David Campbell Lozuaway-McComsey
Food
How good does that dog look!?
All I want is to eat and watch movies and get paid to do it. But if writing about it is the price to pay, so be it.
As my internship at SFR comes to close, I’ve realized this dream (you can check out my review of The Suicide Squad, read about the time I visited Henry & the Fish or catch a profile on Radish & Rye chef Dru Ruebush for proof), and today, in this case, that desire to eat boils down to boiled hot dogs.
My future sister-in-law and her husband recently came from the Italian part of Massachusetts to see, in order from most important to least, Foo Fighters, my fiancée and, lastly, me. Earlier, they spied downtown hot dog joint Chicago Dog Express (600 Cerrillos Road, 505-984-2798) from their balcony at Hotel Santa Fe, and have wanted to go; so, combining work and family duties, a-hot-dogging did we go.
Pulling up on my bike, I spy with my hot-doggy eye an idyllic patio and stand/kitchen, with surprisingly ample parking hidden behind. An array of flowers surrounds a patio of six tables with five umbrellas and numerous diners; a line of others waits to go under the exact kind of façade one wants to see on a hot dog shop: The protective coverings of the windows swing open to reveal menus on their bright blue backsides as well as “masks required” signs; an awning with the restaurant’s sensible name advertises not only its offerings, but its entire essence—Chicago hot dogs done quickly. This is non-pretentious and quick, a bit of a legendary spot for Santa Feans; hot dogs are simple and require very little of their vendors.
When we get to the window to order, one of my companions has no mask. Whoopsie! Luckily, one of the stand’s three employees hands him one. They take safety seriously—all employees have masks and gloves on and they measure the dogs’ internal temperature regularly. Granted, this particular item comes pre-cooked and is typically safe to eat cold, but, if nothing else, “temping” the dogs ensures that Chicago Dog’s namesake meal comes out perfectly each time.
One of my companions orders three Chicago Dogs ($5.72-6.72), all regular-sized (1/6 pound rather than the 1/4 pound jumbo dog). Two of those are half-loaded, and one fully loaded—loading, of course, refers to the amount of toppings, in this case mustard, relish, onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, pickle spear, sport peppers and celery salt seasoning. They do not have the key lime soda advertised, but he settles for a regular old lime one. Mel Brooks might call it a tragedy.
“Do I get a number or something?” he asks the staff.
“No,” one of them replies. “I’ll just yell out.”
Take a hike, pretense!
I order a small Frito pie ($5.72), Christmas (for you, dear reader, since I prefer green), a cream soda ($2.86) and the jumbo Santa Fe Dog ($8.67) fully loaded with cheese, onions and chile. Oh, and before you ask, those are indeed the correct prices. And before I’m finished with my order, the staff is already calling my companions’ order out. This team flies—even during the midday lunch rush.
Still, tragedy strikes a second time as I learn the Henry Willard cream soda I want is unavailable. Wounded, I settle for a root beer only to receive one which is not the brand advertised. To be fair, I could probably return it as it is unmolested and still-closed. Somehow, I soldier through.
My order takes as long to make as it does for me to photograph my companions’ meals. After my impromptu shoot, I graciously allow them to eat their Chicago dogs.
“They’re good,” says one fellow diner. “Hot peppers is probably a Santa Fe touch.”
“This is legit,” says another. High praise, indeed.
Still, in measuring and sampling out collective dogs, I discover that, for the extra dollar, the ratio of dogs-to-stuff feels more effective with less. The smaller Chicago dogs are ideal, particularly compared to my massive quarter-pounder. They’re easier to handle, though every dog is beautifully decorated down to the poppy seeds spotting the bun, even if they forgot the pickle.
My Santa Fe dog and Frito pie fill me up. In that regard, the meal succeeds. But the chile on the pie, which I magnanimously shared with my party, lacks kick, especially the red.
My male companion agrees: “Pretty flat,” he says.
“Monotone,” his wife throws in.
In fairness, I have yet to meet a Frito pie I like. I love Fritos and I love chile and yet somehow, together, the coupling tastes bland to me. Send me back to New England—and clam chowder—if you must, Santa Fe, but please let me graduate from St. John’s College before you do.
Still, the Santa Fe dog, though not as good as the Chicago variety, satisfies, largely due to the quality and dominance of the 1/4 pound Vienna Beef (which advertises as “Chicago’s Hot Dog”) wiener contrasting with a bun made soggy by melted cheese and overflowing chile. This is not a hand-held dog, though equipped with a knife and spork, I render it edible. Fresh white onion adds crisp texture to the meaty, gooey bites.
But not everyone wants a hot dog, or even meat at all, for that matter. To satisfy the meatless, Chicago Dog Express offers a vegetarian Frito pie as well as a veggie sandwich—essentially the Chicago dog without the dog. For breakfast (8-10:30 am, Monday-Friday) find handheld and smothered breakfast burritos ($6.04-7.28), with eggs, potatoes, cheese and vegetarian green chile. Add bacon for a mere 65 cents if you like.
Despite our soda SNAFUs, my sister-in-law lays out how we we all feel by the end of the meal. “Tomorrow,” she says, “I want to try the kielbasa.”
I’ll gladly go back to get two or three Chicago dogs, too, because, you know, hospitality.
