Doggerel

Sure there’s Pink’s; we know about Cupid’s; we’ve heard about Tail of the Pup. In L.A. County, the real temple of the dog is Rubin’s Red Hot, a massive drive-through Chicago-dog joint on a sliver of a lot, architected from a slice of Chicago El-track steel, massive and rivet-laden and as mystically baroque in its Midwestern way as something from early Gaudi.

Rubin’s, encrusted with transit signs, may be as incongruous on Ventura Boulevard as a chunk of the four-level might be plunked down on Michigan Avenue. Most people could think of other things to do with a gazillion tons of steel than erect a monument to the frankfurter. Most people aren’t from Chicago, where a guy’s favorite hot dog stand may say as much about him as his baseball team or his congregation.

After the lunch rush clears, the patio of Rubin’s often seems like something of a clubhouse for Chicagoans. A well-dressed man, who seems to know most of the people on the patio, sits down with a hot dog.

“I’m catching a plane to Chicago at 3:30,” he says to an older guy seated at a nearby table, the one by the sign that says Parking for Cub Fans Only. “Where you from?”

“Ummm, Buffalo,” the guy says.

“Whaddya know about Chicago, then?”

The man thinks a minute. “I know they’ve got very nice parole officers,” he says.

French fries, lavishly portioned and very crisp, taste almost more like kettle potato chips than like fries; chili is the meaty, bland kind, sort of uninteresting on either a chili dog or a plate of chili fries. Polish dogs are fine; brown, beefy things served with a blanket of sauerkraut. The chocolate shakes are swell--not too sweet.

At a Chicago hot dog stand, though, no matter how deconstructed the architecture, the hot dog is the thing. The red hot is served in a steamed, seeded roll, moist but not soggy, with the requisite pickle spear, tomato wedge, chopped onion, and a schmear of piccalilli dyed a violent green you might better associate with some of the less subtle Op-Art paintings of Bridget Riley than with something actually eaten as food. Not bad: the goods.

But the traditional celery salt is either missing or so subtle as to appear as if it is, and instead of the necessary handful of sport peppers there is a lone peperoncini. And Rubin’s Red Hot commits the mortal sin of using a kosher-style dog that, while large, is not Vienna brand, whose casing does not snap when you bite into it and that is as mildly garlicked as an Oscar Mayer cocktail frank. Still, in the dog days of summer, you could do lots worse.

* Rubin’s Red Hots

15322 Ventura Blvd., Sherman Oaks, (818) 905-6515. Open daily 11 a.m.-8 p.m. (Sundays until 7 p.m.). Cash only. Lot parking. No alcohol. Takeout. Lunch for two, food only, $8-$12.