Hotdogs

Every Wednesday when I was in Catholic grammar school, we were let out early—noon-ish—so the faculty could prepare for the public school kids coming in for religious education. On those Wednesdays my mother and I would go out to lunch. Our favorite place to go to was W.T. Grant—the five and dime store on Central Avenue in the Scarsdale shopping plaza next to E.J. Korvettes.

We always ate the same thing—a hotdog which had rotated for hours on automated metal rollers with sauerkraut and mustard on a toasted butter-laden top cut bun. It came in a white cardboard sleeve engineered specifically for a hotdog’s conformation. We sat on spinner-type vinyl and chrome stools at  a gold speckled Formica counter and were served by a cranky moon-faced Polish woman who wore a pale pink polyester uniform with a fine black hairnet on her head. She sponged the countertop before we finished eating as a hint that we should not linger.

The total lack of ambiance made the ambiance perfect. And the simplicity of the food and nil presentation made it a true culinary experience. And of course the lacking attention from the server has set the low-bar for a lifetime. Even with the tip, and two soft drinks, the feast could not have cost more than a couple of dollars.

Which is why I doubt I will ever go to Serendipity—a restaurant  in Manhattan for their $69 haute cuisine  hotdog---despite how delicious the concoction sounds: a prime beef hot dog sautéed in truffle oil with liver pate, white truffles, and caramelized onions on a pretzel bun. It’s a foodies’ delight.

I am certain it tastes wonderful.

But some things are incomparable. Sometimes you just can’t mess with the original. Some things can never be new and improved.

The Coca-Cola Company learned that the hard way. In 1985 they decided to improve the formula of Coke—it failed. They will never make that mistake again.

And while Serendipity may attract patrons curious enough to try their haute cuisine hotdog, I doubt they will retain the clientele. Not when people can go to the corner and get a hotdog steamed in dirty water handed to them from an accented man who handles money and food without washing his hands in between. In Karenland, that is haute hotdog cuisine.