By PAUL LUKAS
Published: November 13, 2002
''NOW that's a New York System hot wiener,'' Jack Chiaro said, biting into a small frankfurter topped with meat sauce, which despite his pronouncement was utterly unlike anything found in New York.
Over the next hours, he discussed the finer points of such delights as Awful Awfuls, Del's lemonade, stuffies, cabinets, johnnycakes, doughboys and clam cakes, washing down his meal with a big glass of coffee milk.
If all this sounds like gibberish -- it probably does -- that's a sure sign that you have never lived in Rhode Island (a k a the Ocean State and Little Rhody), the home of these delicacies. And if the notion of Rhode Island food specialties seems dubious, think again.
Ridiculed by some for its diminutive size and largely ignored by many others who lump it in with the rest of New England, Rhode Island, with a population of just over one million, offers a surprisingly large number of local dishes, each with its own traditions, heritage and terminology.
Most have not only stubbornly persevered but have also stayed within the state's borders, remaining virtually unknown to nonresidents. The result is an unusually vibrant food subculture concentrated in a very small area.
In an age when chain restaurants, malls, cable television and the Internet have erased many regional eccentricities from American life, how has Rhode Island managed to keep so many of its food traditions intact? And why haven't they migrated beyond the state line?
''Maybe because Rhode Islanders are very provincial,'' said Mr. Chiaro, who teaches cooking at Johnson & Wales University in Providence and is a self-styled authority on the state's food heritage. ''Because we're so small, any trip is a big trip, so people don't really travel anywhere. They stay close to home, and their culture stays close with them.''
Ted Widmer, a historian who grew up in Rhode Island and teaches at Washington College in Maryland, offered a similar explanation. ''That Middle American desire to succeed beyond your neighborhood has never animated Rhode Islanders,'' he said. ''What's important is your extended family, the people who live on your block and maybe 10 other people you've known all your life. It's very, very local.''
Food doesn't get much more local than the New York System wiener. Mr. Chiaro said that the term New York System dated from the early 1900's, when hot dogs began appearing in Rhode Island but were still associated primarily with New York, any invocation of which was considered a badge of authenticity. (Hot dogs in the Midwest are often called Coney Islands for the same reason.)
Although Rhode Island franks are now usually called wieners -- never hot dogs -- the New York System tag endures in the signs on wiener shops, which typically carry names like Sam's New York System Restaurant and Riverside Kitchen New York System.
But the New York System is more than a name. It's a distinct style of preparation, which crystallized around 1940 among Providence's Greek immigrant hot dog vendors and then spread through the state.
The wieners are cut short, usually about four inches. They cook slowly on a low-heat griddle all day and are served in a soft steamed bun. Counter clerks apply mustard, chopped raw onions, celery salt and the true hallmark of hot wieners: a greasy ground-beef sauce that's not quite chili, not quite gravy, distinct unto itself.
Since the wieners are small, most customers order several, which means a table of three or four people may order a dozen or more.
Griddle men respond to these large orders by lining up a series of buns on one extended forearm and then adding the franks and dressings with their free hand, usually in a quick, mesmerizingly ritualistic fashion. This prep method, sometimes called ''up the arm,'' is the essence of the New York System.
At Olneyville New York System in Providence -- a gritty, old-school lunch counter that Mr. Chiaro cites as the state's definitive hot wiener emporium -- the supersoft bun, tender frank and mild sauce meld into an appealing mass of sloppy goodness. But at the Wein-O-Rama, a family oriented shop in neighboring Cranston, the elements are more distinct, because of a spicier sauce, with hints of allspice and cloves, and a meatier, substantial frank. (This is bad form to Mr. Chiaro, who said that the whole point of hot wieners was to keep the experience ''as low grade as possible.'') Subtle variations like these keep the hot wiener scene lively and competitive.
The classic beverage at hot wiener shops -- and at most other Rhode Island restaurants -- is coffee milk, which is like chocolate milk but is made with coffee syrup. Cynthia Wall, vice president of Autocrat, a coffee producer in the Providence area, traced coffee milk's origins back to the 1930's, when enterprising diner and drugstore operators sweetened leftover coffee grounds with milk and sugar, creating a slurry extract that became as popular with children as hot coffee was with adults.
