CULTURE : Japanese Firm Relishes Red Hot Chicago Idea : Owner of stand will become Col. Sanders of outlets in Asian land. His charisma won over franchiser.

Celebrity status has eluded Bill Murphy most of his life. He is the sort of unsung working stiff who finishes his days with mustard stains on his apron, the homeboy who not only does not own a passport, but who never even cared to send away for one.

This will all change sometime soon when Murphy becomes the Col. Sanders of Japanese hot dogs.

“Who would think? Me, a hot dog celebrity guy,” said Murphy, ducking to avoid yet another stain as he trimmed a red hot behind the counter of the cramped hot dog stand he owns near Wrigley Field on Chicago’s North Side.

Murphy is on the verge of a double life, one in which he would labor in anonymity at the Red Hot Joint that he has owned for eight years while his “smiling Irish mug” beams out to customers in 400 hot dog franchises scattered throughout Japan.

Out of all the hot dog joints in America, Murphy’s was chosen by a group of visiting Japanese executives as the place to copy in their campaign to make the hohadog a household word. Japan has assimilated such American pop cultural fare as baseball, comic books and rockabilly. What it will do with the likes of Murphy is anyone’s guess.

“You think they’re ready for this face?” said Murphy, 30, a strapping, red-eyed man who showed a canary-swallowing grin. “I don’t think so.”

Ready or not, Japan will get its first introduction next month when the Manabe Co., a Japanese coffeehouse chain, flies him to Hiroshima for the grand opening of their prototype hot dog stand, “Murphy’s Dogs.” Murphy will be in attendance to act as a greeter, pose with suited executives and provide an authentic whiff of working-class Chicago atmosphere.

His ascendance into the realm of spokespersons began last month when Kyunio Manabe, the firm’s president, stopped at Murphy’s stand one Saturday afternoon for a platter of Chicago red hots, a local variety of beef frankfurter drowned in celery salt, ballpark mustard, relish and chopped onions.

Manabe was on a two-week search for an American who could personalize the company’s incursion into the frank business in Japan. Planning to open a small Americanized hot dog franchise in each of his coffee shops, Manabe had already dropped in on a half-dozen other stands in Chicago that weekend, said Don Ferris, who accompanied the executive and runs Yonekyu USA, a Los Angeles-based firm that does business with Manabe.

“Bill was the only owner who came out and sat and talked with us,” Ferris said. “When Mr. Manabe told us he was looking for a Col. Sanders, frankly--excuse the pun--I didn’t think he would find anyone. But he came away impressed with (Murphy’s) charisma and his attention to detail.”

Murphy was equally stunned. “It blew me away when they told me what they wanted,” he said. “This is too good to be true.”

He has owned his small stand since 1987 after dropping out of the University of Illinois at Chicago, where he had pursued a degree in architecture. Murphy was hoping to make a steady income for several years, turn the business over to a manager and return to school. There was a usable space in a building owned by his wife’s family, and a red hot stand seemed like the best option.

“I was thinking burgers, but this neighborhood already has plenty of those,” Murphy recalled. “Then I remembered all these times as a kid, when my dad took me to his favorite red hot places. I’m thinking, hey, what’s so special about a burger? If I want to be noticed, I got to get into red hots. That’s the national sandwich of Chicago.”

According to Bob Schwartz, an official with Vienna Beef, a local meat processor, the city’s 2,000 hot dog stands outnumber many of their well-known competitors, “more than all the McDonald’s, Wendy’s and Burger Kings combined.” Red hot stands--Tasty Dogs, Gold Coast Dogs, Maxwell Street Polish--seem to crowd almost every main thoroughfare, selling sandwiches slathered with everything from relish to cucumbers to arrhythmia-inducing hot peppers.

“It’s like suffering with the Cubs,” Murphy said. “Some things just get handed down, generation to generation.”

When Murphy’s fills up around the lunch hour, there is little room to maneuver inside the tiny stand. Customers squeeze up against a counter where five employees--often augmented by Murphy and his wife, Letty--twirl around like dervishes, balancing plastic baskets heaped with red hots and french fries.

As word spread about Murphy’s impending trip to Japan, customers have come forward with congratulations and advice. Many seem to think Murphy should get a good lawyer. He may have to. The Japanese firm, Ferris said, has been getting impatient with Murphy’s prickly negotiating stance over his fee for being a spokesman.

“Just go with an open mind. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime deal,” said Matthew Hoffman, 31, a neighborhood printer who, like many patrons, is remembered only for what he orders each day. “Cheddarburger,” Murphy calls him.

Michael Lazarus, a food processing executive, said, “How can it miss? The Japanese are hungry for American pop culture. And Murphy is the real thing.”

Behind the counter, hands flying over the condiments, the Col. Sanders of hot dogs went about his lowly existence, impatient for his impending stardom, even if it was half a world away.

“I’ll do anything they want as long as they don’t have a hot dog suit waiting in a closet for me,” Murphy said. “Hot dog guys have their pride, too.”