Lips and assholes.

That’s a common misconception when it comes to evaluating what’s in a hot dog. Or is it? My buddy Jimbo’s father worked at a Hormel plant in his formidable years, and he claimed Spam was the top flight mystery meat outfit coming out of Hormel’s Austin, Minnesota factory. Hot dogs, he claimed, well…watch out.

So how do you defend something that doesn’t even measure up to fucking spiced ham in a can, much less make a cogent argument that it deserves to be crowned THE ULTIMATE MEAT?

For that we can turn to Michael Ruhlman, food writer extraordinaire, for help. In an “ode” to hot dogs he penned for Gourmet magazine, Ruhlman sings the praises of the emulsified forcemeat pleasure we call the American hot dog, and specifically those from that legendary Chicago hot dog concern, Vienna Beef.

Fat is fundamental to the hot dog; beef fat is rich and flavorful and highly saturated. They take it from two special cuts: the bone-in brisket (the company makes corned beef and pastrami, as well) and what they call the boneless navel (the belly cut, similar to pork belly, from which we get bacon). This trim, when ground, results in a mixture that is approximately 50 percent fat and 50 percent meat.

These two ingredients—brined bull meat and ground fat—are combined to create a forcemeat, or stuffing, that has about 22 percent fat. It is then channeled into a bowl mixer with the diameter of a jet’s turbine, where it’s puréed with paprika extract (which is responsible in part for the reddish color), dry mustard, pepper, garlic juice, corn syrup, and the curing salt called sodium nitrite that is important in any smoked sausage for safety reasons and fundamental to the color and flavor of the hot dog.

What’s not to like? Fat, meat, more fat, more meat, spices, sugar, salt. Nitrates.

“Mmmm. Nitrates. Drool….”

And a perfectly steamed Vienna Beef, one with a nice “snap”, dragged through the garden Chicago style with sport peppers, tomatoes, mustard, pickle, relish, onions and celery salt, all served in a perfectly toasted stadium bun? Addition by addition. It ranks as one of life’s great culinary achievements. I dare you to sit in front of such a hot dog, to consider its many fine attributes, and resist its overwhelming pull. It can’t be done, I tell you!

Exhibit B: The “Jersey Breakfast Dog”. Wrapped in bacon and deep fried. Oh my.

For those a bit squeamish about the whole nitrate matter, there’s a new breed of gourmet dog being championed by the likes of Niman Ranch, whose uncured, beef Fearless Franks are given their reddish hue not from nitrates but natural celery juice. Think of it as the thoroughbred of American hot dogs, made from top shelf cows free from antibiotics and growth hormones. When grilled over hot coals, a more succulent, plumper hot dog does not exist.

And that’s the thing about hot dogs. Sure, if you grab Bar-S brand franks that sell 99 cents for an eight pack, you’re rolling the dice. Snouts, bits of spinal cord, ground bone matter, hairnets, thumbtacks, Jimmy Hoffa - who knows what might fall into the abyss of an industrialized, mechanical meat seperator (another uniquely American trait - “faith based” meat consumption).

But we can’t paint all dogs with such a broad brush stroke. In the multitude of America’s ersthwile or contemptible contributions to society, she can at least be counted on to reach far back into the well and produce a specimen that will make us proud. For all the Michael Crichtons we unleash, every once in a while we’ll gift you with a Kurt Vonnegut. For the scores of Josh Grobans, Clay Aikens or Britney Spears we pollute the world with, we’ll also present you with a Bob Dylan, a Sufjan Stevens, or a Neko Case, just to prove we aren’t all unwashed masses wallowing in a cultural morass. The Hormels, Jennie-Os and random, proliferative supermarket house brands are countered by Vienna Beef, Sinai Kosher, and Niman Ranch. And that is good enough to put the meager hot dog on firm footing as a true under“dog” contender for THE ULTIMATE MEAT.

And, thus, with its select few beacons shining in a land of banality and mediocrity, hot dogs are the quintessential American culinary experience. America has a National Hot Dog and Sausage Council, for chrissakes. And one only has to look to the national pasttime to understand its unique hold upon the culture of these United States. According to this Wikipedia entry for the world famous (well, in Los Angeles, anyhow) Dodger Dog, an average of 862,702 hot dogs are eaten at every American major league baseball park each year (that’s a lot assholes! literally).

And what does it say that Los Angeles, with 1.61 million million dogs consumed, beat out the belly busting, mid-western pedigree of Chicago’s Wrigley Field (1.47 million)? Los Angeles, a city of lip (service) and assholes? Of smoothies, cocaine, energy drink cocktails, anorexia, and crappy fusion pizza? In this panoply of cultural waste, crass superficialism, sclerotic freeways, model-slash-actresses, designer sushi, and Wolfgang Puck, the humble hot dog lords over them all.

Lips and assholes never had it so good.