ctnow.com: Swanky Frank's, Norwalk and Westport
By JESSICA RAE PATTON, May 7 2004
I recently spent the weekend in Chicago, the city of encased meat. Just about any poor critter that can be ground and stuffed in a swag of intestine, then boiled or grilled and served in a bun, can be bought for a couple bucks every few blocks at one of the ubiquitous hot dog stands there.
At Hot Doug's, for example, aside from the traditional pork and beef wieners there were chicken, pheasant, wild boar and lamb tube steaks.
But there were also rumors of a veggie dog, which is how my animal-munching friend Emily lured me to this popular bratwurst bistro. Because the fact is, although I'm a vegan, I'm a fool for fake meat. Or anything, really, that can serve as a vehicle for condiments and be eaten alongside French fries, the more lowbrow the atmosphere the better--diners, burger shacks, carnival snack stands. These food venues usually fall short in the fried-faux-meat category, as you might imagine. But I guess because Chicago's a city teeming with working-class hipsters--two-fisted liberals, as Studs Terkel refers to them--folks whose proletariat taste buds sometimes clash with their compassionate eating ethics, the local sausage slingers make concessions with their concessions. I, for one, thank Doug and his colleagues for this. That was one damn good dog. Char-grilled, with onions, a pickle spear, some neon relish, tomato slices and yellow mustard, all overflowing a squishy roll.
I returned home with an unabatable hankering for a faux dog with all the fixings, donned the first shorts of the season and set out with the crazy notion that I might be able to score a veggie dog at one of our local hot dog haunts. I dragged my boyfriend, Art, along to taste-test the real ones.
I f you want a guaranteed hostile reaction, head for the greasiest of greasy spoons and suggest they add a veggie dog to the menu. At the original Swanky Frank's, a worn-down wiener shack overlooking a scenic I-95 on-ramp, the owner, Bob, snorted, "That would be sacrilegious."
"But I was in Chicago, and--"
"This isn't Chicago, is it?" He said and walked away. Was he really pissed off, or just a grouchy guy in general? Maybe I was naïve to the subversive nature of soy protein. And here I just wanted one more place to spend my money on some good, cheap grub.
I sat on a rickety stool and ordered French fries and blathered on about writing a food review. The fry cook, who looked like Billy Bob Thornton playing a surly fry cook, shook his head in disgust and muttered something about how you can't write a food review if all you eat is French fries. These guys were in their 30s, early 40s tops, but they had the grumpy old geezer thing down. Their disdain was as thick as the mystery oil they were deep-frying--yup, deep-frying--the dogs in.
In all fairness, our server at the swankier of the Swankies, in Westport, was super-friendly. (Let's consider the first location Skanky Frank's, as to not confuse the two.) She smiled and everything. The place also looked like it had been intimate with both a paintbrush and a sponge in recent memory. Art highly approved of the deep-fried technique. "It makes the texture crackly, not snappy."
"Snappy?"
"Yeah, some hot dogs are snappy. The skin won't give right away when you bite it, then it snaps."
He also liked that the raw onions were self-serve. For the sake of quality assurance he ordered the same dog toppings at every stop: bacon, ketchup, onions. "The bacon's under the dog, where it should be," he noted.
The French fries were great: thin-cut, some skin left on for that dirty taste, super-crisp but not crisped through. We liked that our order was wrapped up in an old-timey cardboard box.
Dog: $2.90, Fries: $2.25
• • •
Rawley's Drive-In
1886 Post Rd., Fairfield, 259-9023
Rawleys' décor makes Skanky Frank's look positively posh. The wood paneling interior has decades of initials, names and declarations of love scratched into its surface, like a summer camp cabin. Two high-school-age boys flew around the kitchen putting orders together.
"So. Would you ever consider carrying a veggie dog, you think?"
"NO WAY!" The one working the grill yelled. "People freak out if we change anything here. We had to repair those walls," he gestured to two white walls behind him, "to meet health codes, and people flipped out. A veggie dog? They'd KILL us!"
They got every single thing about our order wrong--handed us someone else's food, gave Art the wrong drink, rang the order up incorrectly, made it "for here" instead of "to go." The more flustered they got, the more they messed up. I didn't mind a bit. It somehow went with the summer camp vibe, and I thought it was probably a fluke. They were extremely apologetic. "It was SO busy a minute ago, we were SLAMMED," the one at the cash register explained.
The word "Poop" was engraved in huge letters right below the counter.
The cook pulled Art's dog from the fry basket, split it and threw it on the grill. "It's deep-fried and grilled?" I asked, because I couldn't believe it. It was like a heart attack on a bun.
