by Jim Gaffigan
I should have probably made some brats for Jeannie and the kids too.
Hot Dogs
There is good reason why hot dogs are the original fast food. They just make everyone happy. Hot dogs are like the antidepressant of food. Hot dogs are always associated with fun things like carnivals, block parties, and eating hot dogs. Hey, hot dogs are that fun! You’re never at a baseball game thinking, Let me get a beer and a turkey sandwich. You get a beer and hot dog. Compared with the hot dog, a turkey sandwich at a baseball game sounds like a form of punishment. Hot dogs make every experience better, with the exception of maybe a circumcision.
Jack at Crif Dogs in the East Village.
While many of us associate hot dogs only with happy times, there are the party poopers who get all caught up in facts. The contents of hot dogs are not something anyone wants to think about. Lately, hot dogs have experienced a perception problem. When you are eating a hot dog, there is always that annoying friend there to rain on your parade: “Do you know what those are made of?” I always think, I don’t want to know. I just want to enjoy my hot dog. Hot dogs are like strippers, really. Nobody wants to know the backstory. We don’t want to think about how they came to be in their present form of employment. “Well, when I was twelve, my stepfather …” “Not interested! Now put some mustard on that.”
I prefer the Icelandic hot dogs to the fish oil.
At this point I don’t care. Meat scraps in a tube sounds more appealing than caviar (tiny fish eggs) to me. I think we hot dog fans should fight back and tell it like it is: “I love animal scraps stuffed in intestines. I only eat Hebrew National, which means I’m eating kosher cow lips!” I just love hot dogs. I’ve come to the conclusion that hot dogs could be made up of just about anything and I’d still eat them. Well, anything but kale. I have some boundaries.
Hot dogs are a worldwide phenomenon. Every culture seems to have their own special hot dog. One of the best hot dogs I’ve eaten was in Iceland. Served with fried onions and sweet mustard, it was delicious, but it also brought back memories of when I was ten and my parents brought my siblings and me to Europe. One of my favorite memories was a stop at Tivoli Gardens in Copenhagen, where I had my first hot dog with fried onions. Initially I thought it was strange, but then I was mesmerized by the combination. As I normally did during that European summer trip, I followed my blond parents in their cardigans while I enjoyed the most brilliant hot dog I had ever had. When I finished the hot dog, I pleaded with my mother to get another one, but when my mom turned around, she wasn’t my mom. She was just a blond lady in a cardigan, and my father was another blond stranger in a cardigan. I looked around, and every adult in Tivoli Gardens was blond and in a cardigan. For a moment I felt like I was trapped in a Hans Christian Andersen story until I found my parents back at the hot dog stand sharing another hot dog.
Hot Dog Alley
There seems to be a part of the Midwest that really appreciates hot dogs. I call it Hot Dog Alley. In these cities it is almost a requirement to get a hot dog when you are in town. This hot dog–obsessed geographical area even looks a bit like a hot dog. Starting in Chicago, one must get a Chicago-style hot dog, which for some reason comes with a salad on top. It’s probably the only time I’m excited to eat vegetables and fluorescent-green relish. The combination of onions, tomato wedges, pickle spears, sport peppers, celery salt, yellow mustard, and the unique bright-green sweet pickle relish on a sesame seed hot dog bun is amazing. I’ve been in parts of Chicagoland that have had three hot dog places on the same block. And, yes, they are all busy.
In Fort Wayne, Indiana, a must-stop is Fort Wayne Coney Island Wiener Stand, where you get the hot dog with way too many fresh-cut onions and a dollop of chili on top. Hot dogs that are prepared this way in the Midwest are known as “Coney Island hot dogs” but have really nothing to do with Coney Island, New York. The only thing that I can figure out about the origin of the name is that a hundred years ago when someone from Fort Wayne, Indiana, decided to open a hot dog place, they named it after Coney Island, because that seemed like a faraway place where people ate hot dogs and they would probably sell more “Coney Island hot dogs” than “chili dogs” (as everyone else called them) because Coney Island sounded more romantic. Yes, to people in Fort Wayne in 1914, Coney Island seemed romantic. Fort Wayne Coney Island Wiener Stand has been serving their hot dogs that way since, well, since people wanted a pound of fresh onions and chili on their hot dog.
