Bavarian Meats.

It's tough to really immerse yourself in hot dog research when you don't have a good buddy at your side to contemplate the meats. I'm used to doing things with a sidekick. A compadre if you will. And that's exactly why things have been a little slow up here in the Pacific Northwest.

So one miserably shitty Sunday afternoon I decided to set off on my bike and see if I could stumble across anything blog worthy. After about an hour of roaming the streets like a wild dog, I happened across this little deli in the oddest of locations. The Pike Place Market.

Introducing Bavarian Meats.



I had already had one bad experience with the hot dogs at the market (see blog post where hobo violently shits himself), but I figured it wouldn't hurt to take a gander at the selection of encased meats.



Wow. Behind this glass counter rested an assortment of sausages and franks that rivaled anything I had ever seen before. A virtual Xanadu of pork and beef parts stuffed tightly into submucosa, or for the laymen, intestines. I wanted to eat everything in sight, and the little fat German woman behind the counter obliged by letting me sample a little nibble of all her wares. She was a real sweetheart, and in retrospect I wish I would have snapped a pic of her procuring the fine samplin' sausage.

I settled on the wieners, some saurkraut and some nose burning spicy German mustard that grew hair on my balls in a matter of seconds. I paired that treat with a side of my homemade bowel destroying chili. Bon apetite buddies!





Probably the best deli dogs I had ever had. They had that perfect snap to them and the kraut and mustard were an ideal complement. Delicious.

The Original Coney Island since 1921. 107 E. Superior Street, Duluth, MN

Strip away the Scandinavian kitsch, Temperance River worshipping mountain sexuals, and Lake Superior-side vacation mansions and you’ll find a filthy old inland port town in Northeastern Minnesota called Duluth. The San Francisco of the Upper Midwest, which is hardly even slightly true and possibly only topographically at that, as my friend Jim likes to call it. Pass through from the north heading south on Superior Street mid-day Sunday and you’ll find haggard old seamen guarding the doors of the Owl’s Club, ne’er do well’s of all type peeking glass eyed from the doors of the Miketin Boarding house, and numerous hard working men and women just looking for the earth to grant them a soft spot to land as they come down from a long, hard, unforgiving weekend. In other words, my kind of place.

Tucked in on the western slope of the hill that terminates at the more upscale (soulless nexus of evil commercialism) Canal Park and Lakewalk area is The Original Coney Island Diner since 1921. I entered it’s hallowed halls just this past Sunday, with a hearty appetite and raging hangover to boot.



There’s something about a place like this that makes you feel good. Sitting in one of their booths wasn’t unlike floating in a thick and viscous amber bubble filled with Betty Boop paraphernalia, old RC cola signs, and salvaged lumber.



This wasn’t my first Coney Island dining experience, so the menu wasn’t much of a surprise. Coney Islands, Coney Islands with Cheese, Fries, Cheese Fries, Chili Cheese Fries, etc., etc. The staff was polite if not a bit tight-lipped but I wasn’t much in the mood for conversation anyway. The PYT and I were the only folks in the joint except for the help and a woman who looked like she’d been sipping the same cup of bad coffee since the place opened up nearly 90 years ago.



Four Coney Islands with onions, two orders of onion rings, and a bowl of chili. The onion rings were frozen, presumably from some monolithic Sysco-like left of the center of the plate specialists. They were served with a dense French Onion/Tzatziki-sauce that made them almost tolerable. I knew right away from the sight of the translucent and overcooked onions that these particular Coney Islands would not meet my high and discriminating standards. As I snapped into my first bite, I noticed there wasn’t much of a snap at all but more of a languid recoil. And the buns. Oh, god, the buns: They were about as tough as Carhartt canvas coveralls made stiff by sweat and wood glue.* Goddamnit if they don’t make a good bowl of chili though.



*Less than stellar review aside; I ate three of the hot dogs, most of both orders of onion rings and the entire bowl of chili.

What's with all this Vampire shit?

I saw a t-shirt the other day, Team Jacob. Thought it was pretty funny since my buddy Jacob (geetar for Moonlight Towers and burgeoning author...) should actually have a team that favors him. So I went to buy one and what the fuck, they are all in girlie size. He's not particularly a lard ass but he's no lady boy either so we obviously had a fit issue.

