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The Dogfather
Going up and down San Pedro, I've passed this place perhaps seven hundred and fifty thousand times. Most of the time I don't even notice it. After all, other than the font on the sign out by the street -- made to emulate the font of the famous movie series that the name puns -- there is nothing to draw the attention away from the garish green tire shop next door and cause one to notice the existence of this modest little corner eatery.
And yet, there it is, and has been for years, and I've never tried it before. To be honest, until about a year ago, I never even thought about trying it. I mean... it's hot dogs. Like any all-American boy of the post-war era, I grew up thinking of hot dogs as something akin to haute cuisine, and there was nothing better than a wienie sliced up on spaghetti or macaroni and cheese or just nestled into a nice warm bun with mustard and relish and ketchup. But then the warnings started hitting. Rat hair! Bone! Insect parts! Lord knows what sort of contaminants were hiding in those jiggly pinkish tubes of cast-off ingredients.
And so here I am, forty-nine years old again (for the Nth time) and I have ordered a hot dog, or something like it, as a meal exactly three times as an adult: once at the airport in Chicago -- because, you know, they're famous for their dogs; once at a place on Austin Highway named for Chicago -- because, you know, they must know how to do it like it's done in Chicago (a disappointment), and most recently at a restaurant in Roswell, Georgia, because I'd been thinking about The Dogfather while driving -- I don't know why -- and how I'd never tried it. Plus hot dogs were the chef's special* that evening.
It occurs to me that hot dogs are not the contaminated mystery meat we were warned about in the waning days of my childhood. I trust our government enough to believe that they have responded to those complaints and that the ingredients in your average hot dog, or whatever type of sausage you're dealing with, are reasonably safe.
And here I am at loose ends for dinner: home alone for a week (well, the dog is here with me, but she's not much for dinner conversation), and tired of leftovers and thrown-together meals of Whatever. So I decide to go out, and while perusing the options on Google Maps, I remember the Dogfather. I've been telling myself I was going to try it out; tonight's the night! This -- this -- is the appropriate juncture! Now is the time! So I did.
This is one of those places where you order at the counter and the cheerful young cashier (he reminded me of Hank Azaria playing the dog walker on Mad About You) will bring your order to you. There are a few tables inside, maybe room enough for fourteen people, plus a few barstools facing a counter under a window. Outside there are five or six picnic tables and a few small cafe two-tops. The weather being remarkably cool for mid-July (only eighty degrees for a high today; can you believe it?), I thought I'd give the patio a try. Expectations were low, as San Pedro is usually a busy, loud street: seven lanes in that area. But the traffic was no distraction (except for one moment when some J.D. in a black pickup had to show off his exhaust note). The seating was comfortable enough, I was untroubled by flies, and the wind was low enough that napkins didn't fly away. There was some music being played on a P.A., just loud enough to mask any conversation at other tables but not so loud as to impose itself.
I decided on a Brat. I figured I couldn't go too far wrong with that; most of the other menu options seemed a little too fru-fru for a first-time hot-dog-restaurant sampler. I wanted something I could identify, for comparison purposes. I also ordered some curly fries, and I was going to get a beer but they only have it in cans, so I went for a fountain drink. (They have some brand I've never heard of, but it was okay; better than Pepsi, anyway.)
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| Brat with curly fries |
The menu describes the Brat as being made with beer, and served with spicy mustard, horseradish, crema, kraut and fried onions. There's no mention of the bun, but I assumed there would be one. I was right. There was, and let me tell you this: the bun and everything they put on it was great. Great! The bratwurst may or may not have been made with beer; I'll take their word for it. But it was delicious, marvelously seasoned and expertly cooked just to the near edge of crispy. The mustard and horseradish had just an elegantly subtle kick to them, and were not slathered on in dollops designed to conceal some other failing. The pickled kraut was delicious, made with red cabbage, and I'm pretty sure somebody did their dissertation on How Much Kraut Should a Brat Have? And those fried onions were like the thin, crispy, seasoned onion rings you used to be able to get at Frontier decades ago. The overall effect? Great!
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| What's that mean? |
The curly fries, too, were outstanding. I'm not a big fan of curly fries in general, but this serving will raise the entire genre in my overall esteem. Perfectly fried, perfectly seasoned, escorted by a small container of spicy ketchup, and served in enough quantity to satisfy without overdoing it. I didn't feel the least bit guilty even as I downed the least little crumb clinging to my dish.
* Though the food in that Georgia restaurant was good, I use the term "chef" loosely.
