Defrankenfurtication: The Hot Dog Deconstructed

Brian Underwood — Sun, 01 Apr 2012 12:08:36 +0000

Deconstruction is all the rage these days, and why not? What better way to get in touch with the true nature of the foods you eat than by presenting them in an incomplete state of preparation? The eyes get to linger over the process, getting a peek behind the curtain at the magic of what the mouth is about to pulverize.

Nowhere is this rage more prevalent than in the burgeoning world of deconstructed hot dogs. Graduated from the humble franks of childhood, today’s hot dogs offer a degree of sophistication normally reserved for wines, cheeses, and salted caramel Red Vine varietals.

Chew’s Original De-Dog. Photo: Wendy Goodfriend

The Mission stalwart Chew naturally comes first to mind for defrankenfurtication. Master Chef Ian Golenz isn’t afraid to brandish his gritty Bronx roots while serving up 2,000 of his celebrated De-Dogs a day with an ironic sneer. Sometimes credited with the invention of the deconstructed dog, Golenz is more widely understood to have perfected its craft. “I like keeping it real,” says Golenz in between assaulting various members of the line of customers spilling out the door.

Golenz’ De-Dog is a classic, encompassing all four primary elements of the platonic ideal sausage: gristle, casing, filler, and meat, which may be enjoyed separately—with or without the housemade locally-sourced cracked wheat crouton “buns”—combined on the plate, in the mouth, or in the stomach.

The specific fillers and gristle components vary seasonally, but always playfully juxtapose under Golenz’ artful eye. This rainy spring’s ingredients include semi-organic fair-trade toasted genmai cha, an imported cloven “marshmallow” foam peanut, Swingline free-range staples, unherbed raw paleo-polenta, combed Persian-Siamese blend cheveux de chat, a spring-inspired inductive jacketed copper coil, partially nontoxic meat-inspired paste resting atop a bed of kaffir lemon leaf, young porchetta entrails casing, and housemade balsamic mustard and curried ketchup.

By popular request, Chew has also expanded its undogged offerings to include the vegetarian Vee-Dog, gluten-free Gee-Dog, and organic Oh-Dog.

But Chew is no longer the only hot dog undoer in town. The DogGoneDooDahDawgz truck, normally found a few blocks away, offers a strong beanless frank in a more portable package. Proprietor and weekend DJ Keira Von Houten takes a different approach, employing an Acme torpedo roll as her canvas, making for a contained sausage explosion that can be assembled into a conveniently carryable unit, for those who want to ruin the experience.

DogGoneDooDahDawgz’ DooDah Dawg. Photo: Wendy Goodfriend

The DooDah Dawg centers on foraged fillers and innovative meatlike substances. The cageless Souris Ranch mouse lends it its truffulent earthiness, providing both the skeletal calcium and fuzzy texture reminiscent of the most humbly generic-brand wiener. While the seasonings vary from dawg to dawg, some recurring favorites have included paprika-infused salt-roasted Phillips-head screws, sidewalk-harvested urban baby greens, pickled rolled baby oats with knitted twine and root vegetable confit, prescription-strength locally distilled pseudoephedrine pods, and the unexpectedly bittersweet tang of Bavarian stoat-milk ghee. This plus Von Houten’s bold use of condiment packets in lieu of sausage casings emphasizes her willingness to offer a new spin on traditional ingredients.

Next time you find yourself fatigued by the Bay Area’s unrestrained deliciousness, it’s worth taking a break from proper quality to remind yourself of classic ballpark culinary masochism taken to its next logical stage.

Tumblr: Chew SF
Twitter: @DogGoneDooDah

Bourdain: Eat, Ink, and Be Merry

Brian Underwood — Sat, 30 May 2009 05:55:29 +0000

Photo by geminder

Anthony Bourdain does not come off as a man easily rendered speechless — but he may have met his match.

His talk on Thursday night at Flint Center brought out an eclectic crowd of spirited and often rowdy foodies, many of whom seemed quite capable of getting into a bar fight over the relative merits of Anderson Valley Pinots versus Amador zin. Fortunately no fists flew, just steady waves of enthusiasm at Bourdain’s dynamic dissertation of Food Network gossip, friendly bashing of Alice Waters and Rachel Ray, and tales of his culinary philosophy and many testicle-eating adventures.

“No Reservations” often details some of the bizarre foods he ingests when traveling abroad, which he explains in terms of social propriety: often he is the guest of local families, who often have very little material wealth, but who generously put forth some of their most cherished cuisine. If they were to offer their honored guest the platter of poached puppy dog heads that would normally feed the family for the whole month, then it would be unconscionably rude to refuse the gift on the grounds of pickiness, squeamishness, or heaven forbid, vegetarianism. He professes a more rabidly inclusive form of gastronomic diplomacy.

While taking audience questions, he called on one fellow who had been interjecting various yells throughout the talk — “F— EMERIL!”, for example — addressing him as “you, the angry, belligerent dude in the hat.” The Mr. Belligerent said something about a tattoo, and Bourdain invited him onto stage to provide proof.

The madly grinning Mr. B took the stage and lifted his pant leg for all to see. His entire right thigh was tattooed with Bourdain’s face, looking brusquely cherubic as a softly lit Stevie Nicks in a biker bar.

Clearly Bourdain sees many unusual things in his travels, but his own face on the body of someone he didn’t know left him looking some combination of flattered and mortified. It may have at least been reassuring to note that the other limbs bore similar portraits in ink, a walking Pantheon of Food Network personalities: Mario on the forearm, Alton on the shin, Fieri not visible in polite company…

Mr. B, having leveraged his unique opportunity to win over the roaring crowd, handed his idol a Sharpie and asked him to autograph the leg. Bourdain could have easily signed at the knee or even refused and called security, but instead, reaffirming his unflappability, urged Mr. B to hike the cuff up a little further, to get the scribble right onto the bikini line.

I can only assume he will remember the incident as Cupertino’s gift of poached puppy dog heads.

Bay Area Bites » Brian Underwood

Defrankenfurtication: The Hot Dog Deconstructed

Bourdain: Eat, Ink, and Be Merry