My sweet old lady kindly pointed out I was a dipshit and that Team Jacob was from Twilight. A movie *slash* phenomenon about teeny bopper vampires made for prepubescent girls and fat aging nerds. I had heard of said flick but promptly ignored it as much as possible. All I really knew was there was some clown millimeters away from having a unibrow and some chick who was high as a kite all the time who may or may not be vampires. I did not know about this Team Jacob and shirts for his undersized minions.

I've since seen commercials for another teenage vampire show, probably on the CW or some shit, and a few episodes of True Blood that has possibly the worst acting this side of Dexter. Must be all the tits keeping losers tuned in because all this new interest in vampires isn't that interesting. Where was all the fervor when Catherine Denuve was sucking face and blood with Susan Sarandon and Bowie back in 1983? That there's some compelling undead shit.

You must be thinking what the French does this have to do with hot dogs? Well dear readers I was looking for a new eatin hole recently and I came across a spot called Drakula. No shit Chet. DRAKULA. Sounds phony baloney eh? Well it's for real and It was weird and it was empty except for one table with real life Romanians that seemed a little like gangsters. Maybe it was authentic Romanian decor but it felt a lot like walking into a cafeteria at an old folks home um... with gangsters in the corner. It has about as much to do with Vampires as I expect Twilight does. It does have a lot to do with traditional Romanian eats however. One of those eats happens to be dry bean stew with sausage which has a pretty unappetizing name but it was damn tasty.



Moral of the story is more beans and sausage, less teenage vampires!

Double Down at the Triple Bill

I found these pics when I fucked up my iPhone and had to back it up before I swapped it for a new one. Kinda forgot about this culinary adventure courtesy of the Round Rock Express Concessions. Now don't get excited baseball dorks. I wasn't at the Dell Diamond for a game. No I was there for a different triple header. One that started with Willie Nelson, rolled into John Cougar and ended with me walking out on Bob Dylan.

Apologies to Dylan fans but if you open your set with a classic and halfway through it's finally discernable as Rainy Day Women #12 and 35 the day has come to stop wastin folk's time and money. That mumbly old coot needs to let us enjoy the records and put the kibosh on his blind faith followers promising "this tour is way better." It's not and it never will be again.

But I digress. This wasn't meant to be a musical review. No friend, this is an entry about the two dogs I ate while enjoying Willie and John. Now I won't say I enjoyed the dogs as much as the tunes of Willie and Johnny because they weren't what I'd call stellar but they weren't as bad as the lame ass beer served up in Round Rock.

First up something surely advertised with some clever "Texas sized" name, which I forget, meant to lure you into the false sense of "value"

Ladies and gents the fairly large corn dog and overpriced weak brews:



Not to be out done they offer up another "big as Texas" type thing with not one but two x-tra long dogs. No idea why chili and cheese wasn't an option but I doctored it up with jalapenos and relish to help ol' plain Jane.



There ya have it dog lovers. Keep on keepin' on.

Oh Heavenly Dog

No this isn't a post about Chevy Chase and Benji teaming up for big laughs in a tail of murder, mystery and puppy love circa 1980. Although you know that little bitch Benji, and for sure Chevy on a bender, would dig some of the grub going on at this California joint.



On yet another grueling trip to Sacramento I made my usual stop at Capitol Dawg (chowing on a Deftones dawg, River Cats dawg and some sweet potato fries) but since I've already yapped about that action plenty I didn't think I'd have anything worthy to post about from these travels.

Lo and behold Elk Grove, the only town I've been to in CA more boring than Sacramento, has a new dog getting place. Heavenly Dog is the spot and they have pretty tasty dogs.

I decided to pretend I was from Hollywood and modify everything I ordered like a jackass. I picked the Skippy Dog but for no good reason left the grilled onions off and onion rings on. They have a nice selection of relish and mustards and since the Skippy dog came with peanut butter I chose cranberry mustard. Topped with Jack cheese that shit was right on time.

I also made up my own dog which was basically the Chihuahua dog (nacho cheese, jalapeno relish) with tri tip chili and wrapped in bacon. Over at the relish bar I loaded that sucker up with sauerkraut relish (seemed like sauerkraut with green food colouring), jalapeno relish and dill relish. Plus a squirt of "bistro sauce" for good measure. That fucker was a super mess but tasty.

The only thing I did wrong was the order of which I chowed. I should have saved the Skippy dog for dessert.

Masa in Tacoma.

I got suckered into driving a couple of gals to Tacoma with the promise of an unbelievable hot dog. I was a bit suspicious as there was little mention of the actual restaurant, and the legend of the particular dog was seemingly untraceable to an original source. Fair thee well. I decided to go anyway. It was a rainy Sunday, and the promise of seeing some of Tacoma's local flavor was intriguing.

