‘Hot dogs are an American tradition. And it’s a shame people feel they have to put a stop to it.’ : Dogged Work Paying Off for a Wiener Vendor on a Mission

Call it the great hot dog crusade. And call 63-year-old Mort Diamond a hot dog warrior nonpareil.

The way Diamond tells it, all he ever wanted to do was to sell hot dogs.

Frankly, he had no interest in pleading with the Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors for the right to sell his franks on the street. He didn’t want to have to twice run for the Los Angeles City Council to try to settle his beef. And no, he didn’t relish taking on the top dogs in the California Legislature.

But he did.

And after 8 1/2 years of battling to ply his chosen trade, Mort Diamond is finally winning.

If everything remains on track, by this time next month he will be the force behind a new state law allowing hot dog vendors to store both their carts and their wieners at home.

This may may seem like beans to you. But to Diamond, the outcome of his collision with the powers that be is a testament to all the little guys who have been ground into submission by arcane rules and the government bureaucrats who enforce them.

The existing law, a thick and a hard-to-understand document called the California Uniform Retail Food Facilities Law, regulates restaurants and other facilities that serve food.

Diamond contends that he was forced out of business by the section of the law that requires vendors to park

their carts in designated common areas,

where they can be properly washed so that waste does not go into public drains, and to store their food where it is available for inspection by health officials.

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Diamond had opened a hot dog stand at Sherman Way and Owensmouth Street in Canoga Park in the mid-1980s to feed the hungry passersby.

He stored his wienies in a local market and parked his cart in his front yard. For a while things went well, but the law eventually caught up with him.

He was written up by a county health inspector. His operating permit was revoked by county officials.

He stopped selling his all-American, all-beef hot dogs in mid-1988.

And then he started fighting back.

“A county health official told me, ‘If this is the regulation, then you need to go out there and change it,’ ” Diamond said, glad of the chance to retell the story. “I told him, ‘You just said that to the wrong person.’ ”

Mixing frankfurter facts with snatches of populism, Diamond comes off as kind of a cross between Huey Long and Oscar Mayer.

“Hot dogs,” said Diamond, “are an American tradition. And it’s a shame people feel they have to put a stop to it. Americans eat an average of 80 hot dogs a year. I don’t know why they’re trying to get rid of the little hot dog guys.”

He descended into the depths of bureaucracy.

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For years, Diamond attended public hearings, traded letters with politicians, ran in--and lost--elections, campaigning on a “free the wienies” platform. Finally, he found two champions.

First, Los Angeles County Supervisor Mike Antonovich backed a change in county regulations that made it legal for vendors to prepare food at home. Then, state Sen. Richard G. Polanco (D-Los Angeles) agreed to sponsor the hot dog deregulation bill in the state Legislature.

The bill is now in the Senate Health and Human Services Committee. There is no guarantee, though, that someone will not cook up opposition to Polanco’s bill, which, presuming it clears the committee, still must pass the full Senate and the Assembly and win the signature of Gov. Pete Wilson.

“It’s going to be tough because of the restaurant associations who think the vendors might be getting an unfair advantage,” said Polanco aide Yen Nguyen.

And, she admitted, not even Diamond’s political operatives are entirely sold on the product.

“Everyone knows me as the ‘hot dog bill person,’ and the ironic thing is that I don’t even eat meat,” Nguyen said.

Even if he does win this battle, Diamond said he might never take his cart on the road again.

“After fighting this for 8 1/2 years, my doctor said I can’t do any more heavy lifting because I hurt my back,” he said.

Still, he is not ready to sell his pride and joy--the little red cart, where, in simpler times, he sold hot dogs without realizing that it was a gateway to politics.

“I’ve had many offers to sell it,” he said. “But I wouldn’t sell it. It’s a symbol of the plight of the small businessman.”