Bun Shakers

Dogs With Serious Bite

By Warren Rojas and photography by Jonathan Timmes

As per usual, the Nats will be hanging up their cleats the first week in October.

And who, other than possibly The Danny, can afford to eat at FedEx Field?

What’s a hot dog lover to do?

Gather ‘round and we’ll tell you a tale about folks who revere the humble frank almost as much as you do.

Hard Times Cafe
Multiple NoVA locations; www.hardtimes.com.
Average entree: $13 to $20 ($$). Check locations for times.

This year marks 30 years of operation for Hard Times Café, a milestone that means a lot to co-founder Fred Parker—less so for the fiscal implications than the perseverance of good, old fashioned comfort food.

“Not bad for a little chili joint on upper King Street,” Parker says of his pearl anniversary, adding, “Real chili parlors [are] an endangered institution and we do our best to maintain the tradition.”

And you best believe at least part of their dining legacy hangs on their ability to weave together a wondrous foot-long, chili-cheese dog.

Parker says his homegrown chainlet packs their buns with Berks® beef franks, alternating between the 4-ounce dogs for their twin, Coney Island-style platter and the plumper 8-ounce franks for the extended eating that is the big dog.

All in-store dogs are grilled to order, while boiling is the preparation method de rigueur utilized by Hard Times vendors servicing community festivals and local sporting events.

Parker ballparks he sells around 250,000 franks per year across his Hard Times empire, pegging the Springfield location as the most prolific dog slinger—the Clarendon store, however, “is close behind,” he notes—and summertime as prime franks- flinging season.

According to Parker, adults tend to gravitate toward the standard chili dog: all-beef frank, your choice of chili—Cincinnati (meaty but sweet), Texas (extra beefy), Terlingua Red (bonus hot peppers) or Vegetarian (packed with peppers, ‘shrooms and peanuts)—diced white onions and an avalanche of shredded cheddar. Children, on the other hand, like to go to extremes, dipping their toes into the chili dog pool by nibbling on the nascent sliders (Vienna sausage-sized servings of their fabled fare) or going whole hog and attacking the lengthy and fully loaded foot-long iteration.

Out of the mouths of babes.

And directly into mine.

The house foot-long is far from flawless, but exploits to the utmost degree its well-choreographed charms. Key selling points include: the overabundance of hot, lusty chili—which, ironically, also produced its greatest flaw: the structurally-unsound-due-to-a-deluge-of-chili-juices-and-molten-cheese bun—the snap of the crisp, juicy frank, the zesty kick from a hail of minced onions and the abject richness of the lava-like cheddar.

It’s exactly the type of dog you dream of getting at the stadium (any stadium): Hot. Hearty. And absolutely dripping with personality.

Sadly, Parker projects that the foot-long option will be completely phased out during the next menu overhaul, destined to be replaced by a more hometown-friendly half-smoke.

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Haute Dogs & Fries
609 E. Main St., Purcellville; 540-338-2439; www.hautedogsandfries.com.
Average entree: under $12 ($). Open for lunch and dinner daily.

Haute Dogs & Fries co-founder Lionel Holmes says he and partner Pamela Swanson originally envisioned opening up a white tablecloth-clad restaurant like the ones they’d cut their professional teeth on (he at various Morton’s locations, she at the since-shuttered Germaine’s in Georgetown).

That’s when the sputtering economy—and Swanson’s freewheeling father, Joseph Kimrey—stepped in and drastically altered their budding business model.

“He always told her, ‘You should open a hot dog place,’” Holmes says of Kimrey’s push for a no-frills eatery everyone could enjoy.

It would appear that Kimrey got his posthumous wish. And a place of honor, to boot (that’s him hoisting a Bud Light in perpetual salute in the framed pic at the end of Haute’s gourmet fixin’ bar).

Haute does a terrific job of weaving together simple pleasures (all-beef, Kayem franks) with sophisticated and sassy accoutrements.

