Green Grass and Spicy Chili Dogs Forever

Pat’s Hubba Hubba
24 North Main St.
Port Chester, NY



New York City is full of strange paradoxes.

Like how some people actually voluntarily choose to live here.

Like how if you walk down any sidewalk in Queens you will hear every language known to man – except English.

Like how it is perfectly legal for men to marry men, but you go to prison for two years if you accidently shoot yourself in the leg.

Or like how the leafy, hoity-toitiest suburbs northeast of New York are such a hot bed for America’s ultimate blue collar junk food: the hot dog.

Or like how chili dog parlors all over America name their delicacies after a Brooklyn amusement park.

I could go on and on.

But the strangest paradox to a junk food road warrior like me is how if you want a chili dog in Houston, you have to ask for a “Coney Island.” But if you want one in New York, it’s a “Texas hot” you’re looking for.

Weird.

I’m sure it has something to do with marketing – and the old “grass is always greener” theory.

Have you ever noticed how everyone thinks the town they grew up in is totally lame? No matter how cool that town happens to be?

I feel sorry for kids who grow up in really cool places like Charleston, La Jolla or New Orleans.

Think about.

Like all teenagers, they desperately yearn to break free from the lame-ass chains that bind them to their home town – only to discover that every other town in America…

…is even lamer.

That must be REALLY depressing.

To a Texan, maybe “Coney Island” conjures up fun-filled Ferris wheel images of a bustling metropolis far to the north.

To a New Yorker, there’s nothing more exotic than Texas.

Well, except maybe for Boston.

For decades now, Hubba’s has been serving “Texas hots” just a stone’s throw from the Byram River that separates New York from Greenwich, Connecticut – one of America’s richest zip codes.

Right here in a five foot wide dive whose décor consists of dollar bills stapled floor to ceiling and a scattering of paper plates with hand scrawled menu items.

But almost nobody orders anything but one menu item – Hubba’s world famous “Texas hot”.

And when they say “hot’, they aren’t kidding. These New Yorkers must think all Texans eat nothing but a steady diet of jalapeño and habenero peppers for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

The chili is nothing but browned ground beef mixed up with an explosion of peppery spice. No tomatoes. No onions. No vegetables whatsoever.

Just dead cow and spice. Oh, and lots and lots of grease.

I’m talking spice that makes your lips sting and your nose run.

The kind of spice that makes you instinctively reach for your beer after every bite.

But, alas, Hubba’s doesn’t serve beer.

In fact, Hubba’s is more famous as the kind of place you go to late at night – when you are done drinking beer. That’s why it stays open until 5am.

That spice alone should sober you up.

The hot dogs that are slathered with this incendiary chili are top notch, split open and pressed on the griddle until crispy and brown – a perfect complement to the wallop of spice.

As I swallowed my last bite and admired the pool of grease left over on my paper plate and tried to quench the fire in my mouth with Hudson River tap water, I thought a little deeper about my “grass is always greener” theory.

Part of what makes my gig as a Suit in Strange Places so much fun is that I can appreciate the coolness of every nook and cranny of this great country of ours.

I mean, I can actually get excited about eating grease-dripping “Texas hots” in some phone booth-sized dive in the suburbs of New York City.

But you know what? That deep sense of appreciation comes naturally when you grew up in one of the single lamest places in America.

Yep. Like every other teenager on the planet, young Suit757 couldn’t wait to break free of his Yankee prison of lameness.

And unlike those poor kids who grew up in Charleston, La Jolla and New Orleans, I haven’t been disappointed a moment since my escape!

On to greener pastures!

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

The Thrill of Cincinnati Chili is Never Gone

Camp Washington Chili
3005 Colerain Ave.
Cincinnati, OH





I can’t believe we’re up to 200 reviews on this website and no one has covered one of this country’s greatest regional delicacies – Cincinnati Chili.

Well, my dear Suits in Strange Places readers, Suit757 is just the man for the job.

And Camp Washington Chili in the old meat packing section of the city, not far from where the Reds played ball at Crosley Field for three quarters of a century, is just the place to start.

Like many of America’s great culinary traditions (think pizza, French Fries and cheap Chinese delivery), Cincinnati’s unique version of chili was originated by an immigrant.

