It was a slow day here at Chez Beef. Sir Loin was up late last night trying to attach my old laptop to his stereo set-up (this was unsuccessful, and apparently will require large capital expenditures to remedy). I went to bed early but slept in anyway, still tired from some minor surgery a few days ago. Also possibly tired from the drugs they give you. (Do they make organic Vicodin?) The bar for the day’s ambitions was thus set very, very low. “Perhaps,” Sir Loin suggested around 1 pm, “we could take a walk along Crissy Field? With the dog.” At this, Carnie waggled in assent. Her eagerness gave me an idea.
“Okay, but we have to go to the Warming Hut and get some Let’s Be Frank hot dogs for lunch,” I countered. Let’s face it. Hot dogs have a certain ball-game-and-ketchup appeal, but you know they’re full of junk, most of them. Nitrates, nitrites, lips, assholes, HFCS, I’m sure, though I don’t have a pack of regular franks here. Not these dawgs. Co-founded by Sue Moore, the meat forager for Chez Panisse, the Let’s Be Franks are made from grass fed beef, salt, sugar, spices . . . that’s about it. Uncured dogs from happy cows.
I’d had them before, and the prospect of more was enough to get me in the car and to the beach. From there, I staggered down the sand, trailing after Sir Loin and Carnie until they took pity on me and we went back to the car. Then we drove the length of Crissy Field to the Warming Hut where the LBF stand is. We each got dogs (with onions) plus two organickey sodas. The (real) dog looked on hungrily.
I would have liked my bun toasted, but that’s a minor complaint. These are good dogs! And the best thing is that, in my drugged, delicate state, I might otherwise have made comfort-food choices that would come back to haunt me. Insisted on Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, only to hate myself later, that kind of thing. But not only were these dogs full of salty, meaty, palatable goodness, they didn’t leave me feeling like I’d just had a pail full of fast food. They left me feeling like I’d had something slightly naughty, but in a vintage summertime kind of way. Spiked my lemonade or captured some glow bugs.
It was a long slow gimp back to the car, but I’m glad we made the trip.
Get your own Let’s Be Franks at Crissy Field or the AT&T Ballpark. Out-of-towners, there are some links on their Web site, too, if you want to put in an order. (And don’t forget to toast yer buns.)