Of course these chicks were late, and I don't make a habit of Driving Miss Daisies unless I'm getting my passport stamped to Bonetown. I had second thoughts about this adventure from the get.

Tacoma is a pretty much a dump. My friend Peezy once said that he wanted to shit in every dryer in Schaumburg, Illinois because it was such a terrible place. I had similar feelings about Tacoma. There were a ton of foreclosed houses, and I saw at least 40 inches of butt crack while cruising the strip.



A fancy shmancy new school fusion sports bar called Masa? You must be joking. This can't be the place where I've heard rumors of an unbelievable hot dog.



I'm very rarely ever wrong. In fact, I can't recall a time I've ever second guessed my inherent ability to sniff out amazing food in the past.

It happened in Tacoma. Behold! the Tijuana Dog. An all beef frank, wrapped in bacon, swimming in a molten hot queso sauce, and topped with pico de gallo.



Crushing bacon wrapped all beef isn't just a hobby, it's a fucking religion. I pray to the altar of Intestinal Fortitude. In the house of God, I'm the High Priest of Meat.



Alice and Manny felt bad for dragging me all the way to Tacoma, so they bought my Tijuana Dog. I also got to snap this keep sake of some girl-on-girl gobbling that is officially a permanent feature in my Spank Bank. Thanks ladies!

Po Dog

The diabolical beast phone was ringing off the hook, because my buddy Robert "The Schneids" Schneider had a hot tip about a new hot dog joint opening on Capital Hill in Seattle. I pulled out my clipboard. Took some notes. Looked up some shit on the internet, and sanitized my hands. Turns out the Schneids was on to something. Something delicious.

Po Dog Hot Dogs.



We pulled up on a Saturday afternoon. It was the Grand Opening. The place was brand spankin' new. I'm always hesitant of a hot dog shop that that isn't a dive, but I was really hungry and anxious to try Seattle's take on an American legend.

Once inside, the place was very well designed with easy access to the counter, and ample seating for fat hot dog eating asses, like mine. Pop art pugs covered the walls, along with wallpaper that featured six shooters. Nice touch.

The help was friendly as I alerted them immediately that we were correspondents with the world famous Buddies and Hot Dogs global franchise. The nice gal behind the counter offered me a menu to peruse the the many varieties of encased meat. Engage salivation.

It's always tough to write a review about a Hot Dog haberdashery on opening day, but I have faith that this place is going to something special. They have everything working in their favor.



First up, the BLTA Dog. That stands for Bacon, lettuce Tomato and Avocado on a soft brioche bun with a side of dippin' sauce. I added a little lemon aioli per the recommendation of the girl at the counter.

The franks here at Po Dog have some girth, so the freshly made brioche bun is a nice buttery touch. The fixings were more than adequate and the avocado was ripened to perfection. My one qualm here is that the construction of the dog made for complicated and messy eating. I took one bite of the dog and it teeter tottered and slapped me right in the face, dumping all the goodies into my basket. No worries. This could be resolved with a simple exploration in foundation engineering and construction. I also would have wrapped the dog in bacon, instead of simply adding chunks of bacon atop the fixings. Still delicious.



Next up we have the South of the Border Dog. Guacamole, house-made pico de gallo salsa, and sour cream.

Again, the bun really helped manage a tricky dog here. This one was a little easier to wrangle because of the delicious guacamole held everything together. Definitely a winner.



One of the finest palates in the hot dog eatin' game right there, kicking the tires.



The Schneids rolled deep with this deadly duo. The Deep Fried Danger Dog features a deep fried pepper bacon wrapped dog, with sauteed onions and chili sauce. And the Texas Dog had mesquite BBQ sauce, Tillimook cheddar cheese and homemade crispy onion straws.



The Schneids doesn't fuck around. His hunger monster had a one track mind. His review? 5 stars.



That's yours truly and Laura the owner. We would like to thank her for the hospitality and the fine franks. We will be back to try the Wasabi Egg Roll Dog and their take on the Chicago Dog for sure.

Mike's Chili Parlor.

My old pal Jake meandered his broke ass all the way out to the Pacific Northwest to visit yours truly. I talked a big game about the various Seattle delicacies that we had to try, but unfortunately we spent the entire weekend getting shit can drunk and meeting new buddies.

