That there is the Colombian Street Dog from Cafe Racer, a place I've never been to, located in the far-eastern ass crack of Seward - and, holy shit, this is our first ever Seward post (?), near where the old Dead Media was on E 25th, and if this is how they do a hotdog, I'm telling you right now to stop everything in your life and give them all your money like the filthy little pay pigs you are.
Ctrl+C'd from the brunch menu:
Beef or soy dog on a soft bun, topped with sriracha and cilantro aiolis, pomme frites, pickled sweet peppers, pico, queso
Uh-huh. I see this and I'm like, "I think I need that in my life."
So I bike over there and I'm - well, we know my hangups with class disparity from my triplet of Wedgetable reviews. I have a feeling for sure that Charlie from the trailer park in his cut-off shorts and his beat up Tigers cap is going to catch the odd glance in his direction but I want that fucking hotdog and my money's as green as any other cocksucker's so this is what we're doing today.
I pop around and the sign asks me to wait to be seated and I check in with the lady behind the counter, take a seat at the counter, and order a Coke. They apparently have a beer and wine selection but it's one thirty in the afternoon and I'm here to have a fucking hotdog. What the fuck I need a beer for?
I talk with the other lady there about their soy dog option because I'm about that soy dog life and if it aint Smart Dogs or Tofu Pups, I aint fuckin' with it. Well, she's not sure who does their tofu dogs but assures me that all the stuff on the dog... and it's all made in house... and I'm not trying to be a dick about this but I just need her to answer me about the goddamned soy dogs because I'm mister picky baby pollotarian over here, making shit complicated for everybody involved. I realize my fault here and say fuck it, for the second time in forty eight hours, I eat beef.
Not. The. Biggest. Deal. In. The. World.
So I bet you're wondering how this tasted?
Holy shit.
Sometimes you want the simple catsup and mustard dog off the grill, other times you want to go fancy but you don't know how to go fancy. This motherfucker solved the fancy problem.
The frank tasted like a quality beef frank, possibly Vienna, probably not; the casing didn't have that famed "snap" which to me has always been squeezing ground beef out of a toothpaste tube; I don't know why people like those fucking things. This frank had a more forgiving casing.
What they call pico, I'm not sure I saw or tasted. Even looking at the picture right now, I mean, I get it. They say pico, not pico de gallo, pico could be any variation on that, I guess.
The pickled sweet peppers were an amazing choice to balance the umami of the frank and the garlic tang and and spice of the sriracha aioli.
But the real knuckleduster in violation of county ordinance was the cilantro aioli. Goddamn, I was swiping my finger through the drops on the plate. It really shined through and bridged the gap between the sriracha aioli, the peppers, and the frank. I would never have thought of this combination before and, as a matter of fact, I have all the fixins for this concoction in my fridge right now. I don't know if I could make an exact replica but that won't stop me from trying because, goddamn, I want this all the time now.
I'll be going back to check out the rest of their menu offerings.
I said it up top, I'll say it again: Go give them all your money.
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