When Tom Kiradjieff arrived in the Queen City almost a century ago from Greece, he brought with him a delicious recipe of ground beef, tomatoes and exotic Mediterranean spices that Cincinnatians have been lapping up ever since.

The city now has over 150 chili parlors ranging from big chains with dozens of outposts to small independents like Camp Washington. If you’re in Cincinnati and hungry and can’t find one, you’re not trying very hard.

In our homogenized information age we live in, I’m surprised Cincinnati chili hasn’t caught on nationally.

But in a way, I’m glad.

Nothing extinguishes a pleasant craving like too easy access.

Not to get all overly sappy about a pile of spicy ground beef, but you don’t want to end up like B.B. King where “The Thrill is Gone.”

Since I can only get it a few times a year, indulging in Cincinnati chili is one of those crave-worthy moments that still makes life worth living.

Worth getting up in the morning. And enduring TSA lines. And being fondled by blue-gloved federal agents.

First of all, the aroma of Cincinnati chili is like your grandmother’s kitchen on Christmas Eve.

Sweet and spicy at the same time. Your senses are immediately piqued by the onion, peppers, cinnamon and ground cloves.

Nope. The thrill is definitely NOT gone.

As delicious as it is, no one eats Cincinnati chili straight. You must get it served over spaghetti. With a mountain of shredded cheese piled on top.

That’s known at every chili parlor in Cincinnati as a “Three-Way.”

But why stop there?

A “Four-Way” adds onions. A “Five-Way” adds beans too.

Normally, Suit757 is a “Five-Way” guy all the way. Extra large.

But since I was hoping to save a little room for a Graeter’s double-scoop of chocolate chip at Fountain Square and a Great American Ballpark grilled Mett with peppers and onions at the Reds game in a few short hours, I decided to go a little easy today with a regular sized “Four-Way”.

I wasn’t disappointed. Never am.

Camp Washington’s version is a just a bit spicier than the big chain chili parlors like Skyline and Gold Star. The Camp’s spaghetti is a little thicker too, which reduces the catastrophic splatter effect Cincinnati chili always seems to take all over my Barry Larkin replica jersey (at least the color is right).

Almost as good as the “Four-Way” is the second most famous delivery vehicle for Cincinnati chili – the Coney.

These are little three or four bite hot dogs smothered in chili and buried under an avalanche of shredded cheese. And a few diced onions for good measure.

Hot dog heaven!

Camp Washington can’t claim to be the originator of Cincinnati Chili. None of the city’s parlors can.

Tom Kiradjieff’s original chili parlor, located next door to a strip joint called “The Empress”, is long gone.

But Camp Washington is the next best thing.

Founded in 1940, Camp Washington has been serving Cincinnati’s favorite meal here at the corner of Colerain and Hopple Streets since Hall of Famer Ernie Lombardi was crouching behind Crosley Field's home plate.

Johnny Johnson, another one of Cincinnati’s Greek immigrants, began making chili here in 1951.

And guess what?

He’s still here making that chili.

Unfortunately, the current building is not the original. That was torn down a few years ago and replaced with a gleaming, freshly scrubbed 21st Century chili parlor.

While comfortable and popular, the new version of Camp Washington lacks the nostalgia such a seven decade old chili parlor deserves.

The new atmosphere is more like highway exit ramp Steak N Shake.

But that’s OK.

When my senses are awakened by the aroma and taste of those ground cloves and my fork cuts through the top of that mound of finely shredded cheese and sweetly spicy pile of chili and spaghetti, I’m not even thinking about ambiance.

By the time I polished off the last bites of my “Four-Way” and Coney and took the last swig from my Amstel Light, all I could think about was how long it would be before I can get back to Cincinnati.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

Chili Dog Autopsy Pizza???

Bella Pizza
6709 Park Ave.
Allen Park, MI


I hate Detroit.

There is absolutely NOTHING redeeming about this rust-belt, union-dominated, burned-out hell-hole of a city.

That is, except, chili dogs.

Or “Coney Islands”, as they call them here.

Look, as Suit757, I’ve been to every city in America. I can rank them from one to one hundred.

