Pinking Out

Have you ever been to Pink’s when it opens in the morning, when the giant blocks of chili in the steam table haven’t yet completely melted into orange grease, when the customers consist mostly of cops and copy-shop dudes, when you talk yourself into believing chili dog breath before noon may not be a liability?

Consider the Pink’s dog, uncouth and garlicky, tapered and uncommonly slender, skin thick and taut, so that when you sink your teeth into it, the sausage . . . pops . . . into a mouthful of juice. The bun is steamed, just so, soft enough to sort of become a single substance with the thick chili that is ladled over the dog, but firm enough to resist dissolving altogether, unless you order your hot dog with hot sauerkraut. (I do.) Crisp chunks of raw onion provide a little texture; a splash of vinegary yellow mustard supplies the hint of acidity that balances the richly flavored whole. Pink’s also serves hamburgers, but it is the dog that is its glory, the dog that deserves a historic-preservation act of its own.

Surmounted by a whirling sign advertising Hoffy’s Meats, next to a vaguely Art Deco storefront that used to house, I think, Paul Pink’s shoe-repair business, the chili dog stand Pink’s--always crowded, always exuding a garlic aroma you can smell a block away--is as venerable a part of the Los Angeles landscape as the Hollywood sign. I used to go to Pink’s a lot, usually to soak up the alcohol at 2 a.m., occasionally for a chili dog breakfast, but until last week, I hadn’t been in years.

Inside, the walls are lined as ever with autographed 8x10 glossies, though upon closer examination the lineup has changed from starlets and obscure soul singers to obscure character actors and metal stars; clippings from the old West magazine have transformed into tear sheets from Buzz. Personally, I miss seeing disco diva E.G. Daily up on that wall, though it’s nice to see that the photograph of Marty “Hello Dere” Allen remains.

Somehow, while nobody was paying attention, Pink’s turned into something of a Dali-esque Mexican restaurant, with chicken fajita burritos and nacho cheese chili dogs, chili corn chips and giant 12-inch jalapeno dogs in addition to the customary chili-drenched XLNT tamales. (In case you’re interested, Pink’s guacamole is not so bad.)

Pink’s was once the only place in town to find an idiosyncratic line of soda pop called Mitz--real-life slogan: “Drink Mitz, Don’t Schvitz”--which has since been replaced by Barq’s root beer and Dr. Brown’s cream soda. Pink’s also serves the worst French fries I have ever eaten--limp, scorched-tasting things doused with handfuls of seasoned salt.

I have actually eaten something called the pastrami burrito dog, sort of a riff on the oki dog, which involves two Pink’s franks, chopped onions, a piece of Swiss cheese, a gob of chili and a few rubbery slices of griddle-fried pastrami, all wrapped in a giant tortilla. Whereas the chili on the hot dogs is minimal, the chili and cheese in the burrito reach something approaching critical mass, which means it gums up in your mouth the way a peanut butter sandwich does when you take too big a bite.

The sheer density of the thing makes it not only difficult to open your mouth but almost impossible to build up enough jaw-torque to work your incisors through the pastrami. In practice, this means that, with your first bite, a strip of pastrami will invariably sort of flop back onto the burrito with animal force and spatter your favorite tie with a translucent orange goo that will make your dry cleaner shake his head in dismay. At least with a Pink’s chili dog, no matter how eager the thing is to dissolve in your fingers, you are still more or less the captain of your own destiny.

Pink’s Famous Chili Dogs

711 N. La Brea Ave., Los Angeles. (213) 931-4223. No phone orders. Open Sunday -Thursday, 9:30 a.m. to 2 a.m.; Friday and Saturday, 9:30 a.m. to 3 a.m. Cash only. No alcohol. Lot parking. Takeout. Lunch for two, food only, $4.50-$9.