RV Life - Back Issues

The Almighty Hamdog

I just about choked on my Grape Nuts as I read the morning paper. While I admit that these days there’s a lot of news that’s proving difficult to stomach, none has been literally as tough to digest as the story behind the crazed sandwich lurking at Mulligan’s, a popular bar in Decatur, Georgia. The culinary beast goes by the name of the “Hamdog” and reading the newspaper account filled me with terror and, strangely, a tingling sense of pride and bravado. Naturally, I need to share my findings with my readers.

The “sandwich,” if we can even call it that, goes by the name of the “Hamdog.” Yes, I’m frightened, too. And it all starts innocently enough, with a good old-fashioned hot dog. Now what could go wrong from here, you ask? Does the Hamdog rankle the hot dog gods by applying mustard instead of ketchup? No, my friends, things disintegrate rapidly from here, and there may not be enough antacid in Georgia to make it right. In a startling move, a beef patty is wrapped around the hot dog, seemingly designed to serve as some kind of meaty bun. Oh, the horror. What’s next, dogs and cats sleeping together? The Jets and the Sharks suddenly shaking hands and swapping smokes? Naturally, the sandwich is then deep-fried. Not since Dr. Frankenstein has man created something as unholy as this. And much like the aforementioned monster, bar owner Chandler Goff unleashed the Hamdog on an unsuspecting public. But wait, it gets worse—or better—depending on your disposition and cholesterol reading.

Piling On
Not content to stop meddling against the natural order of things, the Hamdog’s creators decided a liberal slathering of chili was in order, followed by cheese and onions. Even safely removed 1,200 miles away, I can feel the burn. Of course, only something as strong as a hoagie bun could coral all of this. And no, the bun isn’t of the body-friendly whole grain variety. But you knew that, didn’t you? Forgive me, but did I forget the egg? We’ve come this far, people, so what impact could the addition of a single fried egg atop this, err, pile of meat possibly have? The egg’s sly inclusion reminds of the time when I waited in line behind a woman ordering funnel cake. As he pulled it fresh from the deep-fat fryer, the cook went to coat the greasy dough in powdered sugar. At this, the woman became incensed: “No sugar!” she barked. “I just had surgery!” “Come on, live I little,” I chirped behind her with a smile. Do you think her doctor knew of her post-op routine? But I digress.

Back to the beast, with its final ingredient. I’m guessing you could see this one coming a mile away—two hearty fistfuls of French fries provide the sandwich’s steady foundation. Why not, right? Might as well really take this to the limit. Or as my dad likes to say, no one came to see Babe Ruth bunt.

Regional Cuisine
Surely, those brave and stout enough to down a colon-clogging Hamdog deserve our respect, if not our admiration. This is the American spirit at work, both in terms of those willing to invent such a food oddity and those lining up to chomp away at it, at any physical cost. Frankly, the biggest surprise in all of this was that the Hamdog is a southern creation and not a delirious food plot hatched in my own Midwest, which, as one writer once said, is the only place where overeating is considered an act of accomplishment. How true. I tip my fat to the South for their hefty contribution.

Finishing the newspaper article, I quickly realized this was not a loving expose on a curious food monstrosity and those who love it. Rather, the article reprimanded the South—and the particularly unhealthy corridor known as the “Stroke Belt”—for its affection towards greasy foods and careless consumption. Yeah, I hear ya. Still, as someone who has gotten his picture taken for devouring a 52-ounce steak as big as a third-grader at a Wisconsin steak house and pushed his intestines to the breaking point in all-too-numerous-to-mention culinary stunts, the Hamdog beckons me like Everest to climb. Like it or not, it dares us to take it down. A double, perhaps even a triple dog dare, I’m guessing. And if you build it, we will come. Ah, what a beautiful country. And what could be more American than bellying up to the bar and proudly saying, “Bring me the biggest Hamdog you got and don’t spare the chili.” Still, I’d advise checking with your doctor for permission first. Let’s be reasonable after all. And if you’re still hungry, might I suggest the bar’s other star attraction, the “Luther Burger” for dessert. The “Luther” is just your basic double cheeseburger served between two Krispy Kreme doughnuts. God bless America.