Deconstructing a Classic Hot Dog
I Reverse Engineered the Elements that Make Up the Texas Wiener at Scranton's Coney Island Lunch.
A big part of what makes hot dog culture in the United States so interesting—to me, at least—is the individuality of it all.
Whatever rules there may be in Hot Dog Land, they serve only as the broadest of guidelines and are meant to be broken as often as not. Nearly every shack or stand that puts out a classic dog is an independent, family-owned operation with years of experience to their credit. And they usually do things in a way completely unique to themselves. They march to their own drummer and don’t care a jot what the competition is up to or what the public thinks, as long as people line up and order. (The strictures governing Chicago hot dogs are perhaps the most hidebound. But you have to remember, only Chicago does hot dogs the way it does. So that’s a case of an entire city, as opposed to a single operator, calling its own tune. Same principle, just on a bigger scale.)
I was reminded of this truth recently when I paid a visit to Coney Island Lunch in Scranton, Pennsylvania. In my opinion, that shop is the author of one of the best hot dogs in the country. I don’t say that because they do a specific style of dog better than everyone else. I say it because they do their own thing, which happens to be one of the best things going, and a thing I have found nowhere else.
The name of the place, which was founded in 1923, would indicate that they do a Coney Island-type hot dog, which is a style more commonly seen in the Midwest. But that’s not what they do. They sell a Hot Texas Weiner, a regional style tied to northern New Jersey and parts of Pennsylvania and New York State which traditionally involves a dog topped with chopped onion, mustard and a chili sauce that is homemade and particular to each particular place. (Truthfully, the differences between Coneys and Texas Wieners are minor, usually involving the type of dog used and how its cooked. Both styles call for chili sauce, onion and mustard as toppings, and both originated with Greek immigrants. Interestingly, Coneys have nothing really to do with Coney Island and Texas Wieners have zero to do with Texas.)
That said, Coney Island Lunch’s house dog breaks several Texas Wiener rules.
For one, the dog is split open lengthwise and grilled that way. For another, the chili sauce is unusual. Chili sauce can make or break a Texas Wiener. Some sauces are better than others. Most are dense and have a taste I can best describe as dark. They are bitter and acrid and taste strongly of chili power and cayenne. The chili sauce at Coney Island Lunch is closer to the fragrant, aromatic meat sauce that goes over Cincinnati Chili. It is the most delicious hot dog chili sauce I’ve ever tasted.
But the most significant detour Coney Island Lunch takes is in its bun, which is unusual to say the least. It’s a small rectangular bun that I would never call a hot dog bun, and isn’t a hamburger bun either. It lives somewhere in between, which is probably why Coney Island Lunch uses it for both their hot dogs and hamburgers, which they also call “Texas.” (I don’t know if this is sacrilege or not, but sometimes I think their hamburger is better than their hot dog—a rarity among hot dog places.)
On a recent visit to Coney Island Lunch, three things happened that got me wondering if I could perhaps recreate their signature hot dog at home. First, I noticed some stacked palates piled with packages of the strange buns in question. The labels said National Bakery, a local kosher bakery. Then, as I approached the cashier to pay, I saw a man with a large take-out order. Among the items he had appeared to be containers of the house chili sauce.
“Can you buy the chili sauce?” I asked. “Pint or quart,” was the answer. I bought a pink of frozen chili sauce for $5.
“Now maybe I can make these at home,” I said to the cashier.
“You can try,” chimed in the take-out man. “But it won’t by the same, because they won’t be cooked on that grill by that man.” He gestured to Pete Ventura, the co-owner of Coney Island Lunch, who puts together every hot dog and hamburger. The business was started by his grandfather Steve Karampilas, a Greek immigrant.
That may be so. But I decided to try anyway. My next stop was the National Bakery, a ten minute drive from Coney Island Lunch. It was a simple, utilitarian building with a small shop inside. I spotted what I thought were the correct buns. They were called “All-Purpose Rolls.” (They sure got that name right!)
“Are these the same rolls they use at Coney Island Lunch,” I asked. The woman behind the counter said there were.
Now I had two of the elements in hand. Back home in Brooklyn, I wrote to Coney Island Lunch asking what brand of hot dog they used. I knew they used Berks, a brand founded in Reading, PA, in 1933. But which Berks? The company made many types of hot dogs. About a week later, I got a reply from Pete Venture himself:
Hi Robert,
We only use Berks All Beef and have for the 34 years. Other area restaurants use a beef and pork dog from Schiffs or Gutheinz. Since we split the dog on the grill, pork in the dogs creates grease like cooking bacon. That’s why beef is better. We used Schumacher’s natural casing beef hot dogs from ‘23 till ‘72. When Federal inspected meats took effect we used Tobins First Prize, John Morrell and Kahn’s before settling on Berks. We tried Gutheinz in ‘82 but they were too short and fatty.
Hope this helps!
So, I needed Berks all-beef hot dogs. There was a problem, though. Berks is a fairly regional product, largely sold in Pennsylvania. There is no store in New York City that carries Berks. I called the company and they said my best bet was to order the hot dogs online through Amazon. That’s what I did. They arrived a day later.
The chopped onions were self-explanatory. The mustard was specified by Coney Island Lunch as Düsseldorf mustard, a style of mustard long associated with that German city. I bought a jar of Alstertor Düsseldorf Mustard, which is made in Germany and is widely available on the east coast.
And so armed, one Sunday afternoon I went to work. I diced up a white onion. I heated up a portion of the chili sauce. I split open a Berk’s all-beef hot dog and grilled in on both sides in a cast iron pan. I cut open an “All-Purpose Roll” from National bakery. I slathered the top side of the role with mustard and placed the grilled dog on the other. I sprinkled the dog with diced onion and ladled on a good amount of chili sauce, and then topped the works with the other side of the bun.
Did it taste like a Coney Island Lunch Texas wiener? Yes. Yes, it did. The take-out man wasn’t wrong. Just as a cocktail made by a skilled bartender will have an mysterious edge over that same cocktail made by you with exactly the same ingredients at home, the seasoned grill and its seasoned grill man at Coney Island Lunch did contribute a certain something. What that is, I couldn’t tell you. That same extra thing old pizza ovens lend to pizza, I guess. And certainly, a large pot of chili sauce simmering over many hours is going to have a richer flavor and more lingering heat than a small amount quickly heated up on the stove.
Still, I could hand the hot dog that I built to a friend and say, “Here’s something pretty close to what you would get at Coney Island Lunch” without any fear of defaming the restaurant.
But, after that, I’d recommend my friend go to the restaurant itself. And order a Texas burger, too. And bring me along.
We’re going to Skyline the next time you’re in Louisville!
I’ve never been to Scranton but now I’d like to visit. How does the sauce compare to the meat sauce on Rhode Island Coneys?