Ms. Wall said the first coffee syrup available for retail sale was a Warwick-based brand called Eclipse, which made its debut in 1938 and became known for the slogan ''You'll smack your lips when it's Eclipse.'' Autocrat soon followed with its own version and later acquired Eclipse. The syrups were instant hits, presaging a statewide love affair with the coffee-sugar-dairy combination. (Rhode Island is among the national leaders in coffee ice cream consumption, and supermarkets offer a locally produced coffee gelatin dessert mix.)
With coffee milk a ubiquitous presence on menus and Autocrat -- now a fourth-generation family business -- still making coffee syrup for grocery sale, it's tempting to think of coffee milk as the unofficial state drink. Except that it's actually the official state drink, having been so designated by the Legislature in 1993.
That certification did not come without controversy. Some Rhode Islanders felt that the government's imprimatur should have been bestowed upon Del's Frozen Lemonade, a Cranston-based chain founded in 1948 by Angelo DeLucia, who used a recipe that his grandfather brought from Italy.
Del's now has dozens of festively designed roadside outlets throughout the state, each offering a signature product midway between Italian ices and a Slurpee: imagine a cup of half-melted snow. It is as refreshing for its icy texture as for its tart flavor, which comes from real lemons, not processed syrup.
Del's has opened a few outlets in other states, but it still carries virtually zero name recognition outside of Rhode Island. ''I don't really know why it never caught on in other places,'' said Bruce DeLucia, Angelo's son. ''Maybe we just like to keep things to ourselves around here.''
As for losing out to coffee milk in the state-certification sweepstakes, Mr. DeLucia was diplomatic. ''It would've been a nice honor,'' he said, ''but it was also a great honor just to be considered for something like that. Plus, you're dealing with politics -- what are you going to do?''
More substantial beverages than coffee milk and Del's are available in Rhode Island, but the dialect can be confusing. If you ask for a milkshake, you'll just get a mix of milk and syrup; if you want what most Americans call a milkshake, with ice cream mixed in, you must order a cabinet. The term's precise origins are unclear, but the most commonly accepted explanation involves early milkshake blenders, which were shipped in heavy wooden cabinets.
There's also an übercabinet called an Awful Awful -- short for ''awful big, awful good'' -- which is available from a regional chain called Newport Creamery. An immense thick shake that is nearly impossible to finish (and never mind the standing offer to ''Drink three, get one free!''), the Awful Awful has become a statewide institution.
Thanks to its coastal setting, Rhode Island has a rich seafood heritage, much of it centering on quahogs, which are large chowder clams, usually measuring four or five inches across. The region's first European settlers learned about quahogs from the Narragansett Indians, who had been eating them for centuries and had cultivated clam beds that remain bountiful today.
''Because of the way the state is configured, almost everybody is near a shoreline, so they all go to the beach,'' Mr. Chiaro said to explain the state's quahog mania. ''And if you're down at the beach and dig with your toes, you'll hit a quahog.''
Although the term quahog is not unique to Rhode Island, and technically also applies to smaller hard-shell clams like cherrystones and littlenecks, it has a specific meaning on local menus. The fresh-shucked clams are chopped or ground and mixed into a stuffing, which typically includes bread crumbs, Tabasco sauce, minced onions, celery, peppers and often the Portuguese sausage chourica (reflecting the influence of Rhode Island's large Portuguese population). The stuffing is then spooned back into the large clamshells and baked, resulting in a big, delicious serving. Stuffed quahogs are often called stuffies, and the two terms are used interchangeably throughout the state.
Stuffies are popular at George's, a lovely seaside restaurant in Galilee, which is a good source for another Rhode Island seafood specialty: clam cakes. Although the name implies a mollusk-driven version of crab cakes, clam cakes aren't cakes at all. They're clam fritters, fried like a brinier rendition of Southern hush puppies. Although some renditions are a bit light in the clam department, well-executed clam cakes are a treat.
So are doughboys, another type of fritter. Doughboys, hunks of deep-friend pizza dough, usually rolled in granulated sugar, probably originated with Rhode Island's Italian population and are often available at pizzerias, but they are also found at many of the seafood shacks that serve clam cakes and stuffies. At Iggy's, one of the eating places clustered down by Narragansett Bay in the Oakland Beach section of Warwick, the doughboys are delicious little gut bombs and addictive enough to become a meal in themselves.
