Author and Artist
Hot Dogging
A fictional travelogue; three minute read.
In Vienna, the Albertina museum curates a renowned Impressionist collection. Across the way, the Vienna State Opera House Renaissance Revival building entertains. Sitting inside it is like sitting inside a wedding cake.
The museum and the opera house, like two proud parents watching over their baby’s crib, stand protectively guarding a hot dog stand. Along with other hungry mouths, my son Ben and I are queued up on the sidewalk leading to the world-famous Bitzinger Wurstelstand.
It’s Spring break. Ben’s done with college finals. I’m freed of teaching high school history.
The Bitzinger is the travel experience I want to share with Ben. I hope to fulfill my craving for tasty street-food along with my desire for local experiences.
Waiting our turn, inching forward in line, I eavesdrop. A couple in tuxedo and ball gown are discussing the evening’s arias. Skateboarders in unisex hoodies are squabbling about their favorite rappers. I feel like I’m listening to music reviewers for two different concerts, but still united in their love of music.
In this miniature moment of community, I hope Ben feels the unspoken kinship. Everyone in line—no matter their station or status, national origin or ethnic heritage—is hungry and humbled before the Bitzinger hot dog.
The aroma of savory, fresh meat sizzling on a grill, the scent wafting on the breeze, hugs us. Peering into the glass-enclosed cook area, I fixate on two cooks moving with sweaty efficiency, taking and fulfilling orders.
Our hot dogs—a blend of beef and pork—are stuffed lengthwise into soft, crusty, buttery rolls, then infused with warm Emmentaler cheese and kissed with bright yellow mustard. None of the toppings or distractions common at an American hot dog stand are on offer. No ketchup, no relish, no sauerkraut.
From the first bite, my tastebuds find the happiness they have been seeking without knowing they were seeking it. A tremor quivers through me.
“Hey, dad, at O’Hare airport I saw a Vienna Beef Company poster that said on July Fourth Americans eat enough hot dogs to stretch from D.C. to L.A. over five times.”
“Want to know the first words Mickey Mouse ever uttered?” I quiz him. “It was ‘hot dog.’”
“Forty percent of Americans like their hot dogs grilled, 21% prefer them boiled, 8% microwaved, 3% steamed and the rest are confused,” Ben retorts with a laugh. “Just like the voters at election time.”
We’re playing hot dog trivia. Having silly fun.
I have no trouble winning. “In 1867 at the Coney Island boardwalk, the immigrant German-Jewish butcher Charles Feltman—not the Pilgrims, not the Founding Fathers—invented and then market-tested the hot dog cart. Similar to donut shops and nail salons today, Depression Era push carts were entrepreneurial first businesses for immigrants. The American hot dog exists thanks to transnational migration.”
As we wipe our mouths of the last clinging morsels, we move to rejoin the queue. “Ben, I’ve eaten some damn good dogs in New York, New Jersey, London, Prague, Puebla, Reykjavik. None as good as this one.”
His mouth still full of tubular joy, he can’t talk. Instead, his eyes sparkle in agreement.
I’m in a moment meaty enough to chew on. My moist eyes sparkle right back at him.
