Is soccer seasonless? It feels like it is always going on. There’s always some cup, some tournament that needs to be played. Last month, one of the first phases of the Nations League was being played. The Nations League is a competition played by the member nations of UEFA and normally, I probably wouldn’t care much. It’s just more boys looking for chances to qualify at something. However, a couple of weeks ago when I was alerted by my news app that a match between Italy and France was taking place, I saw an opportunity to tell you all about two more special dogs I’ve tried. One “Italian” and one “French.” The connection between that match and these dogs was already shaky and now super moot since so much time has passed since said match took place, but I will proceed regardless. Here I present you with my next international wiener competition.

Jim, whose denigration of the hot dog has nearly vanished since this start of this journey, was in Copenhagen recently and brought back lore of a “French” hotdog. Of course this was being served in a country outside of France, because I simply cannot see the French hollowing out a perfectly good baguette to shove a dog down in there and squirt honey dijon in along the sides. Mm. Juicy, blurry preview below:

I had forgotten about this French dog fairytale until it became a reality for me Oct. 11th, the same night I ate a platter of wursts at Brauhaus. We talked about the wurst night a couple weeks ago. After dinner there, my party and I strolled a couple blocks over and down to Le Caveau for something of a nightcap. Le Caveau is next to what used to be Beau Monde and is now Rosy’s South Philly location. You enter through a narrow door on Kater st. And immediately up the staircase you’re met with. The bar is small and dark and terribly sexy. Like, too sexy for me to have been in there with a belly full of six sausages. I would recommend you have your next date there.

Once we got in, I heard Ellie say from behind me, “I didn’t know they served food here! Oh my god Bianca you must.” I raised my eyes from the drink menu to the small magnet board behind the bar where I found the words “French Hot Dog.”

I asked the bartender if I could order one. If this sounds like I was asking his permission, I was. I had just come off of my biggest tubed meat gorging since this experiment had started, though he didn’t know that. Could I rightly eat another? Also, I asked because it was getting late and sexier by the second in there. Perhaps their sexy kitchen had closed. Are hot dogs sexy? A French hot dog just might be. The bartender was happy to put my order in but told me it would take a while. Ooh! A dog what takes its time. A slowww burn. Making me wait for it.

I drank some alcohol, hoping it would burn through some of the sausages I had eaten just an hour or so ago. I also waited, as I was asked to. I finished my first pour (Haitian Rum, neat) before me and my curious, sleepy friends started inquiring after my little doggy. The only waitress pointed our attention to what appeared to be a chemistry lab behind the bar. In what I can only describe as a decanter x beaker type vessel sat my dog. It was leaning against the wall of this container and sweating as though it had entered the sausage spa sauna. If you squint, at the below photo, you can make out what I’m talking about. I’m not sure what method of preparation this was. I want to say it was being steamed to perfection, but I can’t be sure. Here we have another instance where my imbibing got in the way of me getting complete information to support this blog. But now I have an excuse to return.

I want to pause here to question the name “French Hot Dog.” Like I alluded to earlier, I had my doubts that the French would claim this. Jim discovered it while in Denmark and from my research I’ve found that the recipe is Danish. Or at least, it is most popular in Denmark. There, they are called Franske hot dogs. Turns out the Danes love wieners and there are little sausage wagons all over the place. Good to know there is a place for someone like me. I titled this entry “Italy vs. France” so we’re going to move forward with that but keep this Danish information in the back of your mind.

Finally, the dog was brought to our table. All mouths fell slightly agape to let the words, “that looks so good” slip through. The dog was presented in a baguette that was not sliced but gutted. Joining the dog within was what tasted like maybe butter and mustard of a honey Dijon variety. I wanted to try and confirm this so, while I was looking up the “Franske” dogs, I also had to look up the recipe for the condiment since it was pretty much superior to any mustard I’d had on a dog previously. The “dressing” is a combination of MAYO (there it is again!), “sweet” mustard, honey, curry and garlic powder. It was sugary, savory and tangy all at once. Lastly, we have discussed the importance of a toasted bun, but I never thought of what eating a hot dog on what felt and tasted like freshly baked bread would do to me.

As a child, I was quite picky. I know – I've come a long way. Bread with butter was one of the only things I was guaranteed to eat, something my best friend Adrienne likes to tease me about from time to time. Anyway, this may sound silly, but having a really good piece of bread or a roll with butter is one of those comfort tastes for me. That combo being elemental to this wiener sent me to a magical and heartwarming place.