All dogs are grilled to order and served on toasted Wegmans New England-style rolls.

The real fun begins once you break into Haute’s amenities, a rainbow of textures and flavors that includes: multiple chilies (beef and vegetarian), melted cheese sauce, homemade mac ‘n’ cheese, wasabi peas, potato sticks, crushed potato chips, sauerkraut, crumbled bacon, Goldfish crackers, onions (raw and grilled), sliced olives, coleslaws (habanero-laced, Southern style), mini pickles, rotating relishes (sweet pickle, black bean and white corn) and myriad hot peppers.

Ready for more?

The hand-cut fries—“It goes from whole potato to the fryer,” Holmes stresses of the spot-prepared spuds—are serviced by a totally separate roster of custom dipping sauces featuring the likes of curry ketchup (simple plan, flawless execution), taco mayo (cumin-spiked, extra zesty) and cranberry-horseradish (all I got was sweet).

Not that this backyard hero needs much cover.

The expertly grilled bun, lean-but-mean dog and melted cheese are terrific foundations, anyway you cut it. The flavorful link doles out beefiness by the bite, regardless of whether you dress it down (ketchup, mustard) or seek to bury it beneath a tower of too-good-to-pass-up toppings (black bean-corn relish lends an air of southwestern flare to every bite; sliced jalapenos inflame the senses; crispy bacon—MUST. STOP. EATING.).

And that’s just the hot stuff.

Their signature ice cream sandwich layers Shenandoah’s Pride soft-serve (vanilla, chocolate or swirl) into a spot-grilled bun bolstered by caramelized cinnamon and brown sugar, all topped with another dusting of cinnamon and brown sugar, and drizzled in chocolate and caramel sauce.

“It’s the couture ice cream sandwich,” Holmes says of the word-of-mouth treat I’m convinced would soar through the roof in terms of sales if they renamed it the “Eskimo dog” (or something to that effect).

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Galaxy Hut
2711 Wilson Blvd., Arlington; 703-525-8646; www.galaxyhut.com.
Average entree: under $12 ($). Open for dinner and late-night dining daily.

Those who would dare to pursue the rock-and-roll lifestyle must learn to break bread at Bohemian watering holes like Arlington’s below-the-radar hangout, Galaxy Hut.

Where else can one satisfy a yearning for handcrafted micro brews, fiercely independent music and a carnival-like atmosphere fueled by state fair-caliber cuisine?

That’s right, I’m talking about honest-to-god corn dogs.

Owner Lary Hoffman knows better than to mess with perfection. So he skipped the whole recipe development process and merely dunks State Farm brand corn dogs (4-ounce beef franks encased in sweet, golden cornmeal) in blistering vats of bubbling peanut oil until bronzed, then shuttles them out in plastic baskets overflowing with your choice of fried potato product (standard fries or uber crunchy, pop ’em-by-the-handful tots) and a font of honey mustard for dunking.

Stick me with a fork (or a skewer, for that matter).

A puff of steam escapes the first time you pierce the deep brown shell, revealing a second skin of fluffy cornmeal batter and the well-coddled sausage link underneath. Sweet corn gives way to savory dog as you work your way through the layers of the traveling road show-born construct, each bite a stolen moment of childhood sealed firmly by the salty slap of the surrounding spuds.

Regular dogs get a bit of rock star treatment themselves.

According to Hoffman, all house franks, be they beef (he tends to ping-pong between Sabrett and Nathan’s Famous products) or vegan (Yves meatless franks sit in for their bovine equivalents), are cooked in Oskar Blues’ Dale’s Pale Ale—the everyman brew that helped put the pride back into canned beer.

The kitchen prepares an equally diverse array of toppings, ranging from homemade beef and vegetarian (fleshed out with textured soy protein) chilies, Oscar Meyer bacon, MorningStar Farms Veggie Bacon (more camouflaged soy), Claussen sauerkraut, chopped white onions and cheese sauce.

