No, No, Nanette: Why the Dodger Dog Beats the Fenway Frank
I know I've touched on this before, but now it's time for a deeper dive into one of the most important debates in American culinary history.
Forget Biggie versus Tupac.
Forget East Coast versus West Coast rap.
We're talking about the heavyweight championship of baseball food:
Dodger Dog versus Fenway Frank.
Now before anybody from New England starts throwing baked beans at me, let me get something straight.
I may live in New England.
But I am not a New Englander.
And to make matters worse, I'm a Yankee fan.
Well, sort of.
Actually, I'm more of a fan of the Yankees' farm team, the Oakland A's.
Think about it.
Rickey Henderson.
Dave Henderson.
Goose Gossage.
The A's were basically supplying talent to the Yankees long before that became fashionable.
But one thing is certain:
I am NOT a Red Sox fan.
Never have been.
Never will be.
Can't do it.
That said, I will absolutely give credit where credit is due.
Fenway Park is a must-see.
If you love baseball, history, Americana, old architecture, impossible sight lines, and places that smell vaguely like beer and memories, you need to visit Fenway at least once.
The Green Monster is iconic.
The atmosphere is electric.
The history practically drips off the walls.
It's baseball's living museum.
But as far as the team goes?
No, No, Nanette.
No.
No.
No.
No Red Sox.
Now back to the food.
When I finally made my pilgrimage to Fenway, there was one thing I knew I had to do.
I had to eat a Fenway Frank.
You can't visit Fenway and skip the Frank.
That's like going to Philadelphia and not trying a cheesesteak.
Or visiting Vermont and pretending maple syrup is optional.
The Fenway Frank has a nickname.
It has a reputation.
It has decades of history behind it.
And honestly?
It was good.
Perfectly respectable.
A solid ballpark hot dog.
But compared to the Dodger Dog?
No, No, Nanette.
No thank you.
The Dodger Dog is superior.
The first thing is size.
A Dodger Dog feels like an event.
It's long.
It's slightly ridiculous.
It's the kind of hot dog that announces itself when it arrives.
The Fenway Frank is more reserved.
It's polite.
It asks permission before entering the conversation.
The Dodger Dog kicks the door open and says, "Let's play ball."
Then there's the nostalgia factor.
Maybe it's because I grew up closer to Southern California baseball culture.
Maybe it's because Chavez Ravine just feels like summer.
Maybe it's because every movie and television show in the 1980s and 1990s seemed to involve somebody eating a Dodger Dog.
Whatever the reason, the Dodger Dog isn't just a hot dog.
It's an experience.
The Fenway Frank says, "Let's discuss baseball."
The Dodger Dog says, "Let's skip work and go to a day game."
The Fenway Frank feels like history.
The Dodger Dog feels like summer vacation.
And when it comes to stadium food, summer vacation wins.
Every.
Single.
Time.
Now, am I saying the Fenway Frank is bad?
Absolutely not.
It's a classic.
It deserves its place in baseball history.
It deserves its nickname.
It deserves its loyal following.
But if you're asking me to pick one?
If you're putting me in the batter's box and telling me I can only choose one stadium hot dog for the rest of my life?
I'm taking the Dodger Dog.
No hesitation.
No replay review.
No challenge from the manager.
Call it.
Game over.
Dodger Dog wins.
And if you're a Red Sox fan reading this and disagreeing, that's okay.
We can still be friends.
Just don't ask me to wear a Boston hat.