Detroit is DEAD last. Numero infinity. The very last place on earth I want to be stranded over a holiday weekend.

Amid the smoldering ruins, charred cinder blocks and hoards of Obama legions collecting their 99 weeks of pay in exchange for NOT working (and their vote in 2012), the only thing to look forward to in this Third World outpost is a world famous chili dog at Lafayette Coney Island or it’s next door rival, American Coney Island.

Here’s the problem.

Tonight is Major League Baseball All-Star Game Night.

One of the few Suit757 must-see sporting events of the year. Right up there with the Super Bowl, Daytona 500, March Madness and the Hooters Dream Girls Swimsuit Quarterfinals.

Nope. Sorry, my loyal Suits in Strange Places readers, I’m not going out tonight.

I’m swinging by the local liquor store for a six-pack and sitting my butt in front of the snowy Best Western TV in room 164. And calling for pizza delivery.

The helpful front desk clerk even gave me a menu from Bella Pizza, the local pizza joint down the street, which I perused as the All-Stars were introduced.

It didn’t take me long to figure out what Suit757 was ordering tonight.

Coney Island Pizza.

Wow!

I think I’ve died and gone to junk food heaven.

A classic Detroit Coney Island chili dog – served as a pizza!

Could it be?

Do miracles happen? In Detroit??

I was about to find out.

Even if my Coney Island Pizza was a disaster, I had a six pack of Celis Grand Cru by local microbrewery Michigan Brewing Company to keep me satisfied through nine innings of double-switches and pitching changes. (Who the hell decided that 84 major leagers deserved to be “All-Stars” any way?)

The brew is a high alcohol Belgian-style beer with a typical sweet, fruity taste that is more conducive to sipping than chugging.

You know the whole “beer to have when you are having more than one?”

Yeah. This ain’t it.

Good thing Bella delivered that pizza just in time for the Seventh Inning Stretch.

Did the Bella Coney Island Pizza meet my heightened expectations?

Blown. Away.

Like Bella did an autopsy on a traditional Detroit Coney Chili Dog and smothered its remains all over a chewy pizza crust.

Picture this. Sliced up hot dogs and caramelized onions buried under a blanket of cheddar cheese served up over a thick bed of meaty Coney Island chili sauce.

It tasted like one of the best Coney Island chili dogs you’ll ever have – but served up on a toasty slice of pizza.

If Bella Pizza ever goes public, I want in on the I.P.O.

In fact, my Coney Island Pizza was so good, I might even reconsider my opinion of Detroit as the most godforsaken place in America.

“Mo Town” may be the ultimate home to taxpayers bailouts, “hip hop mayors” serving jail time and “job banks” of UAW members being paid six figures NOT to work, but they sure know how to get creative with the toppings on twelve inches of pizza dough.

Chopped up hot dogs and chili on pizza, Belgian-Michigan beer and the American past-time – from the inside of room 164 at the Best Western, Detroit’s not looking so bad after all!

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Coney Confusion

Heid’s of Liverpool
305 Oswego St.
Liverpool, NY

When you are a connoisseur of roadside junk food like me, you see the word “Coney” on a lot of menu boards.

The mere sight of the word makes my mouth water.

This, despite the fact that word is nearly meaningless – at least to a rambling man like me. It means something different in every region of the country.

In New York City, where hot dogs were supposedly invented on Coney Island a century ago, Coneys are personified by Nathan’s Hot Dogs. In Cincinnati, a Coney is a tiny three bite dog buried under a mound of sweet clove-flavored chili and shredded cheese. In Detroit and Northern Indiana, a Coney is code for chili dog.

Of course none of this is any problem for the natives of these places. When they tell the guy in the funny hat behind the counter they want a “Coney”, they know exactly what they are getting.

Me, on the other hand? I had no idea what I was getting when I ordered “one frank and one Coney” at the counter of 94-year-old Heid’s just a mile or two from the Syracuse Airport.

Of course, randomly ordering tubes of mystery meat is all part of the fun of being a Suit in Strange Places.

Even when you don’t know exactly what you just ordered, when you do it after standing in a long line at a century old institution, you know it is going to be good.

