Tube City

Memories of a Valley Boy

It all started at Cupid's. Your dream of your own stand selling nothing but dogs and drinks. And, of course, the dogs would have the top-secret snap of an "All-Meat" casing.

 

Tube City was the name of your hot dog stand. The Armageddon of Entrepreneurship would have been too big to fit on the sign. 

Dad, I only know this time in your life by anecdote. I was on my 5-year walkabout. The secret, industrial knowledge of the all-meat casing passed me by.  I never even saw your hot dog stand. I never sampled the wares. 

I wish I could have worked the stand with you. Then I would have seen the low riders beat you for the tab or the wide-bodied Buick lady hammer the slump stone corners of the restaurant as she lurched out of the drive-through lane.  Ah, to celebrate your biggest sales day – when the drunk who crashed into your stand paid $100 cash for a dog and the wall.

Instead, I will never forget our father-and-son meals at Cupids.

Cupid's Hot Dogs are still part of my pilgrimage when I'm back in L.A. The snap may be gone from the "All Meat" casing, and they are finally serving fries, but Cupid's still serves the best dogs I've ever bitten. 

Sure, I enjoyed Nathan's, east coast, spicy, special, a dog lover's delight. I frequented Nathan's stand at Berkeley, but Cupid's wins out head to head, or better yet: dog to dog. Nathan's was like Berkeley, dark, spicy, vaguely dangerous. Cupid's, was like the clean, safe, fantasy of growing up in the San Fernando Valley in the 50's and 60's. 

We'd go to the original Cupid's on Lankershim Blvd.  I imagine cruising North of Lankershim these days, especially late at night, is begging for a gang bullet, but then the frontier wasn't so hostile, and Cupid's was neutral ground. Good things happened there. It was food well worth the moderately long wait in line. 

 Cupid's was always good for a meal, and it was easy to calculate the cost in your head. (I remember being shocked every time the price went up. Not that I ever paid when we went together.)The order was easy to compose; there weren't a lot of choices. No fries, no sides, just dogs. I'd get 2 with chili. You'd get 2 with chili, mustard, relish, onions, the works! Add two cokes and plenty of napkins. 

Stepping up to the window, you see and smell the wonders of Cupid's. The wooden dog racks, 4 scallops of smooth breadboard wood, ready to hold a big order. The counter guy had a flourish to his preparation routine, riding the dogs on tongs through thin air, dipping and pouring the chili with a subdued sense of showmanship. 

The stainless steel bins held the moist, steamed buns. They were perfectly soft, adding a homey, yeast-based smell to the spicy, tangy, slightly damp atmosphere that wafted from the open window. The counterman's fast hands laid out the slightly soggy buns, then he laid down the dogs, adding quick ladles of chili overflowing the bounds of the buns. With a flick, a snap, a twist, the dogs were wrapped in wide white, industrial-strength wax paper. Rack 'em up in a cardboard box. Add the cokes, pay the tab, and off we'd go to a tin metal table under the sparse shade of an L.A. sun-heated awning. 

Epic fast food. First bite, the snap, the spicy hot chili drenched taste, delicious, best dogs in the world. Those all meat casings were a top secret in the restaurant biz, a secret you were determined to discover. 

I guess once the secret was out, the Tube City stand was inevitable. 

Now Tube City is gone, and so are Cupid's all-meat casings. The dogs no longer snap.

Oh to sit with you again, Dad, over a couple of chili dogs and a coke and tell all that's happened since you left.  

At least I know you are now one with everything.