In Toledo you must get a hot dog at Tony Packo’s, the place Klinger used to talk about on the TV show M*A*S*H. The Tony Packo “hot dog” is really a Hungarian sausage called kolbász and is roughly the width of a baseball bat. Tony Packo’s is also famous for all the signed hot dog buns, because someone’s signature on a perishable item made sense to someone, and who doesn’t want a little ink on their bun?
Hot Dog Alley ends in Detroit, where the onion and chili-laden Coney Island hot dog returns and seems to take center stage. Detroit is passionate about their Coneys, but unlike the Fort Wayne version, the Detroit Coneys have a meatless chili that is mostly beans. Aside from onions, chili is the most important element to the Coney Island–style hot dog, and all these locations have their own spin on the chili. Different parts of Michigan have their own varieties of chili sauces, from chili made with Hungarian spices to a dry topping made of finely ground beef heart. The vendor proudly announced this special ingredient while handing me my hot dog. Frankly (pun intended), I would have been more comfortable not knowing that information until several days after eating the hot dog, but I ate it nonetheless.
Recently I did a stand-up tour through Hot Dog Alley with my friend (and opening act) Tom Shillue, who commented in Toledo, “I don’t think people are supposed to eat hot dogs four days in row, right?” Oh, we are, Tom. And I did. After all, we were in Hot Dog Alley.
Grocery Store Hot Dogs
Like many people, whenever I’m at a ball game or a movie I enjoy eating four or five hot dogs. Sure, the hot dogs at these places might be like six bucks a pop, but, hey, we’re talking about hot dogs here. Anyway, early one recent morning, right before heading to bed, I was in the grocery store buying a block of cheese and a six-pack of beer for breakfast. I saw this sign that announced a package of ten hot dogs on sale for four dollars. I thought, Huh, this must be a typo or something. Surely the store must mean twenty dollars. I picked up the package of hot dogs, and, sure enough, right there on the package the price tag clearly stated four dollars, but I still didn’t believe it. I picked up another package and, sure enough, four dollars. So I held up the package and asked some old woman near me, “Have you seen this, or am I dreaming?” Well, she scrunched her face and looked at me like I was drunk or something. Granted, I was, but not stumbling or anything, so she didn’t have to look at me like that. I mean, what a Gloomy Gus. Leaving that black cloud in my dust, I skipped up to the cashier, paid four dollars for a ten-pack of hot dogs, brought them home, and then I, Jim Gaffigan, actually cooked them. Believe it or not, in my very own kitchen. I swear I’m not lying. Sure, it wasn’t that easy, but I figured it out.
Jim’s Homemade Hot Dog Recipe
Being a person who likes to share his good fortune, I would like to now give you my recipe for homemade hot dogs that are as good as the half dozen we all buy at the ball park. I might be backtracking, but first you’re going to have to do a little shopping. Since we’re making hot dogs, definitely buy hot dogs. I find it best to buy hot dogs in the hot dog section of your grocery store. Okay, so if you’ve got hot dogs, let’s get started. Don’t be afraid to write down some of these instructions, because cooking hot dogs can get complicated.
Step One: opening the hot dog package. Take your hot dog package and open it up. I like to tear it open with my teeth unless my wife is in the room. Then I’ll use a knife, a key, or a ballpoint pen. Either way, be careful. That package isn’t only filled with fresh hot dogs; there is also hot dog juice in there. You don’t want to spill that juice on your
shirt. The shirt will smell like hot dogs for a month—unless, of course, someone washes the shirt for you.
Step Two: prepping your hot dog. Take a hot dog out of the package with your fingers. Put the hot dog in the microwave. If your wife or mom is around, put the hot dog on a plate or something paper before you place it in the microwave. That way they can’t complain about having to clean up your greasy mess later on.
Step Three: the microwave. The microwave can be the most confusing part of making a hot dog. If you’re like me, I find it hard enough trying to figure out how to open the damn microwave door, let alone how to set the cooking time. Don’t worry, you’ll get it eventually—just keep hitting random buttons. Set the microwave for any number of seconds under a minute and push start. This will most likely be the button with start printed on it. If you can’t find the start button, yell for your wife or mom.
