Tiny Wieners with Friends
A couple of weekends ago Samantha and I escaped the hubbub of Bean Town, making our way to Western Mass to check out the Sol Lewitt exhibit at MassMoCA with our friends Jim and Krista. Now you might say that Jim’s a fan of the wiener, so we decided to hit up a stand that I’ve been intending to check out while leaving town on Sunday. Unfortunately, when we pulled up to Jack’s Hot Dog Stand we were greeted by Jack locking up–the stand wasn’t open on Sundays, he was just ducking in to his store when I caught him. Undaunted, we decided to hit up another HDJ in town, one that I took Samantha to the day I proposed to her–the Hot Dog Ranch. As an aside, let me suggest that you wait to eat a coney dog after you propose to your wife, not before.
Look at the gleam in Jim’s eyes–it was love at first sight. The Hot Dog Ranch serves up what it calls “baby hot dogs” which measure about 4 inches and are topped with the traditional coney condiments: mustard, chili sauce and raw white onions.
Jim and I both decided that four four-inch hot dogs would be a reasonable amount–it comes out to a foot and a third’s worth of hot dog for those of you without immediate access to a calculator or your fingers and toes. In reality, four of the baby hot dogs were a clear signal to the other guys in the joint that we were two girly men, effete liberals from the coast who would rather use a fork and knife than get our hands dirty–for when I saw the amount of hot dogs that these hulk-ified Western Mass woodsmen ate in one sitting, I was ashamed.
Twenty one!!!! Who the hell has stomach enough, let alone the time to sit there and down seven feet’s worth of hot dogs? My god, even a five year old ate two more than I did. I hung my head in shame and decided to bulk up for the next time I came around.
Sam did what she normally does when faced with fried mac & cheese balls–order them and leave me barely a taste. Judging by her smile they were pretty awesome, however.
Krista, after ordering a chicken sandwich, realized she had missed out on the party as well as the pleasure of having four inches of tube meat. I guess the mac and cheese balls (which, I will repeat again, I did not get to taste) made up for it.
I realized I really haven’t said much about the dog–it a pleasantly snappy pork dog that was paired with an above-average sauce but unfortunately had to compete with a too-sugary mustard. I’ve never really encountered a mustard that was too sugary–that’s usually reserved for the most loathed of all hot dog condiments: ketchup. It wasn’t terrible, just a little surprising, and I figure if they change the mustard they’ll have a great coney dog going.
Jim sat like this for twenty minutes until I assented and took a picture, so here’s your obligatory chow shot.
When leaving Sam offered to take a picture of me at the door. I don’t know what came over me but the result is a picture of a guy who looks a little less than normal. Thanks for taking the great pic, honey! Must be her revenge for me proposing with chili breath last time we visited . . . .