After a couple investigative bites, Art reported that he actually preferred Swanky Frank's single dose of grease, though the Rawley's dog also passed the crackly texture test, the bun was fresh and well-toasted and there was a generous amount of bacon draped over the dog.
I was still trying to interpret "snappy." "Is it that feeling of breaking the seal with your teeth?" I asked.
"Exactly," he said.
"I like that," I said.
"That's the thing. It's so hard to judge hot dogs, because they're such a historical food in a person's life." He gestured philosophically with his dog. "People are fanatical about these. This is the perfect hot dog if it's what you grew up with."
No one could get nostalgic about the fries, however, which were of the frozen, crinkle-cut variety, mealy and barely browned.
Dog: $2.40, Fries: $1.90
• • •
Super Duper Weenie
306 Black Rock Turnpike,Fairfield, 334-DOGS
I admit I was biased in favor of Super Duper Weenie to begin with for its name. And if I had to eat off any of the linoleum-checked floors, this would be the one. By now I was resigned that there were no take-out veggie dogs in my near future... when I spotted its cousin on the menu.
"How long have you carried veggie burgers for?" I asked the cashier, who turned out to be one of the owners, Lorin.
"Since we opened," he said.
"But you don't have a veggie dog?"
"Veggie dog? I can't say we've ever considered it." He appeared to actually be contemplating the concept.
"Would you consider it?"
"I don't think they'd sell."
"Do the veggie burgers sell?"
"Yeah."
"So why wouldn't a veggie dog?"
"We're a greasy hot dog place."
"You could just try it out."
"We have tuna..."
"Please?"
"I'll think about it. We've honestly never thought of it before."
Art surveyed his super duper dog. Plentiful onions, two fat strips of bacon. But I could tell his assessment by the face he made when biting down. Snappy. He liked the flavor of the meat, if not the texture, but Swanky Frank's was his personal overall favorite dog of the day, no question.
We agreed the fries were stellar--the best of the bunch by far. Lots of skin, whittled-thin shapes, perfectly crisp with downy insides. Lorin gave the batch a generous shake of pepper as well as salt. Pepper on French fries! Kind of nouveau cuisine for a former hot dog truck, don't you think? I just know an animal-free frank is next...
Dog: $2.70 Fries: $2.25
Copyright © 2004, Fairfield County Weekly
I recently spent the weekend in Chicago, the city of encased meat. Just about any poor critter that can be ground and stuffed in a swag of intestine, then boiled or grilled and served in a bun, can be bought for a couple bucks every few blocks at one of the ubiquitous hot dog stands there.
At Hot Doug's, for example, aside from the traditional pork and beef wieners there were chicken, pheasant, wild boar and lamb tube steaks.
But there were also rumors of a veggie dog, which is how my animal-munching friend Emily lured me to this popular bratwurst bistro. Because the fact is, although I'm a vegan, I'm a fool for fake meat. Or anything, really, that can serve as a vehicle for condiments and be eaten alongside French fries, the more lowbrow the atmosphere the better--diners, burger shacks, carnival snack stands. These food venues usually fall short in the fried-faux-meat category, as you might imagine. But I guess because Chicago's a city teeming with working-class hipsters--two-fisted liberals, as Studs Terkel refers to them--folks whose proletariat taste buds sometimes clash with their compassionate eating ethics, the local sausage slingers make concessions with their concessions. I, for one, thank Doug and his colleagues for this. That was one damn good dog. Char-grilled, with onions, a pickle spear, some neon relish, tomato slices and yellow mustard, all overflowing a squishy roll.
I returned home with an unabatable hankering for a faux dog with all the fixings, donned the first shorts of the season and set out with the crazy notion that I might be able to score a veggie dog at one of our local hot dog haunts. I dragged my boyfriend, Art, along to taste-test the real ones.
I f you want a guaranteed hostile reaction, head for the greasiest of greasy spoons and suggest they add a veggie dog to the menu. At the original Swanky Frank's, a worn-down wiener shack overlooking a scenic I-95 on-ramp, the owner, Bob, snorted, "That would be sacrilegious."
"But I was in Chicago, and--"
"This isn't Chicago, is it?" He said and walked away. Was he really pissed off, or just a grouchy guy in general? Maybe I was naïve to the subversive nature of soy protein. And here I just wanted one more place to spend my money on some good, cheap grub.
