The Two-Wheeled Variety

Last city inspection: October 2010
Only 3 demerits!

Frank's Hog Stand
801 South Presa Street

at Perieda, in Southtown

I thought at first that the name of this place was a paean to the former iconic occupant of the space, the now-defunct Pig Stand. That restaurant was revered locally for its historical importance, though judging from its eventual and agonizingly-protracted failure, its food was better in the popular memory than it was on the plate. The eponymous owner of the new occupant, though, was among those who grew up with the Pig Stand, and when the building went vacant, he bought it and created this 21st-Century version.

The hogs of the name, though, are the motorcycles that form the theme of the décor and menu, from the Easy Rider mural on the back wall to the chopper-clock by the cash register. The ubiquity of the entire theme could be overwhelming, were it not for the light and self-mocking touch with which it's applied. No one can feel out of place in Frank's Hog Stand, no matter what form of transportation one uses to get there. There are even signs in the front window assuring visitors of that: "Biker Chicks Welcome," for example; and "Losers Welcome."*

The greeting from the pierced and tattoo'd waitress with the partly purple hair was as cheerful and welcoming as the array of signage promised. Though at that moment we were the only people there, it wasn't long before the place started to fill up, mostly with people who seemed to be habituées of the place, judging not from their stylings — I saw nary a nose-ring nor lip stud among them, and any tats they had were concealed by sober office-worker costumes — but from their evident comfort and familiarity with the place and its staff.

Our cheerful waitress got us started by offering to brew coffee, something she had never done before, it seemed. Frank's Hog Stand starts offering breakfast later this week, on the 18th, so she felt she needed the practice. She did well.

The menu, as I said, centers on a motorcycle theme, carried out here with greater determination and, I think, cleverness than certain other theme restaurants in town. These amusing names for the food were effective: against better judgment, we split an appetizer (a term so inappropriate, in the circumstances, as to be ironic) of Rusty Nuts: tater tots drenched in beef and bean chili and Velveeta cheese. The beans in the chili had imbued rather too much seasoning, and were a slight distraction, and of course Velveeta has that unique taste that assaults the palate right up front. Once you acclimate yourself to that taste, though, it can be accepted and ignored, though never forgotten or enjoyed.

The result of this indulgence was that I couldn't eat my entire sandwich. It was a pulled-pork sandwich on a hoagie, with melted swiss cheese and trimmings, fries on the side. Rick went for a cheese-steak sandwich, also with fries. The French fries at Frank's are the thick, wide steak-fry variety, and very well done. (Just to be clear: I mean they were cooked just right, not that the were cooked beyond virtue.) Rick's cheese steak was real good too: lots of well-seasoned meat and cheese, onions and peppers on a nicely toasted hoagie roll.

My pulled pork sandwich was, sadly, the only disappointing feature of our visit. Not that there was anything intrinsically wrong with it: the meat was a good quality, and there was plenty of it, and of the cheese and trimmings as well. Unfortunately, I was surprised by the fact that the pulled pork sandwich is made with barbecued pork, and a sweetish variety of barbecue to boot. Had the menu mentioned that, I would have ordered something else. Barbecue is a touchy enough dish that, on principle, I don't bother with it except in places dedicated to its production; and I avoid sweet-tasting barbecue as a matter of personal preference. And I certainly don't like having it sneak up on me like this. So it was with no regret that, after sharing the Rusty Nuts with Rick, I left half my sandwich (and some of my fries, which I kind of did regret) uneaten on the plate.

* I can't resist the temptation to be similarly, if insincerely, self-deprecating by saying, That lets me in. But possibly "Losers" is just biker-speak for people with extra wheels.