Thus, began what Rob coined via Instagram as the “hot dog handoff.” I took a bite, and then another, savored and passed it to Ellie who did the same, then to Ted and finally to Jim who had not a single scintilla of criticism. The below photo makes me giggle because it invokes Michelangelo’s The Creation. More simply put, it was the “puff, puff, pass” of dogs and it was delightful.

I imagine there is more than just a long-standing soccer rivalry between Italy and France. Both are a proud people who tout having the best wine, or cheese, or fashion, or side of the Alps, or cuisine overall. As a reminder, I am throwing glizzies onto that list.

I had never heard of an Italian dog until my cousin Sandy mentioned to it. From her information and from what I’d read about it in Jamie Loftus’ book, it seems to be a Jersey thing particularly in the north. The anatomy is not much different from an Italian sausage and peppers sandwich.

The breakdown is as follows: hot dog(s), long roll, sauteed peppers and onions and roasted potatoes. *note to self, my friend TT offered me a hot dog breakfast hash recipe that I MUST remember to try out this winter*

My cousin offered me a location where I could get this Italian Dog – Johnny Longhots. This is not to be confused with Johnny’s Hots on Del ave. in Philly which I also have earmarked. Johnny Longhots has a few South Jersey locations – Marlton, Voorhees and Deptford. I learned the hard and disappointing way that not all the locations/franchises offer the same menu.

I stopped at the Deptford location last month on my way home from a visit to the shore. There weren’t even plain hot dogs on the menu, let alone an “Italian Hot Dog.” After a few moments poring over the menu behind the counter, and the printed leaflets by the register, I asked the girl behind the counter if they had “Italian Hot Dogs.” She looked at me confused and shook her head “no.” A more complaisant person may have ordered something else anyway, but I just walked out.

I am tenacious, though and had an idea as I got back on the road. I know a place that has hot dogs and peppers and onions, never misses and is close to home – Rocco's.

Rocco’s is a casual, little, flat-top grill “restaurant” attached to the Home Depot – also on Delaware. Realizing you can sneeze and run into a hot dog on that avenue. We all know Depot dogs are a national phenomenon and Rocco’s is no exception. Anytime I have to go to Home Depot for like...tools? Smoke detectors? The aroma from Rocco’s always diverts me from the task at hand. Envision the anthropomorphism from cartoons – the scent of the pie on the windowsill turns into a “come hither” hand and pulls the closest trouble-making protagonist to the window by the nose. This is what happens to me when I’m just trying to buy a lightbulb or whatever!

The guy behind the counter looked at me a little strangely when I asked for a sausage sandwich with peppers and onions – except replace the sausage with a couple of dogs instead. Once I asked for it out loud, it really didn’t seem too odd of a request but apparently it is! No potatoes – I may have been in luck had I gotten there for breakfast – but no such luck at 3pm.

The sandwich ended up being 4 HOT DOGS split-grilled and put on a long roll with the peppers and onions. Rocco’s dogs are simply great. I know they have their own sausage for sale when you enter the little shack, but I can’t say the same for dogs. Whosever they are or wherever they came from – kudos. I ate half in the car with the window down which is how I feel Rocco’s sandwiches are meant to be eaten and you can see from the photo I took there that the dogs have maybe a little bit of red pepper in the blend? There was a kick to them which I appreciated. I saved the other half to potato myself, at home.

I don’t roast potatoes (or cook at all really), but Jim does. In fact, he considers roasted potatoes one of his specialties. So, after a bit of sniveling from me, Jim roasted potatoes that I could add to my peppers and onion dog. Wow, did it make a difference.

Anyone who has ever had a gobbler (I only had one this season and that’s a bit sad for me), understands that potatoes in some form, on a roll is peak cozy. Their addition cut the acidity of the peppers and onions and gave the whole sandwich something of creamy consistency. Very interesting and comforting, something the Italian dog had in common with the French.

I think the greatest distinction between the “French” and “Italian” dogs is the that I called out when we had our German v. USA contest. One felt hoity-toity and the other a bit more prole and accessible. The Italian dog was super “no-frills.” It wasn’t even as flashy or as ingredient-heavy as that ol’ Chicago-dog, but I would still qualify it as a heartier meal. Also, my Frankenstein-ing of throwing on my own potatoes at home shows that you can DIY an Italian dog yourself and still have a great time.

At least in soccer, (remember that’s how I decided to start this) there is always one clear winner and loser. Or maybe I just eschew declaring a champion because I want my readers to try and draw opinions for themselves! Either way, France (Denmark?) and Italy can continue to compete for other titles – whose language is more romantic?