Finally, no overview of Rhode Island's culinary heritage would be complete without johnnycakes, the unleavened cornmeal pancakes served at breakfast haunts. The name's origin is a matter of some dispute as is its spelling: johnny-cake, jonnycake, Johnnycake and Johnny Cake are frequent variants. Some say the name derives from ''journey cake'' or ''Shawnee cake,'' although Mr. Chiaro dismissed both theories. ''Johnnycakes don't travel well,'' he said, ''and our Narragansett Indians never had anything to do with the Shawnees.'' His favored explanation is that the term derives from joniken, an Indian word for corn.
In any case, it's generally agreed that johnnycakes, or something very much like them, were being prepared by the Narragansetts as far back as the 1600's, when European colonists arrived and learned about them.
They haven't changed much over the years, mainly because the recipe is simplicity itself: cornmeal and water. The batter is fried in a skillet and topped with butter, syrup or honey. An excellent version is available at the Commons Lunch in the hamlet of Little Compton, where the deep-brown johnnycakes are toothsome and hearty, perfect for a brisk autumn day.
Johnnycake purists -- that is, most Rhode Islanders -- insist that a johnnycake isn't authentic unless it's made from whitecap flint corn grown and ground into meal in Rhode Island, preferably with millstones made of Rhode Island granite. The near-universal brand of choice is Kenyon's, produced by a local mill that dates back to 1886 and whose little blue boxes of meal are staples in Rhode Island groceries. But at the risk of sending half the state into cardiac arrest, here's the truth about Kenyon's: most of its corn comes from Virginia.
''The fact is, we don't raise much in the state of Rhode Island anymore except houses, babies and taxes,'' explained Paul Drumm Jr., Kenyon's owner. ''We still get some local corn occasionally, but there just isn't enough of it. It's the reality of doing business -- go to Vermont, and you won't see too many buckets hanging from maple trees either.'' Regardless of the corn's origin, Kenyon's meal still turns out the definitive Rhode Island johnnycake.
Can Rhode Island sustain its regional food culture? Mr. Chiaro has his doubts. ''It's probably going to die out,'' he said. ''These provincial foods can't compete with places like McDonald's, where a milkshake is called a milkshake, not a cabinet, and so on. I think my generation may be the last one to know these foods the way they are now.''
But Mr. Widmer, the historian, has higher hopes. ''If any place can resist homogenization, it's Little Rhody,'' he said. ''I think we've actually turned a corner, and people are more defiantly proud of Rhode Island culture than ever. Many of the new converts are people who moved here, not natives, but I think their energy and passion are important. I don't see it changing.'' Let us hope he's right, for the demise of this underappreciated eating scene would truly be awful, awful.
All New England Books
Don't call it a hot dog
By any name, diners fiercely loyal to their own
By Joe Yonan
Globe Staff / August 6, 2006
PROVIDENCE -- To hear a native Rhode Islander tell it, the most colorful moniker for the state's stubby little hot wieners, laden with meat sauce, mustard, onions, and celery salt, is too colorful for a family newspaper. ``Off the record, then," he said. ``You wanna know what we call 'em?"
Of course. But I've done some research. I know that here in the littlest state, what are sometimes called New York System wieners are an only-in-Rhody obsession right up there with cabinets, coffee milk, Del's frozen lemonade, and jonnycakes. And I know that they go by many a name.
Gaggas, right? Sure. Destroyers? Uh-huh. Belly-busters? Close, he says, but not quite. So I give up: What, then, does John Rossi call them?
``Some people call 'em belly [expletive ]," said Rossi, smiling, ``because they're good going down, but four hours later they start to come back." In Rossi's experience, the only remedy for such a thing is a few big swigs of Coke about an hour or so after consumption.
Rossi should know. He's been consuming wieners for more than four decades. ``I was born in 1960, so I've eaten them since 1962," he said at the counter of Olneyville New York System in the Olneyville neighborhood of Providence . Moreover, to Rossi, two wieners don't even qualify as dinner, not even ``all the way ." On this Friday night, they're a mere appetizer for the cheesesteak he's now devouring. ``If I wasn't getting the steak, I'd get four wienies," he said.
This little wiener -- whatever you do, don't call it a hot dog -- has flourished in Rhode Island for almost a century, ever since Greek immigrants who ran similar operations on Coney Island moved north and attached the New York name to their new shops in apparent hopes of gaining credibility with the locals. The name and style stuck, and today from Warren to Warwick, Cranston to Newport, and Providence to Woonsocket, dozens of restaurants with names like Wein-O-Rama, Weiner Genie, Rod's Grille, and Sparky's New York System, Sam's New York System, Original New York Systems, Ferrucci Original New York System, and, yes, just plain New York System sell them for barely more than a buck apiece.
