Yossarian -- RIP
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3 comments:
When I was weaned off mushed peas over half a century ago, the only other food I would eat was hot dogs. I'd clam up if anything else tried to make it into my maw. My mother asked the pediatrician what she should do. "Give him hot dogs," he said.
And it was good.
I too love everything from Sabrett's to Nathan's to Pink's. And yeah -- 7-11 dogs are surprisingly good, especially after a night of drink. However, Mickey, as a once-and-always New Yorker, you left off the best hot dogs on earth: Papaya King.
P.S. On a recent land trip, I was hipped to the best of Bosstown: Pearl dogs.
You're too right and the papaya drinks were excellent. Wasn't there one at 6th Avenue and 8th street?
Yeah, on the northeast corner. Another perfect stop for belly-fillin' when imbibing.
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