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Posts Tagged ‘Hot dogs’

We have reached another Friday! Gonna see a movie this weekend? We have some recommendations that pair well with food (of course)!

Our first film: Scott Pilgrim vs. The World. Chow down on some garlic bread with these recipes while you watch.

Our second film: My Cousin Vinny. Streak your hair, get out your leather and go to Brooklyn for grits at Egg!

Our third film: If you fry it, they will come: Hot dogs and Field of Dreams. Magic in the Moonlight.

In other news, I’ll be traveling to South Beach today for my first Triathlon of the season. You can also get the recipe for my home made energy bars at that link. Tweeting will be light as I don’t want to take out my pre-race panic attacks on you lovely people.

Come Monday or Tuesday we might have some more BIG NEWS. So stay tuned. And we will also be continuing our Meals on Reels program. Don’t forget to send us your favorite movie/food scenes! Post ’em in the comments!

Have a great weekend!

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Girls have a collection of chick flicks.  Guys have Field of Dreams.  Perhaps the only movie in which a fella can unashamedly admit to shedding a tear or two.  And when Ray Kinsella’s brother in law shows up to foreclose on the farm towards the end of the movie, things get a little intense.

At this point, the film has undoubtedly reached its climax.  All the known characters, dead and alive, good and evil, have essentially convened on or around the ballfield to await Ray’s decision on the farm.  Stay or Sell? “People will come” advises Ray’s daughter Karin, which then prompts Terry’s articulate speech about baseball and its historic qualities which, if marketed correctly, would easily make Ray a first ballot Hall of Famer in the unique but lucrative niche business of harnessing the dead’s talents for one’s own personal gain (like in the cases of Elvis, the Beatles, etc).  It would also provide Ray a way out from his more pressing financial woes.

But Ray’s at-the-time evil brother in-law isn’t having it.  Evil bro-in-law shoves Karin off of the bleachers, who falls to the ground and lies motionless.  What to do?  Call an ambulance is Annie Kinsella’s first reaction.

“Annie wait,” says Ray, the tension building with each precious second passing.  Ray’s appearance of nonchalance in the situation is anything but.  Rather, it is faith.  Faith that Dr. Archibald Wright “Moonlight” Graham (a real person, by the way) will forgo the remainder of his lifelong dream of playing in the big leagues and instead cross over that magical stone line, turn into an old geezer doctor and save Karin’s life. And Ray’s faith pays off.

And the scene that follows is absolute goosebump city. (<—- Click to watch)

Graham, played brilliantly by the late Burt Lancaster (the younger version of Graham is quite capably acted by Frank Whaley as well), saves Karin’s life by forcing out the hot dog which is lodged in her throat.  And the hot dog, boys and girls, is what this post will be about.

The other day, my boss Andrew and I were out on the road coming back from a client meeting when he suggested that we make a quick detour through Rutt’s Hut on 417 River Road in Clifton, NJ.  Andrew, a self proclaimed hot dog aficionado, insisted that my visit to Rutt’s Hutt would be time well spent.  He was right.

While no aficionado of hot dogs myself, I’m no stranger to a good ol’ dog.  When I was growing up, Dad quite regularly resorted to the practice of cooking up some juicily boiled dogs for dinner when Mom was out for the evening.  To this day, The Box maintains a rigid adherence to Thuman’s Pork and Beef frankfurters, which he claims have the best “snap” of all supermarket available dogs.  And I’m not scared to dive into a Grey’s Papaya after a late night in the City.  Long story short, I know a good dog when I see one.  And it’s not you, Toby!  (Elana’s dog…We have our differences).

But Rutt’s was a totally unique experience.  The scene inside is quite dated and bare.  A take-out counter with some standing tables and extended window ledges to chow down at.  My colleague Andrew shakes hands with who appears to be the owner (a friendly, blinged-out crucifix donning fellow named John) and orders me three particular kinds of dogs, all of which are more scorched than the next.  “We gawt a rookie here?” John says, nodding his head in my direction.

First up is what Rutt’s calls “The Ripper.” The least scorched (by veggie oil) of the three that I had, it’s still more charred than any dog I’ve had in recent memory.  Each chomp just about dislodges the skin entirely from the meat, so you are essentially eating two different foods with two totally different consistencies, simultaneously.  But it’s ultimately a successful exploration in wiener cooking science.

Second is what is termed “The Weller” which is a more aggressively charred frank.  In fact, it is so torched that the outer portions of the meat immediately beneath the skin have essentially been disintegrated into a thick crust of bacon-like flavor and texture.  The nucleus is still meaty, however.

