By Esther C. Baird. First published in the Ipswich Local News May 22, 2025
Here are two things you should know about me:
1. I love cities
2. I love hot dogs.
But here I am, living in Boxford, which is basically a forest with a few houses. And I’m in my middle-age “era,” during which I eat fermented foods and 30 plants a week. There is not much room for skyscrapers or processed meat. But recently, I took our newly minted 18-year-old to New York City for two days of urban living. We stayed in midtown, with all the crowds and excitement.
Plus, there were hot dog vendors every five feet.
On our first afternoon, we took an exploratory stroll through Times Square. We were instantly swarmed by a small army of costumed characters: Elmos, Mickeys, Spidermen, X-Men, a giant gorilla, and a blue alien. They were all trying to sell us pictures with them.
“Are you twins?” Spiderman yelled.
“Look at the lovely sisters.” Mickey Mouse interrupted.
I mean: thanks? And also: spare me. I’m 51, and my daughter is 18. I’d have to be my own costumed character to pass as her twin. Plus, all I actually wanted was a photo of me eating a hot dog.
And yet, on our first night, we ate at some little brass-and-mahogany pub. It was fabulous, and I’ll remember the lamb rigatoni for the rest of my life, but I didn’t eat it standing up on the street. There was no ketchup or mustard to speak of.
On our second day, we did a self-designed tour. It began by going up a tall building for the orientation view. We chose Rockefeller Plaza for both price and convenience and the chance to see someone famous (we didn’t). We then mapped out a few retail flagship stores for shopping, a few historic sights to visit, and — of course — variations on that enduring theme: coffee.
Hot dogs didn’t make the tour schedule cut.
In fact, around lunchtime, while exploring SoHo, we traipsed past quite a few dingy vendors laden with grease, which I knew meant the hot dog would taste even better. But my daughter wasn’t catching the vibe. Instead we found a cute patio café where we ate on fancy chairs with lemon-infused salads full of … plants.
We chose to walk (hike?) back to our hotel past Chelsea Market and Pier 57. We took touristy photos at the Jetsons-looking garden, Little Island, that hovers over the Hudson, and we enjoyed the sunshine and chance to sit and rest by the water for a bit.
But I did not enjoy a hot dog, despite there being plenty of options around us.
That evening, we attended Wicked, the musical. It was performance perfection. Our cast was superb, the music was better than we ever imagined in our many sing-along road trips over the years, and the Oz Dust beverage I consumed was magical.
It was a fabulous day from sunrise to well past sunset, which is about when we found
ourselves back in Times Square. It was nearly 11 p.m., well past middle-aged o’clock, but the lights made it feel like day time.
And there, shining brighter than any of the billboards or rickshaw carts with blazing music, was a hot dog vendor.
“One hot dog with mustard and ketchup, please.’ I said.
The vendor smiled, ‘So you want that with everything?” He asked as he sliced a hot dog and placed it, open faced, on the grill — I mean, the sheer artistry! What a way to cook a hot dog!
I looked at the layers of grease and nodded, “Oh, yes. I want everything.”
About three minutes later, he handed me my hot dog. The bun was grilled as well, and it was covered in a colorful slop of who-knows-what. I didn’t care.
Elmo and some acrobatic performers were spinning nearby. My daughter was fending off Wolverine as she ate ice cream. Tour bus operators were hawking midnight rides, and the entire world was neon, flashing and loud.
It was a world that tasted like a happiness. The happiness of a (middle-aged) girl in a city with a relish/mustard mix on a hot dog beneath the glow of the skyscrapers.