I had just gotten out of a movie at Harkins—Creed 2, if you must know—when I stepped through the theater’s exit into the surprisingly cool outside air, thinking that even though the temperature was certainly dropping, still, it seemed like a nice enough night for a walk around Bricktown—it’s something I’d never really done before and wanted to experience it at least once.
As I crossed the bridge over the canal and got myself deeper into the restructured muck and mire, I nearly stepped in fresh horse manure; recognizing my surroundings, I suddenly remembered it was Friday night. Girls in short skirts and boys in even shorter muscle-tees were braving the cold, the supreme lords of the Oklahoma City nightlife—and you best be getting out of their way, lest your worst fears be scrutinized and laughed at by all those tipsy yet titillating strangers around you.
But, you know, as irritating as I imagine it must be for a guy like me, I bet it’s got to be mostly worse to run a food truck in Bricktown, and probably pure Hell to sell plump, juicy wieners. Sure, I bet the drunken tips might make it somewhat worthwhile, but, still, the inebriated bros and their dizzying arm-candy, constantly yelling to the Hot Dog OKC truck “You guys…you got any footlongs in there?” has to be pretty annoying after a while.
However, watching Bricktown’s illustrious frankfurter truck work diligently through the taunts and teases from afar, you’d never truly know it if it did get to them. A husband and wife team—one’s working the steamer and putting it all together while the other takes your dollars, moving the line efficiently enough—make a great team.
As I walked across the street to the Hot Dog OKC truck, 202 E. Sheridan, to get a better look at the menu—most of which was a series of cardboard signage all over the truck—I was intrigued by the fastidiously promoted Bacon-Wrapped Footlong Hot Dog. I went ahead and ordered one, with a little onions and some sauerkraut, figuring that I could eat half now and have the other six inches maybe for lunch tomorrow.
As if on cue, while I was waiting for my payment to go through, a musky alpha-male shoved me to the side and asked if they have any footlongs while a gaggle of blondes chittered with giggles aplenty behind him.
Sighing with saddened reserve, I walked over to a bench and sat down, watching the drunken wheels of humanity spin sideways for a few minutes; a college girl about a block away started dramatically crying, screaming at someone on the phone. Before I could eavesdrop on the entertaining argument, sadly, my order was called, wrapped in an extra-long sheet of butcher paper.
As I uncovered the thin bit of tubed meat, a death-rattle of steam rolled off the top, the scent of overpowering bacon just rising up like a sloppy junkyard phoenix full of rough and tumble sights and smells. Salivating, just a little, I spurted a bit of mustard on—length-wise down the dog, for taste—and then preemptively took a couple of bites, the frankfurter delivering a holy night of crunch-worthy delight, this tale of two meats together forever.
I gotta say…it was a darn good hot dog.
The mostly six-inches I had of this footlong treasure of moderate street-meat was a tasty enough treat for a random Friday night, honestly preferring it to even the Sonic and their limp conies just a few blocks away, which, I know, some might consider sacrilege but, you know, so be it.
Still, if you’re ever in Bricktown on a Friday night, maybe look up Hot Dog OKC for a surprisingly gourmet snack. And before you drunkenly ask, yes, they have footlongs. Cómpralo ya!