Le Chien Chaud: French for Hangover Cure

Usually when traveling in France, I stick to a balanced diet of wine and duck fat. But one night on a recent trip, I wound up at Harry’s New York Bar, drinking rye Old Fashioneds the size of the Empire State Building. They were good. Too good, in fact.

I’d been planning to hop a train at 7 am the next morning and spend the day cycling around the Alsace. But needless to say, when I woke, my vice-like headache and slack-limbed body indicated that was not to be. Instead, I dozed till noon and then spent all the energy I could muster dragging my bleary self out into the streets of the Marais. Only then (thank god) did I find it – a thoroughly American cure for my thoroughly American hangover, right there in Paris: a real, honest to goodness, dirty water dog.

Maybe there are some people on whom tube steaks don’t act as a curative. I leave them to their green tea and lettuce wraps. Not me. To my mind, there are few moods that a hot dog can’t improve, few aches it can’t soothe. I’m not picky. I’ll take ‘em grilled, fried, boiled, or baked; topped with sauerkraut and yellow mustard, lined with ketchup, smeared with relish, strewn with onions, peppered with pickles, or smothered in chili; morning, noon, or night. (In fact, Frankies, one of my favorite frankfurter purveyors in Connecticut, serves a killer breakfast dog. Trendmakers, take note: the bacon, egg, and cheese has competition.)

So, it was like a beneficent mirage, that Pat’s Hot Dog — a (literal) hole in the wall along the Rue de Roi de Sicile — appeared in front of me. It’s a simple place, one that does one thing and does it well. (Ok, it does two things: Pat’s also serves spaghetti. But for God’s sake, get the hot dog!) For 2.50 Euro, I was handed a six-inch frank, pulled from a kettle of warm water, and nestled in a soft white American-style bun. You won’t be building a Chicago-style dog here; the toppings offered are sparse, though top notch. Just a squeeze bottle of ketchup, dijon mustard, sliced pickles, and the pièce de résistance: a confit d’ oignon. Spread in a thin layer under the warm sausage, the melting, sweet and savory spread is the little French twist that elevates this typical ballpark frank into something ever so slightly more worldly. It was so good, I’m making it at home now. (Isn’t that the best kind of souvenir?)

It only required one hot dog that day to set me back on course — but my serendipitous stumble on Pat’s made me curious about the world of Parisian hot dogs. Were they simply for (home)sick tourists like me? Or had  they joined the ranks of the French’s other beloved saucisse?

Meg, from Too Many Chefs, writes here about her love affair with Le Super Hot Dog, a Franco-adaptation of the American hot dog that can be found in cheap cafes serving students and workers. But these are not your typical cart dogs. As  usual, the French have taken an American classic only to inspire their own. Meg’s favorite dog came “encased in a crisp baguette, slathered with mustard so hot it made your eyes water, topped with grated gruyère cheese and placed beneath a grill until the cheese was melted and crispy.”  Yowsa. I thank  her for including a recipe. If I drink too much Cahors tonight, I know what I’ll be eating in the morning.