18 June 2009

Oki Dog

Everyone goes for the Pinks hot dogs in L.A. A tourist trap that thinks putting watered-down guacamole and water-logged sauerkraut on a hot dog will take away from its "so-so" surprise after the first bite. My dog has to be an Oki dog. Two grilled hot dogs, house made beef chili, fatty pastrami, and American cheese rolled up in a tortilla big enough to stuff with a crystal ball. It's a meat bag abomination to behold, a joking sexual innuendo to eat, and scary to the round Russian babushkas living in the area who whisper about it in quiet tones. It's mentioned in a book ("Weetzie Bat"' by Francesca Lia Block), Darby Crash made a song about it ("I'll See Ya All At Oki Dogs"). The first location was on Santa Monica started by a skinny Asian guy who looked at his customers like dirt, it was the hangout for drunk punkers, male hookers I knew on a first name bases (the girl hookers were on Sunset), and me. I used to drive back from the beach and stop at Oki's when the sun started to come up during my bachelor existence. It closed it's orange doors after neighbors complained of all the hookers blowing johns on their lawns, at least that's what I like to think. They have a location on Fairfax and I only went there once. I went for the dog back then, but I also went for something else I can't quite put my finger on, a space in time? A part of my life cut out and served to me with a side of ash topped chili fries? Who knows and I don't care any more.

I probably won't go back to Oki Dog the place and it's not just because it's out of the way, that something else, just isn't there for me anymore and I'm not talking about the greasy goodness you could oil your pistons with.

1 comment:

  1. oki dog! i lived in we ho for years, but never managed to go to oki dog. i bet it is good, but now i am old and would worry about heartburn. sad.

    hope you have a great weekend! :)


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