Beef chilidogs are fine, but far from head turners. The franks relay the requisite meatiness but are clearly outshined by the spiced ground beef at the heart of the chili.

I weep, however, for lifelong vegetarians/vegans who foolishly believe the veggie bacon-cheese dogs even begin to approximate the experience of devouring a real beef-backed dish.

The fakeon is an abomination, each bubble gum-colored plank of faux swine lacking any discernible crunch or any other remotely bacon-y qualities (no salt, no fat—no sale).

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Coney Island Diner
Multiple NoVA locations; www.coneyislanddiner.com.
Average entree: under $12 ($). Open for breakfast, lunch and dinner daily.

A relative newcomer to the NoVA dining scene, Coney Island Diner hangs its hat on convenience and generosity of spirit.

These mock diners aren’t much to look at from the outside—NoVA real estate what it is, the original Ashburn shop (debuted last fall) is actually tucked into the ground floor of a mixed-use office building while the Sterling spin-off (opened this summer) appears to have replaced a former fast-food operation—but do a fair job of appropriating diner hallmarks (polished-’til-preternaturally-shiny dining counters, air stream-grade brushed aluminum fixtures everywhere, roomy booths).

Founder Robert Amireh lends hands-on experience to the burgeoning hospitality enterprise, having risen through the food service ranks over the last 30 years. Amireh takes full credit for the retro concept and the slice-of-Americana fare, stressing, “I develop all [of] the menus for my restaurants.”

Each of the signature dogs begins with at least one foot-long, quarter- pound Nathan’s Famous frank.

More often than not, however, specialty platter patrons are greeted by gargantuan servings featuring twin links nestled in a single bun—a practice which has confounded and surprised diners (yours truly, included) who anticipated digging into much easier to manage, autonomous dogs.

The straightforward deli dog proved to be a hands-down favorite, producing a foot-long link bombarded with ketchup, yellow mustard, sweet pickle relish and diced onions. The sugar-brined pickles and high fructose corn syrup in the ketchup lead the parade of the sweet, mustard adds some spice and the extended frank (peeks out about an inch on each side of the perfectly accommodating bun) contributes the savory to the dog-devouring equation.

Alternative efforts were much more hit or miss.

Although Amireh vouches for it personally, this guy founded the Coney Island Supreme platter—fashioned from the two-dog, one-bun conceit—to be the epitome of a hot mess.

While the dogs remained perfectly palatable, it was simply too much work (for a negligible pay-off, I might add) to try and scrape together every dueling condiment—think: chili, tomatoes, cheese, sour cream and slaw (regrettably abundant)—into a fully realized bite.

Meanwhile, the Nathan’s Special was sabotaged by scatted handfuls of cold, listless mac and cheese—Amerih insists everything is homemade, but these miserable noodles looked and tasted like they could very easily trace their lineage back to a cardboard box emblazoned with the words “Easy” and/or “Mac”—that undermined any intended specialness.

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Vienna Inn
120 E. Maple Ave., Vienna; 703-938-9548; www.viennainn.com.
Average entree: under $12 ($). Open for breakfast, lunch and dinner daily; late-night dining, Monday through Saturday.

Every so often, green hires at the venerable Vienna Inn—celebrating its 50th anniversary this year—will make the rookie mistake of dropping off menus to incoming customers.

Veteran staffers say common refrains from bemused patrons range from slightly stunned (“Oh, I didn’t even know you guys had menus”) to the matter-of-fact (“I mean, what else is there besides chili dogs?”).

What else, indeed.

Owner Marty Volk says the signature dogs—turkey franks bathed in all-beef chili, spicy mustard and chopped white onions, all for under $2—remain the lifeblood of his homey dive-cum-community hub. Volk estimates they ring up around 11,000 chili dogs per month, with dog sales spiking significantly on weekends and during football season.

