Haute Dog and Fries

Thankfully, dinner was good last night, because I learned yesterday that my Korean drycleaning lady has been judging me for years. I came in right after work, hair pulled back and sporting my glasses and felt coat. I guess typically I come in on Saturday mornings, thinking I exuded casual elegance despite being in sweats. I guess today I looked like I could afford the amount of money I spend on their overpriced services. She didn't recognize me at first and then when she did, cried "Did you get married?" with a very marked tone of enthusiastic exuberance. She retrieved my clothes and I said no, but I could barely hide my amusement and asked why; she replied that I "looked different."  Well, clearly. I was too befuddled at the implied suggestion (in my mind) that my lack of hoodie directly correlated to marital bliss to inquire any further.

That, my friends, is how I will lead off a blog dedicated to the nexus between food and love, transitioning from disabusing the lady at the cleaners to weiners. No, really. I went to Haute Dog and Fries, which is just up the street and conveniently, recently offered a Living Social half-off deal. I've already delivered enough bad news, so I'll front load the how-the-sausage-was-made here: the service was all kinds of confused (I had to ask for things, un-to-go orders, and generally converse with the staff much more about my food than I ought to have; the manager, however, noticed and graciously cared for the rest of my concerns so all was eventually well).

It's a cute space: funky pictures on the wall and a kid-friendly environment. I even got to watch CNN talk about some cardinal being named pope who did not seem to become appreciably happier (he, to his credit, however, apparently did not get married today).

I started with a local beer and "The Bombshell," a hot dog also known as "The Monroe," which boasted caramelized onions, mango, pineapple, and jalapeños. It didn't have an alarmingly sweet and savory punch, but was delicate in its varied flavors. Each flavor seemed to fall behind the other and willingly meld into the subtly-flavored dog and the ridiculously-well toasty grilled brioche bun. The fries were fabulous, too, with a bit of crisp and crunch, but too little salt.

 Since I'm partial to dachsunds (even not real ones), I particularly enjoyed this down-the-table view.

Dinner was great: simple, flavorful and clever without being cute. I was really looking forward to the Eskimo Dog, though: three scoops of vanilla ice cream topped with hot fudge and caramel, reverently situated in brown sugar and cinnamon toasted hot dog bun.

The ice cream was good, but it was ice cream. Once I started tugging at that bun, though, the ice cream began its involuntary retreat. The bun was soft (on top), caramalized on one side, and on the interior, sopped with ice cream, chocolate, and caramel.  It was like eating the best part of French toast, reduced to its essentials, and barely soggy. It was a lovely evening, even for someone disproportionately happy compared to her cohabitation quotient.