Goodbye, Mr. Pink

New York is famous for its pastrami, Buffalo for its chicken wings, Chicago for its deep-dish pizza. And if a culinary historian in 2196 were to look back on the specialties of 20th century Los Angeles--at least in the years before goat cheese pizza and El Pollo Loco--most would have chili on them. Los Angeles is the birthplace of the chili size and the chili burger and the chili tamale and chili fries . . . and not least, the chili dog.

Paul Pink, owner of the hot dog stand Pink’s, was until his death at 87 on March 7among the last of the great chili men, a poet of the chili dog whose sonnets, uncouth and garlicky, were written in soft buns, crunchy Hoffy franks, and viscous, orange chili that stained half the dress shirts in Hollywood.

For 57 years, Pink’s has catered to the star and the straggler, and the vast, jostling mob in front of his hot dog stand late at night has always been one of the few truly democratic institutions in Los Angeles: the cheerfully irascible counterwomen--and Pink himself, when you were lucky--harassed lowlifes and the high-born alike. He would have liked, I think, to have seen the long line of counterwomen at his funeral a few days ago, mourning Mr. Pink while sporting Pink’s T-shirts.