Ask a Rhode Islander who makes the best wiener, and the answer will probably be whatever place he or she had them growing up. Lisa Hamilton, associate editor of Rhode Island Magazine, prefers those from Rod's Grille, but that's because she hails from Warren.
The opinions are held dearly. People even disagree on how to spell wieners (see above). Hamilton says her magazine stopped including wieners in its ``Best of Rhode Island" awards for a few years because of the contentiousness (read: hate mail) that resulted
Besides the traditional squared-off shape of most of the wieners (a result of cutting, not tying them off) and the meat-sauce topping, it's the method of assembly that truly distinguishes them. The old-school short-order cooks prepare them ``up d'ahm." They hold one arm out, palm up, and line up the buns between wrist and elbow, then quickly put a wiener in each, squirt on the mustard, dollop the meat sauce, spread the onions, and sprinkle the celery salt. At the best places, all that can happen in a matter of seconds.
``You have to get 'em out as fast as you can," said Nick Barros, one of the cooks at Olneyville, where the Showtime series ``Brotherhood" has filmed some scenes.
His fellow cook, Robert Zanni, talks up his co -worker's arm as if Barros were Curt Schilling. ``I have short arms," he said. ``But this gentleman, he can put on 15, then he stacks ' em -- he can do up to 45!"
Actually, that's not exactly right. ``I've done 50," Barros said.
On the other side of town, at Original New York Systems, when our group orders five wieners all the way, Norman Robb cradles a stainless-steel sheet for his assembly. Why not the arm? ``Because the Health Department says don't do it," he said with a grin. ``And because I don't know you."
This place, owned by the great-grandson of its founder, just celebrated its 79th anniversary. Robb has worked there for 19 of those years, and old habits die hard. ``I have people who come in and say they won't buy 'em unless I do 'em on my arm," he said. ``And then what am I supposed to do?"
Robb and fellow worker Raymond Colaluca are full of stories about founder Gust Pappas and celebrity visitors such as Louis Armstrong, who came for wieners at 2 a.m. one day in the early 1950s.
Musician David Byrne famously worked here in the 1970s, and some say the trademark chopping motion he performs in his oversized suit in the video for the Talking Heads' song ``Once in a Lifetime" came from his experience assembling the wieners. ``When he goes like this," Colaluca said, looking about as far from Byrne as can be imagined, ``he's putting on the mustard, putting on the meat sauce, putting on the onions."
Like Olneyville, Original New York Systems is open until long after Providence's clubs close, which explains the wieners' reputation as post-imbibing, pre-hangover food. As such, the grease content is high, particularly in the meat sauce, which consists of ground beef, fat, and seasonings no one will divulge. ``That I can't tell you," Colaluca said.
At the sunny Rod's Grille in Warren, the meat sauce is less greasy , but co-owner Sandra Rodrigues, whose grandfather Mariano started the place 50 years ago, won't divulge much about her grandmother's recipe. ``I've seen some of the other recipes in the paper, and hers is definitely different," Rodrigues said. ``What's different about it I'm not allowed to tell."
At Olneyville, Rossi remembers skipping church with money his mother gave him for the offering and instead spending it on 25-cent wieners. ``It was sinful," he admitted. For its part, Original New York Systems made news this year when a unit of Rhode Island soldiers serving in Iraq wrote to ask for a taste of home; the restaurant sent all the makings except the actual wieners. ``That's on account of the pork," which Muslim dietary laws prohibit, Colaluca said. ``We didn't want to start another war."
By Joe Yonan
Globe Staff / August 6, 2006
PROVIDENCE -- To hear a native Rhode Islander tell it, the most colorful moniker for the state's stubby little hot wieners, laden with meat sauce, mustard, onions, and celery salt, is too colorful for a family newspaper. ``Off the record, then," he said. ``You wanna know what we call 'em?"
Of course. But I've done some research. I know that here in the littlest state, what are sometimes called New York System wieners are an only-in-Rhody obsession right up there with cabinets, coffee milk, Del's frozen lemonade, and jonnycakes. And I know that they go by many a name.
Gaggas, right? Sure. Destroyers? Uh-huh. Belly-busters? Close, he says, but not quite. So I give up: What, then, does John Rossi call them?
``Some people call 'em belly [expletive ]," said Rossi, smiling, ``because they're good going down, but four hours later they start to come back." In Rossi's experience, the only remedy for such a thing is a few big swigs of Coke about an hour or so after consumption.
