John Tornese

Hot Dog Days
A harbinger of spring—the all-American frankfurter hits the grills
by Maureen C. Petrosky

A year ago, my husband and I traded in our spacious Atlanta apartment for one that's half the size and three times the price in the heart of New York City. We also traded in six months of beautiful weather for about six feet of snow. But at last, this past Monday afternoon, it was 64 degrees in the Big Apple. We had been awaiting this moment for nearly five months. I was starting to think there was something to this seasonal depression thing.

To celebrate spring's arrival, I dug out a short-sleeved shirt and geared up the dog for a long walk. I took the cell phone with me and called my friend Vanessa, who was in Atlanta enjoying her second month of spring. We hadn't chewed the fat in a while, so I was surprised when she said she'd have to call me back. She was getting ready to make dinner, and her tone was slightly impatient. She had just fired up her grill—she was dying for a hot dog. I laughed out loud, picturing this grown woman as a 10-year-old girl wearing an oversized baseball cap and a flowered summer dress with mustard down the front. Vanessa's dinner plans made me chuckle not only because of her childlike craving for a feast of franks, but also because she is, by profession, a chef.

Reality Bites
The very next morning, I awoke refreshed and opened the curtains to find…a blizzard. I looked out my window and saw snowcapped buildings instead of trees in bloom, and in that moment, I hated Vanessa. I longed for the nights when I was the one shaking those hot charcoals, smelling the grilled aromas of spring and summer and inhaling a couple of freshly cooked dogs al fresco. It became official: I was seasonally depressed.

New York is hot dog heaven. We can have dogs any day, any time. Hot dog vendors polka-dot the sidewalks of every neighborhood all year round, but I barely notice them until piercing winds turn into warm breezes. And at last—one long month after I talked to Vanessa—I experienced that sausage urge. Of course, I headed to Gray's Papaya, a 24-hour New York hot dog spot serving the masses. But this year, for me, the beginning of spring was marked by my first bite of a sidewalk dog. Whew! Finally. I shared my hot dog tale with friends, and I was delighted to find that most everyone had a story of their own.

My sister said my nephew wakes up every day and politely requests a hot dog for breakfast and "a hot dog for lunch, please." Truth be told, her children would starve without hot dogs. Maybe because with each pregnancy came her uncontrollable craving for the delicacy. My first food memory is of a family trip to Louisiana when my sister, brother and I entered a state of shock upon beholding our first foot-long hot dog. We were in heaven! There are photos of ketchup-covered smiling children to prove it. On occasion, my father disobeys doctor's orders and secretly spoils himself with a grilled dog. Even my husband has returned from work with the telltale spot on his shirt—not lipstick, but yellow mustard.

At the first whisper of warm weather, kids go rooting around for their baseball gloves, and dads start checking the propane levels in their grills. Grocery stores prominently display charcoal and shiny grill brushes. And underneath it all, that craving for the season's first hot dog is starting to simmer. Hot dogs are the essential all-American food. I'm convinced that, culinarily speaking, it's not the burger

Champagne and Red Hots?
Famed culinary writer James Beard speaks of German, Greek and Kosher styles as the most flavorful hot dogs. You may or may not be surprised that the Catholic Church, for a time, deemed our beloved dogs sinful to eat. That may be because they're so doggone good. Hot dogs are the poor man's foie gras. They are inexpensive and could be eaten for every meal, but my friends and I savor them now only as an indulgence.

For centuries, there has been an international dispute over who was responsible for the first hot dog. Was it the frankfurter from Frankfurt, Germany? Or was it the Weiner from Vienna, Austria? Not even the Hot Dog and Sausage Council knows. And these sausages aren't even considered a hot dog until they are comfortably cushioned within a bun. To make matters worse, no one really knows who first put it in the bun, either. Regardless, research has shown they're an American favorite, with consumption at an average of 60 hot dogs per person, per year.

But seeing as how this is a magazine about wine, the question that inevitably needs to be answered is this: Which wine pairs best with a hot dog? I read that movie actress Marlene Dietrich listed hot dogs and champagne as her favorite meal. And when asked, the editor of the magazine you're holding could not think of a better hot dog accompaniment than a cold beer in a plastic cup on a warm, breezy night at Turner Field. Personally, I think an Alsatian Riesling would do the trick, but I'm not sure. I think I'll spend the rest of the summer figuring this one out.

This article originally appeared in The Wine Report.

Maureen C. Petrosky is a New York-based freelance writer. She also appears on CNN, FOX and MSNBC to chat about food, wine and entertaining.