Dishing Out the Story on Hot Dogs

Johann Georg Lahner, Charles Fellman, Antonio Ludwig Feuchlwanger, Chris von der Ahe. Gentlemen, you are my kind of folk.

Not only do we share a bit of German ancestry, but we also share love of the hot dog. Wikipedia listed you guys in the explaining of the creation of a hot dog.

You are inventors; while I’m just an eater, a very happy one. Johann, Charles, Antonio and Chris are mentioned in the creation, but no one really knows how the hot dog entered our universe.

It’s really a riddle wrapped up (or in this case, encased) in an enigma. Frankly (no pun intended), the creation of the hot dog would make a great novel, especially if the pages were covered in mustard and relish with grilled onions.

Here’s the skinny on the dog: When Maximillian II had his coronation, a pork sausage was wrapped in a bun, and it was a meal fit for a king. That’s the royalty of the dog.

With my guys, Lahner was a Bavarian butcher in the 18th and 19th centuries who came up with the frankfurter. Fellman sold his sausages in a roll at Coney Island in 1870, while Feuchlwanger peddled his version on the World’s Fair circuit, either the 1893 World Columbian Exposition in Chicago or the 1904 Louisiana Purchase Exposition in St. Louis.

When my time machine is complete, I’m going to go back to each of them as part of my research. I'd be eating vintage dogs. For now, I spend most of the time eating hot dogs rather than figuring out this mystery of the hot dog. While I wait for the book or video or movie (it would be a blockbuster), I’ll have two Chicago-style with all the fixings.

Ah, Chicago dogs. The creation that almost separated me from my wife.

While waiting for a flight to leave out of the Windy City’s O’Hare Airport, I smelled that delicious aroma of a dog being cooked. “I’ll be right back,” I said, leaving my wife with our carry-on luggage. “I’ll return in plenty of time. Besides, we have a half-hour even before the plane boards." After all, how long can it take to get a couple of dogs? Oh, about 29 minutes. That was after there was one person ahead of me.

“I’m from London,” he said to the hot dog creator behind the stand. “I love these things. Give me 12 Chicago dogs.” As the clock ticked, I waited and waited. The hot dog creator was on about the seventh creation when I realized I was in danger of staying in Chicago instead of flying back to Boston.

No. 8. How bad can it be if I don’t make the plane? I’ll just change my ticket and take a cab home. My wife won’t mind flying alone. She’s done that before. You know, these dogs smell real good.

No. 9: “When I lived in Chicago, I ate these things every day for lunch,” said the man from London to me as the sweat was pouring down my face. My wife wouldn't be happy if she had to fly home minus her hubby. I was probably better off going in the other direction if I missed the plane. You know, California for a few weeks wouldn’t have been such a bad thing. I’d get some sun and maybe she wouldn’t be so mad at me.

No. 10: “I’ve got friends who can’t wait to eat these things,” said the man from London to the hot dog creator. I was getting mad, probably just as mad as I was when I was 5 and tried to get one at a Thanksgiving Day football game. I waited for a hour-half before proudly announcing, “I want a hot dog, please.” The response broke my heart. “Sorry, little fella, no hot dogs today, just doughnuts.”

No. 11: “Final call for boarding for Boston.” Well, I could walk away, hot-dog-less and eat the nuts on the plane. No, I was too close to hot dog delicious. Mr. London was almost done, while the hot dog creator was putting the celery salt on the next to last dog.

No. 12: I couldn't believe this guy was going to eat 12 of these beautiful creations. I just wanted two and I’d be out of here and on to Boston. “Thank you.”

Now it was my turn. “I want two and make it fast. No chitchat.” While I was relishing the opportunity to eat my dog, this was no way to treat a hot dog creator.

“Last boarding for Boston.” I grabbed the dogs, threw a $20 on the counter and made a mad sprint for the gate.

Just as the door was closing, I squeezed in and got to my seat. “Did you remember the extra napkins?” my wife asked. Of course, I never remember the extra napkins. That's one of things that keeps me from passing the mustard as a husband.

I was breathing heavily after my sprint through the airport, and my blood pressure was soaring. But then, I took a bite of my hot dog. Life was perfect again. I was in hot dog heaven ...Chicago-version.