Rossi should know. He's been consuming wieners for more than four decades. ``I was born in 1960, so I've eaten them since 1962," he said at the counter of Olneyville New York System in the Olneyville neighborhood of Providence . Moreover, to Rossi, two wieners don't even qualify as dinner, not even ``all the way ." On this Friday night, they're a mere appetizer for the cheesesteak he's now devouring. ``If I wasn't getting the steak, I'd get four wienies," he said.
This little wiener -- whatever you do, don't call it a hot dog -- has flourished in Rhode Island for almost a century, ever since Greek immigrants who ran similar operations on Coney Island moved north and attached the New York name to their new shops in apparent hopes of gaining credibility with the locals. The name and style stuck, and today from Warren to Warwick, Cranston to Newport, and Providence to Woonsocket, dozens of restaurants with names like Wein-O-Rama, Weiner Genie, Rod's Grille, and Sparky's New York System, Sam's New York System, Original New York Systems, Ferrucci Original New York System, and, yes, just plain New York System sell them for barely more than a buck apiece.
Ask a Rhode Islander who makes the best wiener, and the answer will probably be whatever place he or she had them growing up. Lisa Hamilton, associate editor of Rhode Island Magazine, prefers those from Rod's Grille, but that's because she hails from Warren.
The opinions are held dearly. People even disagree on how to spell wieners (see above). Hamilton says her magazine stopped including wieners in its ``Best of Rhode Island" awards for a few years because of the contentiousness (read: hate mail) that resulted
Besides the traditional squared-off shape of most of the wieners (a result of cutting, not tying them off) and the meat-sauce topping, it's the method of assembly that truly distinguishes them. The old-school short-order cooks prepare them ``up d'ahm." They hold one arm out, palm up, and line up the buns between wrist and elbow, then quickly put a wiener in each, squirt on the mustard, dollop the meat sauce, spread the onions, and sprinkle the celery salt. At the best places, all that can happen in a matter of seconds.
``You have to get 'em out as fast as you can," said Nick Barros, one of the cooks at Olneyville, where the Showtime series ``Brotherhood" has filmed some scenes.
His fellow cook, Robert Zanni, talks up his co -worker's arm as if Barros were Curt Schilling. ``I have short arms," he said. ``But this gentleman, he can put on 15, then he stacks ' em -- he can do up to 45!"
Actually, that's not exactly right. ``I've done 50," Barros said.
On the other side of town, at Original New York Systems, when our group orders five wieners all the way, Norman Robb cradles a stainless-steel sheet for his assembly. Why not the arm? ``Because the Health Department says don't do it," he said with a grin. ``And because I don't know you."
This place, owned by the great-grandson of its founder, just celebrated its 79th anniversary. Robb has worked there for 19 of those years, and old habits die hard. ``I have people who come in and say they won't buy 'em unless I do 'em on my arm," he said. ``And then what am I supposed to do?"
Robb and fellow worker Raymond Colaluca are full of stories about founder Gust Pappas and celebrity visitors such as Louis Armstrong, who came for wieners at 2 a.m. one day in the early 1950s.
Musician David Byrne famously worked here in the 1970s, and some say the trademark chopping motion he performs in his oversized suit in the video for the Talking Heads' song ``Once in a Lifetime" came from his experience assembling the wieners. ``When he goes like this," Colaluca said, looking about as far from Byrne as can be imagined, ``he's putting on the mustard, putting on the meat sauce, putting on the onions."
Like Olneyville, Original New York Systems is open until long after Providence's clubs close, which explains the wieners' reputation as post-imbibing, pre-hangover food. As such, the grease content is high, particularly in the meat sauce, which consists of ground beef, fat, and seasonings no one will divulge. ``That I can't tell you," Colaluca said.
At the sunny Rod's Grille in Warren, the meat sauce is less greasy , but co-owner Sandra Rodrigues, whose grandfather Mariano started the place 50 years ago, won't divulge much about her grandmother's recipe. ``I've seen some of the other recipes in the paper, and hers is definitely different," Rodrigues said. ``What's different about it I'm not allowed to tell."
At Olneyville, Rossi remembers skipping church with money his mother gave him for the offering and instead spending it on 25-cent wieners. ``It was sinful," he admitted. For its part, Original New York Systems made news this year when a unit of Rhode Island soldiers serving in Iraq wrote to ask for a taste of home; the restaurant sent all the makings except the actual wieners. ``That's on account of the pork," which Muslim dietary laws prohibit, Colaluca said. ``We didn't want to start another war."