And then there is the “Creamator” (above) which, in addition to being fried in oil, appears like it has been shoved into electrical sockets, struck by lightning, and screamed at by six hundred fire breathing dragons.  The entire diameter of the sausage has been completely, well, “creamated” into a semi-delicate shell of fat, salt and burn.  And it’s pretty “dog”garn tasty, to be honest.  It’s airy and crispy, like someone had rolled a few strips of bacon together and strategically placed them at the equator for a couple of months.

And as I successfully housed all the dogs in impressive time, and exited the establishment, I could have sworn John called out to me…”Hey Rookie…You were good.”  Like baseball and, indeed, the masterpiece that is Field of Dreams, Rutt’s Hut Hot Dogs is an American classic that should be enjoyed by men everywhere.  Ladies, on the other hand, just may not understand its message.

Overall Experience: The Big Lebowski

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Ahhh….the hot dog. Nothing says backyard BBQ to me like a good dog with some nice charcoal grill lines striping its all-beef cylindrical frame. I take ketchup AND mustard on mine. I’m weird like that.

But last weekend, I had the opportunity to visit a place least likely to be confused with a backyard BBQ – Please Don’t Tell, the speakeasy that adjoins Crif Dogs on the Lower East Side. My friend Kaz was in town from Los Angeles, and she suggested we pop on over there.

Reservations are recommended at this mysterious place, but you have to call at 3pm the day of your visit. We tried this route, along with the rest of the city. Again and again we were foiled by a busy signal. When we finally got through, the person on the other line told us they were all booked (it was about 3:30 at this point). However, she said if we arrived at 6pm we would have an excellent shot at getting seats at the bar.

Dutifully, we showed up at 6pm, and this is when the queue starts to form outside the telephone booth inside Crif Dogs. We lined up with everyone else and waited….for what we just did not know (not having done this before). Before long, a woman on the OTHER side of the telephone booth opened up the door and started letting people in in pairs.

We got in quite quickly after this, and were seated at the bar (not before witnessing some exciting examples of taxidermy!).

We began with drinks. The bartenders at PDT are both nice and knowledgeable. Which is great for me for two reasons: 1. The drink menu at PDT is extensive. Which is fantastic, but can be overwhelming. 2. I have this new habit of asking waiters, bartenders, museum staff, etc what I should eat, drink, do, etc. And then staring at them until they give me a good answer. I figure they’re the experts, they should know better than I do.

So, I said to Mr. Bartender #1 (there were two of them), “I would like GIN!” He was taken aback only for a second (bless his soul) and then whipped up a concoction for me with Gin, rosemary and a splash of citrus that was exactly what I wanted. Kaz opted for a rum drink with an infusion of maple bacon that was magical.

After studying the menu, we ordered their waffle-cut fries and two Wylie Dogs. The Wylie Dog is a deep fried Crif Dog accessorized with battered, deep fried mayo, tomato molasses, dried onions and shredded lettuce. This seemed like a heart-healthy option to me.

Our food arrived through a fun little window behind the bar. I looked at my Wylie Dog and formed a plan of attack. It’s a hefty dog with some unwieldy toppings, including what looked like a long, thin, fried mozzarella stick on top. Turns out this was the fried mayo. And it was good. I feel dirty saying that, but it’s true. My Wylie Dog was very well executed. Frying a hot dog is really a good way to prepare it. It has a nice crispy-crunchy outer texture, which gives it some extra snap. And the interior was very flavorful and perfectly accented by is various accoutrements (including the mayo).

The fries were also tasty, but a bit more average than their outstanding dog counterparts. They arrived with a cheese sauce which appeared to be your standard orange-colored melted variety and some spicy relish. I liked the relish, but passed up on the cheese after tasting it. It didn’t offer me anything noteworthy and I figured with the fried hot dog, fried mayo and copious amounts of Gin, I would leave the cheese alone. However, we did order two baskets of fries and killed them both.

I was pleasantly surprised by the bathrooms, located just across from the taxidermed jack-a-lope. Sliding open the door revealed a loo completely tiled in broken mirror pieces. It was like having the inside of a kaleidescope as a bathroom! I have to admit I thought it was very well done, and a dash unexpected given the dark, library feel of the main dining room and bar area. It was clean and well-kept and it was even festooned with brightly colored flowers. Definite points for creativity and flair.

I would absolutely return to PDT, with or without a reservation. It’s a great place to have an inventive and well-mixed drink even if you don’t feel like indulging in the fried fare. And as for the fried fare, I have not met many fried hot dogs in my time, so this one may be my first love. And the mayo too.

Movie Equivalent: The Big Lebowski

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