Ritual of the Hotdoguero
Witnessing a Popular Sonoran Hot Dog Stand Come Alive
I must have confused the hell out of my Uber driver—he picked me up at dusk down a dirt road in the Sonoran Desert north of Phoenix and deposited me 30 minutes later in a dark lot east of downtown.
As we turned into a parking space in front of a closed comics shop, he asked if this was indeed my destination.
I wasn’t so sure.
It was 7:32pm and Google indicated the stand comprising five or six tables and a stainless steel hot dog cart opened at 7:30pm, so I got out of the car to inspect further. I heard voices coming from a parked van adjacent to the tent.
¿Estás abierto?” I asked. A man replied “We’ll be ready in 5 minutes” as he emerged with an industrial-sized Igloo cooler that he heaved onto a folding table. I waved off my driver.
The man flipped on the interior lights and I sat down. At that moment, I heard the sound of a car door slam and a couple approached to place an order for seven dogs.
Meanwhile, a woman set down a dizzying array of condiments—several varieties of hot sauce and squirt bottles of ketchup and mustard—on each table, along with a hybrid napkin holder/menu.
The menu explained “con todo” (with everything) gets you pinto beans, mayonnaise, tomatoes and onions—the hallmarks of a Sonoran hot dog.
The massive cooler was a makeshift station for the “additional toppings:” delis tightly-packed with shredded cheddar, cotija cheese, canned mushrooms and pickled jalapeños, along with squeeze bottles of salsa verde.
The owner sunk plastic spoons into the containers and placed a felt hot dog-adorned tip jar beside the cooler.
He set out a sandwich board listing four items—Sonoran hot dogs, Mexican soda, chips and water—and switched on the open sign tacked to the tent’s exterior.
Nogales Hot Dog #2 was ready for business.
The owner turned to me and asked me how many I wanted. I timidly uttered “one with everything”—was it lame to order a single dog if the couple ordered seven between them?—and then solicited topping recommendations.
“Shredded cheese, cotija and salsa verde,” he replied.
“Great, I’ll go with that.”
I assumed he was going to top my dog with all items but instead handed it to me “con todo” then invited me to the cooler.
Ooh-wee. I had free rein to add my own toppings. I piled on the two cheeses and applied a generous squiggle of green salsa.
I sat back down and glanced at the ketchup and yellow mustard, but I couldn’t square these American cookout staples with the predominantly Mexican garnishes. More on that to come.
My first bite was mostly bread—a hybrid between a bolillo and a classic hot dog bun. I could have eaten that steaming, pillowy roll slathered with butter and called it a day.
The hot dog’s bacon cloak made my heart beat at a rapid pace (and not because of the high fat content). Meat on meat may just be my preferred form of excess, even more so than carbs on carbs.
However, because the porcine-enrobed link wasn’t grilled, the candy cane spiral of bacon was flabby. Moreover, the wiener had a sponginess akin to Leberkäse. (I later learned it consists of pork, chicken and beef.)
Owing to my regional snobbery—I’ve become so accustomed to Chicago char dogs grilled to crisp perfection on a flattop—the only dog that satisfies me these days is a snappy frank, preferably Vienna Beef or Red Hot Chicago, with a seared exterior. (Feel free to tell me why I’m wrong in the comments.)
On the other hand, the toppings hit the mark.
The mayo was so lavishly applied it looked like a mound of marshmallow fluff. In spite of this spackle, the Mexican mirepoix of pinto beans, onions and tomatoes spilled out with every bite; some landing in the paper boat, some in my lap. I suddenly understood why there was a tangle of plastic forks next to the cooler.
I loved the flavor combo of smoky beans and lime-spiked salsa, but after scarfing down the dog, I wondered if I had erred by not applying ketchup or mustard.1
This is quintessential border food, after all—it supposedly came from the Mexican state of Sonora to Tucson in the 80s before migrating northward to Phoenix—so why wouldn’t these “American” ingredients share a bun with their “Mexican” counterparts?2
While a telenovela played on TV I chatted up the owner, Pablo Perez, who has been running this stand at 1945 E. Indian School Rd. for the past twenty-one years. He became acquainted with the Sonora dog after relocating to Phoenix.
Seven days a week, he and Mari, his employee for the past fifteen years, drive into the lot, push the metal frame out from a shed behind the comics store and transfer the pre-packed condiments, pre-cooked bacon-wrapped dogs and rolls (made by a local panadería) from the van into the stall.
They work until midnight during the week, staying open into the wee hours on Friday and Saturday nights; not surprisingly, Sonoran dogs are popular drinking food.
Several minutes into our conversation, he asked how I had found my way to his stand.
I explained I was in town for work (hence the Sonoran Desert excursion) and was eager to try this iconic regional food.
When I mentioned I live in Chicago, his eyes got big and he said he enjoyed the Chicago dog at Portillo’s, which he pronounced por-tee-yos (rolled r, double “l” as “y”). I told him (cue the blue collar Da Bears accent) that we Chicagoans call it pour-till-ohs with a hard “l” and we both had a good laugh.
Just as I’ve come to prefer a char dog dragged through the garden over Chicago’s steamed depression dogs, I’m eager to get my hands on a grilled Sonoran. I have a feeling the magic lies in the interplay of squishy bun with crispy bacon; hot dog with cool toppings.
After all, it’s the celebration of difference that makes this Mexican-American frontier food so compelling.
…And next time I’ll squirt some yellow mustard on top.
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Most images of Sonoran dogs I’ve come across online have mustard but no ketchup, which makes this Chicagoan proud.
This article’s title “In Praise of the All-American Mexican Hot Dog” says it all. Read John T. Edge’s profile of the Sonora dog for some history (including an interesting Oscar Mayer tie-in) and cultural perspective.
Clever new look!
You definitely made me hungry for a hotdog con todo!