You Say 'Hot Dogs,' Rhode Islanders Say 'Weenies'
by Anthony Brooks
Ferrucci's New York System, which isn't in New York as you might expect, is one of the bright spots in downtown West Warwick, R.I., where many businesses are suffering because of the recession. Locals gather here for breakfast, as well as burgers, fries, wraps and seafood rolls. But the eatery is best known for something else: weenies.
Or wieners. Just don't confuse them with a hot dog. In fact, on my first visit to Ferrucci's I made the mistake of ordering a hot dog. The woman running the grill looked at me as if I were speaking a foreign language. "You want a what?" she asked.
A weenie is a Rhode Island thing.
- Mike Ferrucci, Ferrucci's New York System
"Um, a hot dog," I said, "ketchup and mustard."
"We don't have hot dogs here. We have wieners."
Another customer looked at me and said, "You’re not from Rhode Island, are you?"
"A weenie is a Rhode Island thing," says Mike Ferrucci, the restaurant's owner.
Who would have thought that ordering a hot dog — a staple of American fast food from coast to coast — would mark me so obviously as an outsider? But it did.
Ferrucci, who came here from the Bronx 15 years ago, may be Rhode Island’s leading expert on the wiener.
"A weenie is basically like a hot dog but smaller," he says. "It's got different ingredients in it."
Ferrucci says a weenie has veal, pork and beef in it, while a hot dog which just has regular beef in it.
“It’s more plumper,” he says. “It’s a Rhode Island thing — like a Del’s lemonade and a coffee syrup. Out of state, people never heard of that."
It’s true. And if you come here from out of state you should know how to order a wiener. On my first visit to Ferrucci’s the woman running the grill asked me, "Would you like your wiener all the way?"
I have to be honest: Her question made me blush.
But Mike Ferrucci explains, all-the-way is all about the meat sauce.
"The old, famous meat sauce, they call it, simmered on a stove 30, 40, 50 pounds at a time, six different spices for hours,” he says. Ferrucci's all-the-way dog has mustard, the meat sauce, onions and celery salt on it.
So now I know. I ordered a hot dog and ended up with a real Rhode Island education about the wiener, and I left West Warwick well nourished and a bit more worldly.
Ferrucci's New York System, which isn't in New York as you might expect, is one of the bright spots in downtown West Warwick, R.I., where many businesses are suffering because of the recession. Locals gather here for breakfast, as well as burgers, fries, wraps and seafood rolls. But the eatery is best known for something else: weenies.
Or wieners. Just don't confuse them with a hot dog. In fact, on my first visit to Ferrucci's I made the mistake of ordering a hot dog. The woman running the grill looked at me as if I were speaking a foreign language. "You want a what?" she asked.
A weenie is a Rhode Island thing.
- Mike Ferrucci, Ferrucci's New York System
"Um, a hot dog," I said, "ketchup and mustard."
"We don't have hot dogs here. We have wieners."
Another customer looked at me and said, "You’re not from Rhode Island, are you?"
"A weenie is a Rhode Island thing," says Mike Ferrucci, the restaurant's owner.
Who would have thought that ordering a hot dog — a staple of American fast food from coast to coast — would mark me so obviously as an outsider? But it did.
Ferrucci, who came here from the Bronx 15 years ago, may be Rhode Island’s leading expert on the wiener.
"A weenie is basically like a hot dog but smaller," he says. "It's got different ingredients in it."
Ferrucci says a weenie has veal, pork and beef in it, while a hot dog which just has regular beef in it.
“It’s more plumper,” he says. “It’s a Rhode Island thing — like a Del’s lemonade and a coffee syrup. Out of state, people never heard of that."
It’s true. And if you come here from out of state you should know how to order a wiener. On my first visit to Ferrucci’s the woman running the grill asked me, "Would you like your wiener all the way?"
I have to be honest: Her question made me blush.
But Mike Ferrucci explains, all-the-way is all about the meat sauce.
"The old, famous meat sauce, they call it, simmered on a stove 30, 40, 50 pounds at a time, six different spices for hours,” he says. Ferrucci's all-the-way dog has mustard, the meat sauce, onions and celery salt on it.
So now I know. I ordered a hot dog and ended up with a real Rhode Island education about the wiener, and I left West Warwick well nourished and a bit more worldly.
