America #8

This past week, I had an opportunity to visit Pulliams in Winston-Salem, North Carolina.  I had been several times as a kid with my Dad, but it had been over 20 years since I was last there.  Nothing has changed.  I ordered two dogs, "all the way" and grabbed a Mountain Dew.  My life flashed before my eyes.

Pulliams Barbecue is an 100-year-old shack on the outskirts of Winston Salem, down the road from a bingo hall and a pawn shop. It's up there with Charlie's Pool Room in terms of the coolest places I've ever eaten a hot dog. Covered floor to ceiling in Nascar memorabilia, old photos, hand-made signs, and Budweiser boxes taped to the ceiling as makeshift posters.

It's standing room only, with a gleaming stainless steel island in the middle where locals down hot dogs and knock back ice cold buds or bottles of cheerwine from the old-fashioned (self serve) soda cooler.

It's called Pulliams "Barbecue" but everyone comes for the hot dogs—some of the best I've had in the south. Bright red, grilled pork and beef hot dogs slid into buns that are "toasted" in butter on both sides until almost burnt. Then a squirt of yellow mustard, a ladle of homemade chili, and heaping mounds of the whitest, creamiest slaw you've ever seen.

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