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Jul. 25th, 2008 01:36 pmOMFG.
FOOD COMA.
I've just gotten back from Speed's, known by some as the home of The Finest Hot Dogs In the World. Since "some" includes every newspaper and magazine critic in town, and more recently the Wall Street Journal, this is something that's been on my to-do list for a few years.
Just getting there is halfway between a trek and an odyssey. You ride the bus as far south as you can, get off before it makes its right turn, and then the fun REALLY starts since you have to....wait, no, why spoil the fun of the hunt for you? Part of Speed's charm is that he's not in Fenway or hanging out on City Hall Plaza with the Phantom Gourmet, he's just doing his thing, his AMAZING thing, in a little truck parked by the side of the road in a part of town a lot of locals have never even heard of, and the majority of his customers while I was there were the truckers and factory guys who work in the neighborhood. Honestly, more really good food should be hidden this way--everything tastes better if you've had to quest for it.
I WILL say that it's near both the Chinese Spaghetti Factory (they're wholesalers!) and the State Department of Transitional Assistance, which is so obviously bureaucrat-speak for State Department of Exorcisms that I can't even stand it.
Anyhow. The hot dog.
*pause to shudder with pleasure*
For starters it's the size of a kielbasa, which made it about 3 times as large as I was expecting. Custom-made by a local butcher, marinated and then slow roasted, *then* sliced open and grilled for the customer, before being topped with onions, chili (a special blend they make themselves), mustard (another secret recipe) and a bbq-sweet sauce (Heinz--NO just kidding).
The first bite, I found myself trying to compose a haiku about the experience.
By the fourth bite, I was thinking about Joseph Campbell and how one might create an opera about this hot dog incorporating Star Wars, Norse myth, and local Boston folklore.
By the sixth bite, I realized I'd been holding it wrong and my shirt was in serious trouble.
I think I'm going to go lie down now. On my office floor. They're musicians, they'll understand.
FOOD COMA.
I've just gotten back from Speed's, known by some as the home of The Finest Hot Dogs In the World. Since "some" includes every newspaper and magazine critic in town, and more recently the Wall Street Journal, this is something that's been on my to-do list for a few years.
Just getting there is halfway between a trek and an odyssey. You ride the bus as far south as you can, get off before it makes its right turn, and then the fun REALLY starts since you have to....wait, no, why spoil the fun of the hunt for you? Part of Speed's charm is that he's not in Fenway or hanging out on City Hall Plaza with the Phantom Gourmet, he's just doing his thing, his AMAZING thing, in a little truck parked by the side of the road in a part of town a lot of locals have never even heard of, and the majority of his customers while I was there were the truckers and factory guys who work in the neighborhood. Honestly, more really good food should be hidden this way--everything tastes better if you've had to quest for it.
I WILL say that it's near both the Chinese Spaghetti Factory (they're wholesalers!) and the State Department of Transitional Assistance, which is so obviously bureaucrat-speak for State Department of Exorcisms that I can't even stand it.
Anyhow. The hot dog.
*pause to shudder with pleasure*
For starters it's the size of a kielbasa, which made it about 3 times as large as I was expecting. Custom-made by a local butcher, marinated and then slow roasted, *then* sliced open and grilled for the customer, before being topped with onions, chili (a special blend they make themselves), mustard (another secret recipe) and a bbq-sweet sauce (Heinz--NO just kidding).
The first bite, I found myself trying to compose a haiku about the experience.
By the fourth bite, I was thinking about Joseph Campbell and how one might create an opera about this hot dog incorporating Star Wars, Norse myth, and local Boston folklore.
By the sixth bite, I realized I'd been holding it wrong and my shirt was in serious trouble.
I think I'm going to go lie down now. On my office floor. They're musicians, they'll understand.
