Photo by Tenaya HillsThe most misleading name in Orange County's restaurant nebula belongs to Pacific Coast Hot Dog. Cool beach breezes never reach this shack out in the city of Orange; more likely the fierce Santa Anas that sweep in over the nearby hills. A surfboard doubles as a bench here, yes, but you're not going to catch any waves on the asphalt gulch that's Chapman Avenue or the Blockbuster-anchored shopping plaza behind. And flip-flops? The patrons that stand patiently in line throughout the day wouldn't dare, lest their feet fry on the concrete floor.
But the name remains, ultimately justified by hot dogs worthy of Coney Island. Each Pacific Coast frank is a masterpiece, all beef with a firm, elastic casing that your teeth will enjoy stretching just the tiniest bit before tearing it off. They come ensconced in a sturdy yet fluffy bun fresh enough to expand and contract with your request for fillings. And, oh, you'll request: people don't place their order here so much as command it, driven by a sense of entitlement that emanates from repeat visits and the fact that condiments never leave the kitchen, not even the bottles of ketchup and mustard. “Put in a squirt of mustard first, then just a bit of ketchup—hold the jalapeños,” one suit-bedecked man growled to a Latino cook during a recent stopover. Then he seemed to sheepishly reconsider his rudeness. “Can I have the jalapeños on the side, please? You're so nice!”
There's not much glamour in the presentation, really. Accouterments don't stray from the roll call of hot dog standards—saccharine relish, freshly sliced onions and tomatoes, even some sauerkraut for the Teutonic among us. But in this simplicity, there's a summer's worth of love, heat, fireworks and heartache. Windy City expats will weep upon devouring Pacific Coast's Chicago dog (even in the absence of a poppy-seed bun), a massive pickle inside nearly matching the phallic girth and length of the sausage. The namesake special features as many apparent conflicts as an episode of The O.C.: cumin-spiked chili fights with bitter mustard and zingy onions for domain over your palate. Shakes are the only known antidote.
The best time to visit Pacific Coast Hot Dogs is after the sun sets. While hot dogs as dinner qualifies as a Super Size Me diet, we found ourselves feasting in such a way one recent evening. It was 8:45 p.m., right before closing, but people still drove up, asking, begging, pleading for just a couple of more dawgs. Management promptly responded—the sprinklers began squirting at nine on the spot, driving four of us from the benches and toward the sheet-metal counter, a bit wet but nevertheless munching away at the evening's last sausages. Life truly is a beach.
Pacific Coast Hot Dog, 3438 E. Chapman Ave., Orange, (714) 744-1415.
For more food fun, including Orange County's best damn dining guide and the weekly racist Mexican restaurant logo, visit www.ocweekly.com/food.
