Meet Matthew Cooke, a Stranger reader who has vowed to do everything The Stranger suggests for the entire month of February. Look for his reports daily on Slog. —Eds.
The Stranger’s suggestions have been hit-or-miss in these first tentative days of my “Yesterday” tenure, but last night's seemed bulletproof. Hot dogs! What could possibly go wrong?
But alas, hot dogs and I have a strange relationship. Something in me rebels against such quintessential Americana. If I’m going to be that cheesy, I have to go all the way and eat one in a classic setting—a baseball game, say, or a summer barbecue. And the well-worn phrase “lips and assholes” has a way of gripping the mind (my mind, at least).

Duty called, so I was willing to give Po Dog a fair shot. Aware of my bias, I brought my wife, Susan, a hot dog fiend. “In the interest of science,” she suggested getting three varieties. We ordered a plain dog with mustard and relish as a control; the Chicago, which the attractive lass behind the counter said was the most popular; and the bacon-wrapped Deep Fried Danger, just because it sounded fucking awesome.
We managed to eat almost all of it, obviously a good sign. But do I actually agree with The Stranger recommendation? Based on my wife’s enthusiastic approval, yes. Personally, I’d rather have a bratwurst, especially if I’m paying seven goddamn dollars per dog (thank God it’s on Savage’s dime). But between the Macrina buns, the anything-goes ingredients, and the industrial-chic décor, it’s easy to forget about the markup. So go there, grab a beer, and have at it.
Just don’t expect some kind of grand hot dog revelation. Even Susan noticed they were using the same Hebrew Nationals you get at Costco for $1.50. Po Dog has added glitz and glamour—but, as always, a weenie is a weenie.
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