By Karen White-Walker
I can never remember a time when there wasn’t a Lockport Reid’s Hot Dog Stand. I can never remember a time when they tried to beautify the joint with a new paint job or a planted flower or two to enhance the place. Who am I kidding — Reid’s need about as many more customers, as President Bush needs more anti-war supporters. Reid’s, an American institution, unlike you-know-who, probably depreciates property values within a mile radius because it looks like a… well, it looks like a HUD reject. Rickety picnic tables teeter at a 45-degree angle on uneven overgrown grass and dirt spots. One has to brace at least one foot on the ground while eating so that the vinegar on your French fries doesn’t run onto your hot dog bun and make it all soggy. I hate soggy hot dog rolls. The seagulls love them as they swoop down and sometimes baptize you and your food with you-know-what, because they’ve eaten too much. It’s not exactly the ambiance a woman imagines when her husband takes her there for their anniversary dinner.
The sprawling blacktop parking lot butts up to the eating area so it behooves you not to face the traffic, so you’re not breathing in exhaust fumes with your food. As if even that is a deterrent, ha, you’re dreaming! Almost every customer faces the parking lot to take in the action and, believe me, there’s plenty of action. Who says people in Western New York are moving out of this state in droves? Come lunchtime you kinda wish they were because it feels like all of New York state’s population is waiting to have their order taken. Please girls, don’t take offense or think I’m prejudice against my own gender, but years ago when it was only all guys working there, your order went from their ears to right smack under your nose — lickety split. And you could rattle off an order for twelve people and they’d get it all correct, no mess- ups. Just the other day I ordered a black coffee. “Is that with cream and sugar?” she asked. Oh well, they do fine and their prices are still so very fair. Reid’s biggest attraction is probably that, oh dear, do I dare say it? I’m saying it…that darn hot dog sauce. That very sauce that customers go wild over, has put Reid’s on the map, and has been my brother-in-law’s birthday and Christmas present for the last 40-something years. I’m sorry, but I just can’t get past the smell of it, and that putrid color clashes with everything I wear. If that terribly nice owner Rick knew how I felt, he’d probably ban me from the place. Hey, he could afford to lose some of his business and still pique the Internal Revenue’s interest. Over the years if one could just resell every dropped French fry on the ground, he or she would still have to file an income tax form. But then we mustn’t forget about the staggering overhead this thriving business must incur.
Sometimes on a sweltering summer day when we customers have had the luxury of having been to the beach, I’ll stop and grab a smothered hamburg and glance back at Rick and Curtis working the grill. They smile and acknowledge your presence and it’s a down-to-your-toes good feeling to be silently thanked for your patronage. But I’ve noticed how sometimes those guys back there look all hot, sweaty and tired. There’s no basking in the sun for them, but they have what very few in life ever experience — the sweet smell of success. Guess where that sweet smell of success is coming from? You’ve got it — that stinkin’ sauce.
“Make mine two red hots — plain,” I told the girl.
“Is that with or without sauce?” she asked.
Believe me, you can’t get near the place.
Karen White-Walker is a Wilson resident. Her column appears every Tuesday.