Step Four: cooking your hot dog. Once you hit start, you should hear some noise, and sometimes the inside of the microwave starts spinning. I always sit back and watch the action. The window on the microwave is there for that reason. Like a lot of people, I like to hum along to the microwave: MMMmmmmmm. I’m a very musical person.
Step Five: the bing. When you hear a bing, stop staring at the microwave. Once you’ve figured out how to open the door, grab the hot dog with your fingers. Warning: this sucker is going to be hot. If someone is around, use a fork or something to stab it with.
Step Six: bunning your hot dog. If you still live at home or are married, you might have hot dog buns, so check around the kitchen. If you do have a hot dog bun, put the cooked hot dog in the pre-sliced part of the bun. I recommend the top-sliced buns. Your hot dog is less likely to roll out. I learned that the hard way. Now, if you only have hamburger buns, cut or tear the hot dog in half and eat it like a hamburger. Do not attempt to cut the hamburger bun in half to try to shape it like a hot dog bun. It’s extremely dangerous. Cut the dog. However, get ready for way too much bread.
Step Seven: dressing your hot dog. Now you’re ready to put whatever you like on your home-cooked hot dog. Your choices are endless. You’ve got your mustard, your relish, your onions … hell, you could put peanut butter on it for all I care. Hey, it’s your hot dog, buddy. Unless you’re a ketchup–hot dog or mayo–hot dog person. In that case I really have nothing to say to you, weirdo. Warning! Don’t try to force your bunned hot dog into a mustard jar. Not only could the hot dog break in half, but you’re also going to end up with way too much mustard on that puppy. Another warning: don’t put the condiments directly on the bun, unless you’re a soggy-bun person—in that case, I have nothing to say to you either, weirdo.
Well, there you have it. A homemade hot dog you made yourself, at home. I hope you’ve learned something. Lord knows there are no hot dog–making schools out there, and those microscopic directions on the package are just too darn confusing. Feel free to pass along this Jim Gaffigan homemade hot dog recipe to any of your friends you meet at the unemployment office.
GYRO: THE “LAST CALL” MEAT
The gyro is from Greece, but it’s actually the national food of drunk people. One of the only things I remember about attending college was eating gyros with melted American cheese prepared by Korean immigrants at a pizza place in DC. Ain’t America great? I’m not sure how or why gyro meat is cooked on that oversize metal paper-towel holder and then sliced with a hunting knife, but from what I can tell it’s just Greek bologna and it’s delicious. Unlike that American-cheese bastardization I had the pleasure of experiencing in college, the proper way to eat a gyro is to pack the slices of Greek bologna into a pita pocket with onions and tomatoes and drench it with garlicky yogurt tzatziki sauce. There is an ongoing debate about the pronunciation of the word gyro. Some say “gi-ro,” some say “yir-o,” but on the inside we are all saying, “We are drunk and want more happiness.” The last gyro I ate sober was in the Newark Airport on February 3, 2009, a day that will live in infamy. I remember turning to Jeannie and saying, “Well, that was a mistake,” which I’ve often said after I eat something, but this time I meant it. I felt so bad, I could barely finish Jeannie’s burger before we got on the plane. It was a long, uncomfortable flight. I quickly learned that the only advantage to eating a gyro at the airport is that you don’t care if the plane goes down. I realized then that my gyro at the Newark Airport was missing a key ingredient. Alcohol.
THE CHEESEBURGER: AMERICA’S SWEETHEART
Someone once told me there was a study that found the average adult is supposed to eat red meat only once a month. Of course, this study was actually conducted by cows. Not being a fan of studies, I eat a lot of cheeseburgers. If you called me and asked me to list the last three meals I’ve eaten, at least two of them would be cheeseburgers. The third meal was because I couldn’t find a cheeseburger. If steak is the tuxedo of meat, and bacon is the candy of meat, then a good cheeseburger is the mother’s hug of meat. There should be way more poetry written about cheeseburgers. I’ve always felt that a cheeseburger could be a rating system for the pivotal moments in my life. First time doing stand-up equals two cheeseburgers. Marrying Jeannie equals three cheeseburgers. Receiving a free cheeseburger equals four cheeseburgers. You get the idea.
