The Tragically Truncated NJ Hot Dog Tour
I am such a loser. All week long I had been looking forward to the third annual New Jersey Hot Dog Tour, which entails a comfy charter bus, eleven highly revered New Jersey hot dog joints, and the insights of not only our tour guide, hot dog authority John Fox, but of hot dog authority Erwin Benz (Benzee) and a bus full of hot dog maniacs. I could hardly sleep the night before, I was so excited.
And we missed the bus. Of course. That’s the last time I’ll ever get New Jersey driving directions from Mapquest. It’s so sad, too. I’d laid everything out the night before: tape recorder with a fresh cassette and batteries, digital and non-digital cameras, directions to and from New Jersey, maps, cell phone, list of hot dog joints we’d visit.
We got a slightly late start, because my husband was not as enthused about the prospect of devoting an entire Saturday to gorging on hot dogs as I was. But we were doing okay—maybe we’d miss the first stop on the tour, that’s all—we drove and drove deeper into god knows where strip mall hell, and I knew something was amiss. I pulled out my cell phone to call the tour’s organizer, only to realize I’d left his number at home. We were screwed.
A friendly AAA employee helped us get sorted out, and she redirected us to get back to the tour bus departure point: the Galloping Hill Inn in Union. Yes, the bus would be gone, but at least we could get hot dogs there on our own. Maybe the Inn’s proprietor would know where we could catch up with them. I refused to call the day a failure.
The Galloping Hill Inn is a cheery, popular place; it’s been operating since 1925, and as its soda cups inform you, it was featured on the Food Network. I can see why. Their dogs were fantastic. I ordered a chili dog, and I opted for what I assume are traditional New Jersey toppings of spicy brown mustard and chopped raw onions. (Swap the spicy mustard for yellow and add slaw and you’ll have yourself something quite close to West Virginia hot dog.) The pork/beef frank was griddled, and its natural casing had a great pop. If a frankfurter could be smooth-tasting, that was the one. I was impressed with its mildness yet clarity of flavor. The substantial bun was glossy, puffy with a good chew—a Kaiser bun in hot dog roll form. The chili was pasty and runny like West Virginia hot dog chili, but it was spiced like a less assertive version of Cincinnati chili. In my journal, I wrote “I’d have to get this whole thing, even if I were full. Yummy.” I was enamored.
My dear husband got a hot dog with kraut, relish, and spicy mustard. The relish was tart and not overly sweet—an outstanding relish for adult tastes.
The happy fullness in our bellies clashed with the melancholy sense of loss from missing the tour bus. I inquired inside if anyone knew where they were or how to reach them, but no one did. There was only one way to salvage the day, and that was to drive to Ikea in Elizabeth.
I did have directions to Ikea, and unlike the directions to Galloping Hill Inn, they worked. We bought shelves and a hamper and some cheap candles that smelled like fabric softener. More importantly, I got a hot dog. Ikea hot dogs are 50 cents, and they taste like it. The frank was narrow, wobbly, and rubbery, the bun pallid and listless. I dotted it with ketchup and mustard and washed it down with my brilliant cocktail of Diet Pepsi and lingdonberry juice. We also got these little Swedish junk food cookies that had a dot of raspberry gel on top and a filling of vanilla crème.
We drove across Staten Island to Brooklyn and then back to Queens, where we assembled our new furniture. We had salad for dinner. I can only imagine the internal damage wrought by consuming up to eleven hot dogs instead of two, but I would have been happy to risk it. As it was, at least I was able to cobble together a sorry little hot dog tour of my own. There’s always next year.
And we missed the bus. Of course. That’s the last time I’ll ever get New Jersey driving directions from Mapquest. It’s so sad, too. I’d laid everything out the night before: tape recorder with a fresh cassette and batteries, digital and non-digital cameras, directions to and from New Jersey, maps, cell phone, list of hot dog joints we’d visit.
We got a slightly late start, because my husband was not as enthused about the prospect of devoting an entire Saturday to gorging on hot dogs as I was. But we were doing okay—maybe we’d miss the first stop on the tour, that’s all—we drove and drove deeper into god knows where strip mall hell, and I knew something was amiss. I pulled out my cell phone to call the tour’s organizer, only to realize I’d left his number at home. We were screwed.
A friendly AAA employee helped us get sorted out, and she redirected us to get back to the tour bus departure point: the Galloping Hill Inn in Union. Yes, the bus would be gone, but at least we could get hot dogs there on our own. Maybe the Inn’s proprietor would know where we could catch up with them. I refused to call the day a failure.
The Galloping Hill Inn is a cheery, popular place; it’s been operating since 1925, and as its soda cups inform you, it was featured on the Food Network. I can see why. Their dogs were fantastic. I ordered a chili dog, and I opted for what I assume are traditional New Jersey toppings of spicy brown mustard and chopped raw onions. (Swap the spicy mustard for yellow and add slaw and you’ll have yourself something quite close to West Virginia hot dog.) The pork/beef frank was griddled, and its natural casing had a great pop. If a frankfurter could be smooth-tasting, that was the one. I was impressed with its mildness yet clarity of flavor. The substantial bun was glossy, puffy with a good chew—a Kaiser bun in hot dog roll form. The chili was pasty and runny like West Virginia hot dog chili, but it was spiced like a less assertive version of Cincinnati chili. In my journal, I wrote “I’d have to get this whole thing, even if I were full. Yummy.” I was enamored.
My dear husband got a hot dog with kraut, relish, and spicy mustard. The relish was tart and not overly sweet—an outstanding relish for adult tastes.
The happy fullness in our bellies clashed with the melancholy sense of loss from missing the tour bus. I inquired inside if anyone knew where they were or how to reach them, but no one did. There was only one way to salvage the day, and that was to drive to Ikea in Elizabeth.
I did have directions to Ikea, and unlike the directions to Galloping Hill Inn, they worked. We bought shelves and a hamper and some cheap candles that smelled like fabric softener. More importantly, I got a hot dog. Ikea hot dogs are 50 cents, and they taste like it. The frank was narrow, wobbly, and rubbery, the bun pallid and listless. I dotted it with ketchup and mustard and washed it down with my brilliant cocktail of Diet Pepsi and lingdonberry juice. We also got these little Swedish junk food cookies that had a dot of raspberry gel on top and a filling of vanilla crème.
We drove across Staten Island to Brooklyn and then back to Queens, where we assembled our new furniture. We had salad for dinner. I can only imagine the internal damage wrought by consuming up to eleven hot dogs instead of two, but I would have been happy to risk it. As it was, at least I was able to cobble together a sorry little hot dog tour of my own. There’s always next year.
posted by Lefty at 9:18 AM
1 Comments:
I likeded them Galloping Hill dogs. No likeded the Ikea store hot dog, blaaaaaaaaah!
Post a Comment
<< Home