"Are you going to try the deep-fried bologna sandwich too?" Schenk asked me.
"Well, I guess," I said. I could hear my arteries clogging. A fried bologna sandwich sounds even more vulgar than a deep-fried hot dog (and less alluring than a deep-fried Twinkie, which isn't served at Quick's but should be). But I had opened my big mouth, as it were.
So I drove out to Quick's the same night, bringing along Katie and Addison. Addison, who is Southern, claims to have eaten every kind of food that could be possibly dipped into a bubbling fryer — including Beluga caviar — except a hot dog. He roared when the beautiful young waitress brought me "The Big Dog," a half-pound, spiral-cut frankfurter that had been immersed in the hot oil just long enough to create a light, crackly exterior, leaving the inside hot and juicy.
Most of Quick's customers prefer their Big Dogs slathered with chili, onions and cheese, but I wanted mine in all its naked glory.
I sliced the thing into thirds, and we all tasted it.
It was, you know, different. Not as good as a corn dog (Quick's sells those, too) but superior to the fried bologna (a thick, hickory-smoked slab that tasted pan-fried to me). Maybe the Big Dog would have been better with melted cheese.
Now, I thought, if I could just find a local restaurant that serves fried Twinkies. As it turned out, Pitch Music Editor Jason Harper had recently tasted the fried Twinkie at The Brick (1727 McGee). He said he liked it but probably wouldn't order it again. "The guilt," he explained.
I understood.