Whatever “it” is.

Turns out, a Coney in upstate New York is a white-colored beef/pork/veal dog resembling a Wisconsin bratwurst. But with a bit of a spicy kick.

Who knew?

Everyone but me.

The place was packed, with a line out the door.

Patience is definitely not one of Suit757’s virtues.

I hate standing in line. Especially when I have 30 minutes to eat and get to the airport to fly to my next obscure corner of America.

I stand in enough lines courtesy of the crotch-groping liberty-robbers at the TSA.

I almost turned heal and headed back to the rental car in search of a McDonald’s drive-thru.

I’m glad I didn’t.

Fortunately, the line moves pretty quickly. Like I said, everyone but me knows exactly what they want on the surprisingly extensive Heid’s menu board.

One other thing everyone wants – to sit outside.

The outdoor picnic tables under the big tent were packed with what seemed like half the town of Liverpool. I guess that is understandable considering the types of winters folks in this corner of the country have to endure six months out of the year.

The crusty brown dripping piles of snow had barely melted in the Heid’s parking lot and folks here were itching for fresh air. Never mind the fact that the 60 degree temperatures, 20 mph winds and occasional spitting rain were a bit brisk for my rebel blood.

Spring fever in Liverpool!

But hey, I guess I’d feel the same way if I spent half the year buried under 42 feet of snow smack dab in the middle of America’s lake effect snow belt.

After a bit of research, I figured out what I had ordered. The frank is the red one. The Coney is the white one.

Both were generous sized and delicious. The frank had a crisp char and a mild taste. The Coney was even better with a touch of spice.

I washed them down with a local Adirondack microbrew served in a plastic cup. The perfect quick pre-groping late-afternoon lunch.

My only regret was not trying more of the extensive menu like French fries, onion rings and chili, which would have gone perfectly spread over the top of that zesty white Coney.

I mean, just think of the strategic advantage I have. I now know what the heck I’m ordered when I ask for a Heid’s “Coney”.

Oh, well. Next time.

When you are Suit757, there will almost always be a next time.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Welcome To The Wiener’s Circle

Coney Island Wiener Stand
131 West Main St.
Fort Wayne, IN

Sometimes finding a cool place to eat is counter-intuitive.

If a place has a hysterically uncool sounding name, chances are, it’s a cool place to eat.

I mean, would you eat at a place called Coney Island Wiener Stand?

In all my decades on this planet I don’t think I’ve ever used the word “wiener” in a sentence. I don’t think anyone else in the last half century has either.

At least no one I hang out with.

So any place with a name like Coney Island Wiener Stand has got to have been around a while.

Try 96 years to be exact.

Packing them in for 96 years. There was barely a place to sit on this cold mid-winter Monday in Northern Indiana.

The menu board is short with a few extraneous things like burgers and fries. But no body orders those.

Everyone comes here for Coneys.

The Coney Island hot dog is one of those quirky culinary footnotes of Americana.

How does the name of an amusement park in New York City get attached to a popular Midwestern junk food delicacy?

Beats the heck out of me.


Some claim the hot dog was first introduced to America by a German immigrant at Coney Island in the 1870s. But that doesn’t explain why the distinctive Midwestern version, smothered in chili sauce, mustard and raw onions still carries the name of its distant ancestor a century and a half later.

You can find Coney Islands all over the Midwest from Chili parlors to family restaurants to specialty wiener stands like this one.


Fort Wayne’s version is delicious and satisfying. They go light on the chili, heavy on the onions, nicely complimenting the mild taste of the hot dog.

But like the inexplicable popularity of White Castle burgers, the bun here steals the show.

Fresh from the bakery and steamed to a pliable softness, these hot dog buns serve as much more than a delivery vehicle for processed meat. It’s the soft deliciousness of the buns that make these Coneys so addictive.

This is a lunch that hits the spot without hitting the wallet. After one of the best lunches I’ve had in days, the bill came to a whopping total of $2.70, including tax.

I left a 50% tip – and still felt guilty about it.

But that’s Midwesterners for you. Traditional. Frugal. And old fashioned enough after nearly a century to keep flocking to a place named Coney Island Wiener Stand.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.