“Eat me!” demands the cursive fiberglass mustard strung on the blatant red frankfurter hung outside Crif Dogs, an East Village snack shack. It fits like a pair of Lou Reed’s Levi’s to have that command/curse overlook this slouch of sooty brick and peeling paint on St. Mark’s Place, named for the patron saint of barristers, Venice and an Old New York that barely exists. Grubby vestiges of the latter near Crif include a tattoo parlor, thrift shop, record store, yoga studio, a place that sells a hundred different kinds of tea, a bookstore whose musty pulp-fiction scent reaches the sidewalk, a hipster cafe I’ve been to before, a famous Led Zeppelin reference and pedestrians who appear to be cloned from the DNA and clothing of Sonic Youth, circa 1986.
As soon as I’d walked in the Crif doghouse and passed the vintage Ms. Pac Man and Centipede cabinets, the pierced and tattooed countergirl, clad in strategically torn clothing, welcomed me as buddy and continued to call me that. “Yeah, you, buddy,” she added with friendly mischief after I turned to ensure there wasn’t someone more buddy-like standing behind me. She took my order and delivered it within five minutes, during which time Morrissey moped through “Will Never Marry” and the Dead Kennedys churned out “Viva Las Vegas” over the bipolar sound system. A bedraggled old guy wandered in and ordered two dogs with everything. After a pregnant pause, he wavered unsteadily and shouted “And a Pabst!” (“Comin’ right up, buddy!”)
Whatever your condition, hot dogs hit the spot. Add them to the golden scroll of foodstuffs that become improbably even less healthy yet more scrumptious when deep fried, which is Crif’s shtick. I got mine topped with raw onions and mustard so I could savor that extra-snappy, fryer-fresh knurl. Yummy, buddy.
Crif Dogs
- 113 St. Mark’s Pl. (between First Avenue and Avenue A)
- (212) 614-2728
- Meal 20 of 52: a Crif dog ($2.25) and a Stewart’s Root Beer ($1.25)