I’ve been in a “hot dog stage” of my eating habits since reading Ruhlman’s ode to his favorite emulsified forcemeat in Gourmet Magazine two years ago. Without fail, once a month or so, I begin craving dogs, and think of little else but that snap of the casing as you bite into a grilled hot dog, the firm, smoothness of the meat and the contrast of my favorite condiments: tangy sauerkraut, sour-sweet pickles, Dijon mustard and ketchup. My mouth waters as I write this.
I discovered Prather Ranch’s organic meat store in San Francisco’s Ferry Building when on a mission for a large hunk of meat to braise. The guys manning the store gave me great meat advice and later on their website I became enthralled with their “low-stress approach to animal handling” and the photos of the ranch nestled at the base of Mount Shasta. Happy cows producing flavorful meat. For day’s I enthused, to anyone who’d listen, about the rich and tender happy-cow meat I’d discovered.
Fast-forward a few weeks and I’m having a hot dog craving. When I lived in New York, finding a dog was easy—it’s a ubiquitous street food found on most corners, not so here in San Francisco. But the Tuesday Farmer’s Market is set up across the street from my office at the Ferry Building and a smell of grilling meat wafts through the air. I see a long line of people waiting at a stand—Prather Ranch food stall. And there, at the top of the menu, for $5, is an all-beef, nitrate-free frank. Bliss.
STREATS 