Detroit Coney Dog

Detroit has two religions: automobiles and coney dogs. Since 1917, American Coney Island and Lafayette Coney Island have stood side by side on Michigan Avenue, their rivalry fierce enough to divide families. Both serve essentially the same thing, yet loyalties run deep. This is tribalism expressed through chili sauce.

The coney dog traveled to Detroit with Greek and Macedonian immigrants who adapted their homeland's meat sauces for American palates. What emerged bears no resemblance to Texas chili or Cincinnati's cinnamon-laced variety. Detroit coney sauce is all beef, finely ground almost to a paste, seasoned with cumin, paprika, and garlic, loose enough to ladle but thick enough to cling. It sits atop a natural-casing hot dog whose snap when you bite through is half the pleasure.

The construction follows strict protocol: mustard first, applied in a single stripe down the length of the dog. Then the sauce, generous but not drowning. Finally, diced raw white onion, scattered with abandon. The bun must be steamed until it practically dissolves against the roof of your mouth. This is not delicate eating. This is lunch counter food meant to be consumed standing up, talking with your mouth full, arguing about whether Lafayette's sauce has more cumin.