A day after dropping my youngest daughter Zoey off at college, I sit alone at a table in the corner of a roadside restaurant staring at a two-foot-long grilled hot dog covered with onions, peppers, cheese and bacon.
I am at Doogie’s on the Berlin Turnpike in Newington, Connecticut, a food shack where I used to bring Zoey and her older sisters on Saturdays before we’d go bowling or to mini golf, go carts or the batting cages -- all places we loved located along the turnpike, a 40’s era divided highway made obsolete by the Interstate.
Thirty-four days ago, I decided to eat a hot dog every day for the next 365 days. There are other challenges this empty nester could have chosen: training for an Iron Man triathlon, learning Greek to read Homer’s Odyssey in the original, taking up square-dancing, gardening or Pickleball or all three! But I chose hot dogs. I chose hot dogs because hot dogs bring me joy. Hot dogs remind me of my youth and my daughters’ childhoods. Hot dogs remind me of America in a simpler time just as the 45 records lining the walls of Doogie’s next to photos of Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly and the song “At the Hop” playing now remind patrons here of a simpler time.
The two-foot dog I am eyeing is the Turnpike Dog. If you can eat two of them, along with a side of fries in 20 minutes, you get an “I conquered Doogie’s Challenge!” tee-shirt, and your picture on Doogie’s Wall of Fame. Many years ago, I decided to train for this “Man Versus Food” (footnote) challenge. In my first session I ate a 16-inch dog in 5 minutes. Easy Peasey. I came back the next week for session two – the challenge—eat a single two foot-dog in less than 10 minutes. When it took me 14, I knew my dreams of being a competitive eater were over just as surely as I once knew my dreams of playing right field for the Boston Red Sox were over when a six-foot twelve-year-old with a fastball like nothing I had ever seen struck me out to end my town Little League team’s season back in 1971. Today I just want to finish this Turnpike Dog in the same amount of time it took me in 2014. If I can eat a two-foot hot dog at 68 (yeah, I’m that fucking old) as fast as I could at 56, well, I might stoop a little less on my way back out into the grey afternoon.
Back in 2014 I planned to write book called Great Hot Dogs of Connecticut, a book that could find a place on the shelves of Barnes and Noble next to Great Hikes of Connecticut and 50 Fun Things to Do in the Nutmeg State (CT) Before You Die. My plan was to visit all the best hot dog places with my daughters and write colorful descriptions of these iconic joints and their unique dogs. We visited several, which I blogged about, posting pictures of us enjoying the cuisine and each other’s company, but soon life got in the way. The girls had so many other plans and I only had Saturdays free as I worked my two paramedic jobs. I look at those blog entries now on my phone, including photos of us here at Doogie’s. Zoey laughs as she puts a stretchy piece of Mac and Cheese in her mouth. Lauren and Ashley pose with their sister, all smiling brightly. Me, I confidently hold that just off the grille 2-foot Turnpike Dog, still believing I could wolf it down under the limit.
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When I ordered today, I asked the high school kid behind the counter how many calories were in the two-foot dog. “I have no idea -- a lot,” he said. He asked if I wanted soda or water, which are free with the two-foot dog on Tuesdays. I said soda. “There’s more calories in the soda," he said. I’m sure he was thinking what kind of fool asks about the calories in a Turnpike dog. If you are concerned about calories, you are ordering the wrong food. You won’t find Low Carb here or anywhere on this turnpike.
I took the Styrofoam cup to the self-serve soda machine and filled it with ice and then the locally made Hosmer Mountain Birch Beer -- an appropriate old-time drink to go with a dog. If they’d had Sarsaparilla, I would have ordered that instead. I took my seat to wait for my food to come up, and studied the 45’s on the wall. I had quite a collection of 45s myself back in the day. Where they are gone now? I don’t know. The 45 on the all closest to me was Hound Dog. Appropriate.
A family came in. Their two kids looked the same age Zoey was back then - six or so. The Dad ordered a two-foot dog, which they agreed to chop up so the family could share. Mom took her kids to the soda machine and they delighted in all the exotic flavor choices – Black Cherry, Pineapple, etc. I wanted to say to the parents. Enjoy them now. You are me 12 years. A hollow-eyed ghost sitting alone in the corner.
When my dog was ready, I brought it back to the table and took a picture of it. Old Man versus Food. I should have asked if there was a senior citizen category for the challenge. Maybe a dog cut up into bite sized pieces, a bowl of mashed potatoes and a black coffee. Eat them all in an hour and you win free coffee for a month. But I’ve still got my teeth (admittedly the front teeth are fake). I can do this. Let’s get ready to RUUUUUMMMBBLLLEE!!! Ready Set Go! Time to eat.
I push the timer button on my i-phone screen and I’m off. Man, that first bite is good. I give it five hard chews and swallow, then take another bite. Not quite as good as the first, but not enough to slow me down.
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When you pick up such a long dog, the roll bends in the middle. I try to break the roll in half. I succeed with the bread, but not with the dog itself which still connects the two buns. A knife would have helped if I had one. I lay the dog back down on the tray, and then start eating with my head down by the tray as I lift the front end of the monster dog to my mouth, like I am eating the head of a giant snake that is curling up to strike me. I make certain to chew before swallowing. I try to take the next bite as soon as the hatch clears. Peppers and onions fall off the dog. I don’t even look at my fries. The minutes whirl by. My phone stopwatch timer has minutes, seconds and milliseconds. The milliseconds convey a speed that is hard to match. An old-time kitchen timer would have been less intimidating.
