When you need a Hot Dog, you need a Hot Dog. Not Mac and Cheese, not a T-bone Steak, not a large Pepperoni Pizza – you need a Hot Dog. Nothing else will do.
Last Sunday, a Frankfurter craving overpowered me, and I was off to one of the few great places in mighty Cville to get a Hot Dog, and that would be Dairy Queen at Forest Lakes.
Some of my fondest childhood memories were of special visits to the local Dairy Queen. For a nickel, you could get a small cone of vanilla ice cream and that’s often what we got, enjoyed, and appreciated. For a quarter, though, you could get a Vanilla Malted Milkshake, perhaps the finest dairy treat on earth. In those days of yore, all that Dairy Queens sold was ice cream, but today, the most famous ice creamery in the country sells all sorts of foods, and especially Hot Dogs.
DQ Hot Dogs aren’t special. They’re just good – big, fat wieners on a steamed bun with a mound of onions, a dollop of great chili sauce and a big squeeze of mustard. I ordered two and could have eaten four.
I feel sorry for our local Dairy Queen, tucked away as they are from view and our all-powerful county government forbids signs that might help a business. They don’t seem to mind the taxes they get, which they spend profusely.
Because DQ is pretty much hidden from view, I often forget about them at “fast food” time – except when I think of a Hot Dog. Then I head directly for the Dairy Queen – because nothing else will do.