The Dirty Water Dog Dilemma

I was feeling adventurous. After all, it had been a while since I’d had food poisoning. And here I was sitting in my West Village apartment feeling the need to play Russian roulette with my stomach all of a sudden. And that’s when I slipped on my sneakers and pointed myself toward Union Square.

I was going to eat a dirty water dog.

Dirty water dogs, more popularly known around the world as “hot dogs,” were once an ubiquitous street food staple around the Big Apple. I actually didn’t take my first trip to Gotham City until I was 28 but up until that time one of my main images of the city—besides, ya know, people having harsh violence inflicted on them (See: New York in the ‘70s and ‘80s)—was locals and tourists alike standing pleasantly in front of a hot dog cart while the hot dog vender garnished the dog with condiments (of course, a minute later they were probably pummeled and robbed by New York thugs). I’d seen the image of people buying frankfurters on the street here on TV and in movies so many times and it just seemed like the thing to do when one goes to New York.

But I’ve lived here nearly 20 years and had never even considered eating a hot dog on the street, which have earned the nickname “dirty water dog,” incidentally, because the tubular meat sits in lukewarm, murky water all day until enough daring, hungry people either can’t find anything else to eat or are actually wanting to get sick.

Coincidentally enough, my very first bout of food poisoning was from a hot dog. It was 1996 and I was living in Prague. I taught English to students in their offices or homes or in cafes. I was doing well for myself. I had a lot of students and was making a decent income. But I was getting greedy. In order to teach more lessons every day, I began skipping proper meals and just getting a hot dog on the go. Parek v rohliku in Czech was a frankfurter stuffed into a long hollowed-out roll. The red wiener peeked out at you like a dog’s penis. Sounds good, right? Right.

One day it all caught up to me. About 15 minutes after I inhaled a Czech hot dog, my stomach was starting to rumble, and I pointed myself to my apartment bathroom as quickly as I could. I ended up laying in bed, writhing in intense stomach pain for three days, making a promise to the gods that I’d never ever eat a hot dog again.

And so, many years later, here I was on the hunt for a dreaded hot dog in New York City. On my way there, I looked for the familiar blue-and-yellow umbrellas that sit atop the hot dog carts on many street corners. Instead, I walked by six hallal chicken sandwich and kabob carts, three taco trucks, two pretzel carts, and one homeless guy trying to sell me a half-eaten doughnut that he’d named “Jesus.”

But by the time I got to Union Square, there it was: a blue-and-yellow umbrella on the southwest corner. I put my index finger in air indicating I wanted exactly one hot dog, please. The hot dog vender asked: “ketchup, mustard, onions, relish, sauerkraut?”

I went with mustard and sauerkraut, feeling that my palate was in a Teutonic mood.

“This is my first dirty water dog,” I sad. “Should I assume I’m having a date with my toilet tonight?”

The hot dog vender looked up and said: “ketchup, mustard, onions, relish, sauerkraut.” This time without the question mark.

“How many hot dogs do you sell per day?”

“Ketchup, mustard, onions, relish, sauerkraut.”

English wasn’t the hot dog vender’s first language so maybe he wasn’t understanding me. Or was this some kind of clandestine code? Did he think I was part of a tubular meat-loving terrorist sleeper cell and now, after hearing the Five Condiments repeated to me three times, I’d enter into a trance and then strap frankfurters to my body and blow myself up in a vegan restaurant?

Fortunately, not. He handed me the hot dog and smiled. I walked down 14th Street, eating my first dirty water dog. Was it good? Did I get sick? It was really just a hot dog, one that I probably won’t eat again. But that’s beside the point. I just acted out a childhood fantasy. Next up: dating Holly from the TV show Land of the Lost.

As I turned the corner at W. 14th Street and Sixth Avenue, where the homeless man once stood, there was just Jesus, the doughnut, sitting on the sidewalk unloved and still only half eaten.