Rhode Island Style Weiners
by Cate on December 30, 2008
I have had this strange obsession with hot dogs for the last couple of months. I can’t explain it really. I am just totally craving them, and as soon as I start thinking about them, I want them. Obsession aside, I have actually only indulged two or three times since this situation started, but it hasn’t been easy to practice restraint.
On a recent episode of Guy Fieri’s show, Guy’s Big Bite on Food Network, he made Rhode Island Style Weiners, so you know I was all over that. The recipe was inspired from visits to his father-in-law’s house in Rhode Island. He said that there they eat hot dogs with a ground beef concoction on top of them. Throw in the steamed buns and I was done for.
The day after Christmas we celebrated the holiday with The Neighbors and since I wanted to do a bar-food type menu, this was perfect. Okay, it might be a bit of a stretch since you likely don’t belly up to the bar and order hot dogs, but cut me a little slack here. The ground beef mixture takes just minutes to prepare and totally takes the hot dog to a whole ‘nother experience. Alright, stop laughing. Just so, so good. I steamed the buns (another small nuance I will have to remember for the future), and once the meat was on top, I added the suggested chopped raw onions and yellow mustard.
Food snobs be darned, this was one good eat.
Rhode Island Style WeinersRecipe courtesy of Guy Fieri on Guy’s Big Bite
4 tablespoons margarine (I used butter)
2 yellow onions, minced, divided
2 tablespoons chili powder
2 tablespoons paprika
1/2 teaspoon allspice
1/2 teaspoon curry
1 teaspoon dry mustard
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 pound ground beef, 80/20
1/4 cup water
20 hot dogs
1 teaspoon salt
20 hot dog buns
Yellow mustard
2 tablespoons celery salt
In a medium saute pan over medium heat add, margarine and 1 minced onion. Saute till translucent, but do not brown. Next add chili powder, paprika, allspice, curry, dry mustard and cinnamon. Then add beef, stir thoroughly and cook for 5 minutes, add water and simmer over medium to low heat for 30 minutes.
In a medium sauce pot boil hot dogs with salt and steam buns.
When meat is done simmering, add meat mixture to the hot dog in the bun, top evenly with minced onion, yellow mustard, and a sprinkle celery salt.
I have had this strange obsession with hot dogs for the last couple of months. I can’t explain it really. I am just totally craving them, and as soon as I start thinking about them, I want them. Obsession aside, I have actually only indulged two or three times since this situation started, but it hasn’t been easy to practice restraint.
On a recent episode of Guy Fieri’s show, Guy’s Big Bite on Food Network, he made Rhode Island Style Weiners, so you know I was all over that. The recipe was inspired from visits to his father-in-law’s house in Rhode Island. He said that there they eat hot dogs with a ground beef concoction on top of them. Throw in the steamed buns and I was done for.
The day after Christmas we celebrated the holiday with The Neighbors and since I wanted to do a bar-food type menu, this was perfect. Okay, it might be a bit of a stretch since you likely don’t belly up to the bar and order hot dogs, but cut me a little slack here. The ground beef mixture takes just minutes to prepare and totally takes the hot dog to a whole ‘nother experience. Alright, stop laughing. Just so, so good. I steamed the buns (another small nuance I will have to remember for the future), and once the meat was on top, I added the suggested chopped raw onions and yellow mustard.
Food snobs be darned, this was one good eat.
Rhode Island Style WeinersRecipe courtesy of Guy Fieri on Guy’s Big Bite
4 tablespoons margarine (I used butter)
2 yellow onions, minced, divided
2 tablespoons chili powder
2 tablespoons paprika
1/2 teaspoon allspice
1/2 teaspoon curry
1 teaspoon dry mustard
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 pound ground beef, 80/20
1/4 cup water
20 hot dogs
1 teaspoon salt
20 hot dog buns
Yellow mustard
2 tablespoons celery salt
In a medium saute pan over medium heat add, margarine and 1 minced onion. Saute till translucent, but do not brown. Next add chili powder, paprika, allspice, curry, dry mustard and cinnamon. Then add beef, stir thoroughly and cook for 5 minutes, add water and simmer over medium to low heat for 30 minutes.
In a medium sauce pot boil hot dogs with salt and steam buns.
When meat is done simmering, add meat mixture to the hot dog in the bun, top evenly with minced onion, yellow mustard, and a sprinkle celery salt.
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