I sat on a rickety stool and ordered French fries and blathered on about writing a food review. The fry cook, who looked like Billy Bob Thornton playing a surly fry cook, shook his head in disgust and muttered something about how you can't write a food review if all you eat is French fries. These guys were in their 30s, early 40s tops, but they had the grumpy old geezer thing down. Their disdain was as thick as the mystery oil they were deep-frying--yup, deep-frying--the dogs in.
In all fairness, our server at the swankier of the Swankies, in Westport, was super-friendly. (Let's consider the first location Skanky Frank's, as to not confuse the two.) She smiled and everything. The place also looked like it had been intimate with both a paintbrush and a sponge in recent memory. Art highly approved of the deep-fried technique. "It makes the texture crackly, not snappy."
"Snappy?"
"Yeah, some hot dogs are snappy. The skin won't give right away when you bite it, then it snaps."
He also liked that the raw onions were self-serve. For the sake of quality assurance he ordered the same dog toppings at every stop: bacon, ketchup, onions. "The bacon's under the dog, where it should be," he noted.
The French fries were great: thin-cut, some skin left on for that dirty taste, super-crisp but not crisped through. We liked that our order was wrapped up in an old-timey cardboard box.
Dog: $2.90, Fries: $2.25
• • •
Rawley's Drive-In
1886 Post Rd., Fairfield, 259-9023
Rawleys' décor makes Skanky Frank's look positively posh. The wood paneling interior has decades of initials, names and declarations of love scratched into its surface, like a summer camp cabin. Two high-school-age boys flew around the kitchen putting orders together.
"So. Would you ever consider carrying a veggie dog, you think?"
"NO WAY!" The one working the grill yelled. "People freak out if we change anything here. We had to repair those walls," he gestured to two white walls behind him, "to meet health codes, and people flipped out. A veggie dog? They'd KILL us!"
They got every single thing about our order wrong--handed us someone else's food, gave Art the wrong drink, rang the order up incorrectly, made it "for here" instead of "to go." The more flustered they got, the more they messed up. I didn't mind a bit. It somehow went with the summer camp vibe, and I thought it was probably a fluke. They were extremely apologetic. "It was SO busy a minute ago, we were SLAMMED," the one at the cash register explained.
The word "Poop" was engraved in huge letters right below the counter.
The cook pulled Art's dog from the fry basket, split it and threw it on the grill. "It's deep-fried and grilled?" I asked, because I couldn't believe it. It was like a heart attack on a bun.
After a couple investigative bites, Art reported that he actually preferred Swanky Frank's single dose of grease, though the Rawley's dog also passed the crackly texture test, the bun was fresh and well-toasted and there was a generous amount of bacon draped over the dog.
I was still trying to interpret "snappy." "Is it that feeling of breaking the seal with your teeth?" I asked.
"Exactly," he said.
"I like that," I said.
"That's the thing. It's so hard to judge hot dogs, because they're such a historical food in a person's life." He gestured philosophically with his dog. "People are fanatical about these. This is the perfect hot dog if it's what you grew up with."
No one could get nostalgic about the fries, however, which were of the frozen, crinkle-cut variety, mealy and barely browned.
Dog: $2.40, Fries: $1.90
• • •
Super Duper Weenie
306 Black Rock Turnpike,Fairfield, 334-DOGS
I admit I was biased in favor of Super Duper Weenie to begin with for its name. And if I had to eat off any of the linoleum-checked floors, this would be the one. By now I was resigned that there were no take-out veggie dogs in my near future... when I spotted its cousin on the menu.
"How long have you carried veggie burgers for?" I asked the cashier, who turned out to be one of the owners, Lorin.
"Since we opened," he said.
"But you don't have a veggie dog?"
"Veggie dog? I can't say we've ever considered it." He appeared to actually be contemplating the concept.
"Would you consider it?"
"I don't think they'd sell."
"Do the veggie burgers sell?"
"Yeah."
"So why wouldn't a veggie dog?"
"We're a greasy hot dog place."
"You could just try it out."
"We have tuna..."
"Please?"
"I'll think about it. We've honestly never thought of it before."
Art surveyed his super duper dog. Plentiful onions, two fat strips of bacon. But I could tell his assessment by the face he made when biting down. Snappy. He liked the flavor of the meat, if not the texture, but Swanky Frank's was his personal overall favorite dog of the day, no question.
We agreed the fries were stellar--the best of the bunch by far. Lots of skin, whittled-thin shapes, perfectly crisp with downy insides. Lorin gave the batch a generous shake of pepper as well as salt. Pepper on French fries! Kind of nouveau cuisine for a former hot dog truck, don't you think? I just know an animal-free frank is next...
Dog: $2.70 Fries: $2.25
Copyright © 2004, Fairfield County Weekly
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