Volk predicts that probably about a third of the Vienna Inn faithful stroll in solely to satisfy their lifelong chilidog habit. But those who’ve spent any amount of time in the ramshackle eatery can probably count on one hand the occasions upon which they’ve witnessed people ordering ANYTHING off the fairly expansive menu (believe it or not, the kitchen dabbles in everything from grilled pork chops to fish tacos to honey-stung chicken).

I’d bet staff could punch in a majority of orders the second most clients crack open the front door. “I haven’t seen you in forever and I still knew exactly where that was going,” one waitress chides a lifer who’s obviously fallen off the radar lately.

Servers must hear the beep-bop-bing! of the overtaxed bun warmer—a flash steamer that preps row-upon-row of Wonder-brand hot dog buns 60 seconds at a time (each bun gets cycled through twice)—in their sleep. The franks, meanwhile, are prepared in a steam table fed by a mix of water and reclaimed beer (run-off from the main taps is redirected here for cooking purposes).

Patrons can further customize their dog by ordering “regular” (beef or vegetarian chili, mustard, onions) or “fully loaded” (all of the above plus nacho-style cheese).

Is the base dog the alpha male of the bunch? Not hardly.

But those who scoff at the mere thought of a bird-based frank need to understand that this particular dog really is the sum of its parts. And the synthesis of bold mustard, piquant onions, brawny chili and run-down-your-chin cheese sauce is absolutely the stuff that dining memories are made of.

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B’z BBQ Company
40602 Charles Town Pike, Paeonian Springs; 540-882-3700; www.bzbbqco.com.
Average entree: under $12 ($). Open for lunch and dinner Tuesday through Sunday.

Building a primo hot dog takes patience and dedication.

One could argue that you should probably slide an omnipresent smoker full of slow-cooked, sauce-mopped pulled pork, smoked chicken and beef brisket into the invaluable assets column as well.

B’z BBQ founder Brian DeVaux continues to move more stick-to-your-ribs-good pork and sopping wet brisket than anything else at his roadside grill. But he’s convinced the top-heavy sales issue relates more to superior branding than inferior product.

“Customers are so hooked on the pork and the brisket … they don’t look any further down the menu,” he says of the gustatory tunnel vision that precludes folks from sampling the roast chicken or composite hawg dog.

Good thing I’m paid to delve into the nooks and crannies of every carte.

At first blush, the hawg dog—a battering ram of a meal parking mighty clumps of shredded pork atop grilled tube steak—sounds like absolute overkill. I mean, dribbling a concoction of simmered beans and ground beef atop franks probably raised some eyebrows at the birth of the first chilidog.

But does anyone really need to indulge in grilled beef and barbecue?

Absotively.

“This thing is famous. I got people who come from all over to get it,” DeVaux says of the 5-to-a-pound—most retail dogs come 8-to-a-package—black Angus beef franks he grills to order over his lump charcoal (supplies the optimum heat)- and cherry wood (imparts an irrepressible flavor)-fired pit.

The end product literally made my mouth water, summoning a strategically blistered yet mildly spiced link smothered in your choice of pork barbecue—DeVaux brushes on his homemade sauces (Carolina-style: flush with tangy vinegar; Mad Mustard: predicates a slow but consistent burn; Sweet Plum: the most easy-going of the bunch, but certainly no underachiever; Peach-Habanero: sweet heat stoked by embedded peppers) post-cooking so as not to interfere with the natural smoking process—and capped with cooling homemade slaw (cabbage-packed and genuinely refreshing).

It is, to be perfectly honest, a one-handed feast this hired mouth is unlikely to soon forget.

When pressed about the disappearance of the novel “swamp dog”—a zesty, grilled alligator sausage he used to serve during his reign as the previous occupant of Leesburg’s iconic Mighty Midget Kitchen (Döner Bistro snatched up the spot a few years back)—from his dining roster, DeVaux admitted that his Cajun connection had, unfortunately, been wiped out in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.

DeVaux noted that none of the potential replacements he’s auditioned to date have measured up to that original product.

(October 2010)