The one place we managed to drag our polluted, beer soaked asses to was Mike's Chili Parlor. This place was recommended to me from a few locals, so I figured we should give it the old college try. It was amazing, and this is our story.



Mike's has been owned and operated for 4 generations of the Semandris family. A friendly bunch, with a distinct family secret chili recipe. Located right off the locks in the Ballard community, Mike's has been feeding cold and rained on fishermen for eons. They received some recognition when they were featured on Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives a while back, but don't worry, it hasn't turned them into Hollywood pussies.

The owner, Mike (the 4th generation one), was nice enough to introduce himself. Maybe one of the coolest guys I've met, and he still makes all the chili everyday.



Mike's is your classic dive bar, complete with characters like Red, a wispy white haired jokester that finds his-rear end glued to a stool at this joint everyday. The bartender was a younger gal with a gift of gab. We alerted her early that we were the men behind the "world famous" Buddies and Hotdogs blog. She gave us her delicious recommends: a chili dog with all the fixings, and a small bowl of chili and a couple of ice cold PBR's. Game on buddies!



This is the famous Mike's Chili Dog, an all beef frank split down the center and grilled on a flat top. This monster features grated cheddar cheese, a heaping mound of bean chili, jalapenos, and fresh diced onions. The fixings are additional, but they're only like 50 cents each. The white bread bun is there simply to soak up the cheesy chili goodness. The chili is spicy enough to tickle your tonsils, but the onions and jalapenos do well to bring the zing.



Here's an overhead view of Jake's chili dog, and a bowl of Mike's finest. The chili is ground beef based with no beans. It has a nice kick and smooth and light consistency. It's greasy enough to keep out the wimps, and delicious enough send this buddy back for more. It's just a really good bowl of chili. Nothing fancy, but perfect for a rainy hungover day in Seattle.



Here's a cross section of the chili dog. Witness the layers of bowel crushing goodness. Boom!



Jake is a big fan of Mike's Chili, he also wore that silly ass Steve Zissou shit all weekend. He fit in nicely in this fishing community. A real swashbuckler, a regular ship hand.



Thumbs up from this Superbeast. I look pretty handsome considering we were up until 5 am the night before pounding Rainier (cool fuckers and the French pronounce it "RonYay").



The chili and the damage done.

This just might be the best hangover cure in Seattle. I walked into this place burping up acid, and I walked out feeling like a million bucks.

*Jake and I writing this one together. It's like a long distance relationship, with an enduring interest in hot dogs.

Another Old Ass Coney Island

I had to make a trip back to Oklahoma recently which typically irritates the hell outta me. This trip however was to go to my Grannie's 100th. Pretty amazing to think about living 100 years and all the inventions she's witnessed like microwaves and Girls Gone Wild. Plus she's rad. Aside from the hundy b-day there really wassn't much more joy in heading up I-35 so I managed to salvage the trip by getting some dags in my gullet. Thankfully OKC's lack of culture is almost made up for by it's multiple hot dog joints.

This trip we decided to forgo heading straight to Coit's or Johnnie's (chronicled in past buddy posts) and instead hit the Coney Island. My sweet old lady has been going here with her pops since she was a wee lass. I hadn't been here in a few years and pretty much forgot about it. As with every single Coney Island that has been around since the early 1900's it is owned by a Greek family and has the traditional Greek Style spaghetti, basic dogs and that's about it.

Right away the front window was inviting.



Getting up to the counter was also promising with a bin of red hot boilers



Couple passable dogs. Chili had a wonky flavor but the dog was not bad. The bummer was the beer selection was super lousy so I passed. Please forgive me buddies, I've made up for it.



Here's the one thing I really dug. Being from Oklahoma OU football is a way of life. Even though this season is pretty dismal. They had this wall that they have been keeping the seasons from way back through now. They even mark the years we won the conference and national championships.



p.s. here's some proof of how yer raised in Sooner Country.



p.p.s. We hit Coit's on the way outta town for a road dog and a root beer. They were delicious.

Molotes.

I went to a really good Oaxacan joint for dinner in Ballard called La Carta. They served mostly small plates for under 10$, and had an amazing tequila list that I didn't really tangle with because I was incredibly hungover from the night before.

I think I may have discovered my new favorite dish folks. Molotes. Beef sausage and potato filling inside a deep fried homemade tortilla. With three different sauces (a black bean puree, a cream sauce, and a green chilli sauce) and Oaxaqueno cheese crumbled on the top.

I like to think of these little fuckers as the original pizza roll, only made with vastly superior ingredients.