If I were advising a suicide hotline, I’d recommend starting every call with “Hey, how about a great cheeseburger?” I’m talking about a cheeseburger here, not a plain hamburger. I don’t know who is eating a hamburger without cheese, but he’s probably an alien impersonating a human. In my world a burger must have cheese, and preferably Cheddar. Cheese was such an important topping to the hamburger, the name had to be changed to cheeseburger. A world without cheeseburgers is not a reality I want to partake in. Non-ethnic restaurants that don’t offer cheeseburgers are like a USA Today without a sports section. What’s the point? I don’t expect a great Indian restaurant to offer a cheeseburger, but then again, I’m going to an Indian restaurant because I couldn’t find a place that serves cheeseburgers.
A cheeseburger a day keeps the feelings away. Cheeseburgers seem to put me in a trance. I usually remember I was going to start eating healthy around the last bite of a cheeseburger. I eat my cheeseburgers in a ritualistic manner. The first bite is always done with a bit of hesitation. “Am I going to like this cheeseburger? Am I going to love it? How is the meat? Do I need more condiments?” The second bite is the “getting to know you” bite. I might think I like the cheeseburger, but I haven’t given over fully. The third bite is when I give in. I am enveloped in pure happiness. I say things like, “This is amazing!” or “No, you can’t have a bite” or “Go tell your mother you’re hungry.” The fourth bite always has a twinge of sadness to it. It means I’m more than halfway through with my cheeseburger. The fifth bite is always a small nibble because I’ve suddenly decided I should ration the cheeseburger so I can make the experience last. Then, before I know it, the cheeseburger is gone. It’s a memory. A beautiful memory.
Here are some great cheeseburger memories:
Schoop’s
Calvin Trillin once wrote, “Anybody who doesn’t think that the best hamburger place in the world is in his hometown is a sissy.” This is a brilliant observation that refers to the inherent provincial affection we all have for our hometown burger. It’s an attachment that extends beyond taste or logic. So I guess I’m no sissy when I say one of the best burgers on this planet is a Schoop’s burger from where I grew up in Northwest Indiana. I understand and appreciate the wisdom of Mr. Trillin’s point, but I naively believe that even if I were from Kansas City or New York City, I would find the Schoop’s burger to be the most excellent. Schoop’s does two things to their burgers I normally dislike. Their burgers are well done and flattened—hamburger sins in my mind. Magically, at Schoop’s these sins are forgiven. Their burger is flawless. The meat is crispy but not burnt, the cheese proportion is perfect, and the pickles are a sharp accent without being overpowering. I’ve yet to eat a Schoop’s burger during a return visit to Northwest Indiana an
d be anything but completely satisfied. Calvin Trillin has spoken.
One of the greatest accomplishments of my life.
Shake Shack
I’ve lived in New York City for over twenty years, and during that time I have enjoyed some of the finest burgers of my life. Jackson Hole, PJ Clarke’s, and Corner Bistro hold special places in my heart, but Shake Shack is something even more special. Where else other than Shake Shack would you find people in New York City lining up in zero-degree weather? Well, maybe a Broadway show or a place that sells mittens. The Shake Shack cheeseburger is one of the juiciest, most flavorful burgers—and with its not-too-hard, not-too-soft bun, it is well worth the wait. I asked the owner of Shake Shack to build one of his restaurants in my apartment. I figure the kids don’t need a bedroom.
Bonding with Marre at Shake Shack.
Burger à Cheval
A cheeseburger with an egg on it is called a Cheeseburger à Cheval at Balthazar in New York City. In French, the translation of this is “on horseback,” but the reference to horses does not stop anyone from eating this burger, because most people don’t speak French and those who do probably are poetic enough to understand that this phrase refers to the over-easy egg on top of the meat. I like to add bacon, so I cover the three major animal-meat categories of cow, pig, and chicken. It’s my way of supporting farmers. I love a fancy restaurant that is serious about its cheeseburger. Balthazar delivers every time for me. The perfectly cooked yolk is soft enough to be liquid but not liquid enough to be disgusting. It’s nature’s ideal sauce.