When trying to eat a two-foot dog for speed, it is hard to appreciate its flavors. And not every bite gets the dog, which seems buried in the bready bun. Some bites are just bacon, cheese, onions and peppers. Still, I persist. Shoveling food into my mouth, chewing, chewing, chewing, swallowing and biting again is not too fun. At the five-minute mark already, I know I will not make the time. It is as if I am in a running race and the pack has sprinted ahead of me, the crowds lining the road are already dispersing, except for a few kind souls who offer me encouragement. You can do it! old man.
I have most of it eaten before I let out my first belch., well past the 20 minute mark.
My stomach, at least, is handling it okay. The clock is ticking now toward 13 minutes. I have maybe two bites left. I let out my first belch, and then shove what’s left of the Turnpike dog in my mouth. I suddenly start coughing. I don’t look up, but I picture the kid behind the register and the cook behind the grille and a girl who also works there, reaching for the phone to call 911. I imagine some of my ambulance friends coming through the door, pushing through the crowd of restaurant patrons to find me on the ground blue in the face, no pulse at the neck. While one EMT does chest compressions, the paramedic opens my airway with a laryngoscope and tries with his forceps to pull out the hot dog that perfectly blocks my windpipe. In vain. He now takes out a scalpel and cuts my neck and to prepare to insert a plastic tube beneath the blockage so he can get air to my lungs. His trembling hands nick my carotid artery. Blood spurts from my throat like a scene from a Monty Python movie. When it’s all said and done, they leave me flatline and covered with a bloody sheet. Death by hot dog. When I do look up at the counter, the kid is laughing at something the girl is saying. I guess maybe they are used to the sounds of people gagging on too much dog. I get the coughing under control and get the last of the dog down. I hit stop at 14:40.97. I can’t remember what my old time was, but I think it was 14 something. For a glorious moment I believe I may have beaten my old record, but when I check the old blog entry on my phone, I see my 2014 time of 13:55. I am 45 seconds off my pace.
On my way out, I ask the kid for a paper bag for my fries. He hands me a small carton, and says thanks for coming. Not even a wisecrack about the calories like he has completely forgotten me and our exchange. I stop in the foyer to look at the wall of fame. Lots of photos seriously big dudes, some looking like heart attack patients I have attended. But there are also young healthy types with an appetite like I had in my younger years. He could eat a horse, they’d say of me, must have a hollow leg. Still skinny as a rail. Not anymore. 246 at the last weigh-in. I am six-seven, but 246 still puts my BMI in the overweight range. Outside I wait for a mother who has parked by the Doogies’ Home of the Two-Foot Dog sign to help her kids out of their SUV and head toward the front door before I take a picture of the famous sign for fear she will think I am a creepy old guy taking a picture of her and her kids rather than that I am a knight errant of hot dogs on a noble mission to find joy and meaning in the approaching evening of my life.
I stop at Trader Joes’ on the way home. I spend $36 there, getting kombucha, yogurt and lots of green vegetables. Normally when I go to Trader Joe’s I easily spend $100. Oh, that looks good. Fried Calamari. So does that. Garlicky Spaghetti. And Orange Chicken, and oh, that’s new, Detroit Pizza! Not today. It pays to shop on a full stomach if you want to save money. I do buy a bouquet of flowers for my wife. I want them to greet her when she comes home for the first time to our empty nest.
Notes:
1. Calories. I google two-foot dogs and calories. The estimate is 1000-1200 calories for the dog and bun with 400 more calories for the toppings. So let’s say 1500 calories. Typically a regular hot dog and bun is 250 calories. So the two foot turnpike dog was the equivalent to 6 plain hot dogs in buns.
2: Man Versus Food. In season 2 of the show Man versus Food, the host Adam Richman visited Hartford. He made two hot dog stops. First at Woody’s, a now closed hot dog shop located in the lobby of an office building on main street in downtown Hartford. I used to love going to Woody’s. My favorites were the Godfather Dog, which was covered with mozzarella and marinara and the Deputy Dog, which had pulled pork and cheese. Woody’s opened in 1977 and closed 41 years later 2018 when the owner and his wife decided to retire and enjoy the fruits of their hard work. Richman had the Deputy Dog, which he said was one of the best hot dogs he’d ever had. I agree. The Deputy Dawg was my go-to-dog there. Richman’s next stop was Doogies, where he had the Doogie Dog, a 2-foot-long hot dog that was placed across three eight-inch buns (They did not have a two-foot bun at that time) and covered with onions, peppers, chili, cheese and bacon. Richman did not attempt to eat the full dog on the air. The show, which always featured an eating challenge in last segment of each episode, finished with a stuffed pizza eating contest at a local pizza joint. With the fame from being on the show, Doogie’s launched their Man versus Food challenge. You can pick four items to go on the dawgs. They will let you cut the dog up if you want before you start. They don’t set the timer until you take your first bite. Today, the cost is $39.99. If you win you get the tee-shirt, your picture on the wall of fame and a $25 gift certificate to come on back. Now they have an actually two-foot bun, which is much heavier than the three regular hot dog buns, which would have been much easier to chow down then the thick two-foot-long bun they now serve.
I loved the Man versus Food Show. Richman was an extremely likable host. After each challenge, he would be interviewed about the challenge like the was a sports star, humbly commenting on his victory or loss. His three-year record was 37-22. The show lasted for four years. After the first three, Richman stopped competing in the contests, instead he recruited local champions.