Things annoy me. I can’t help it… it was inherited. In the food annoyance department, a too-thick burger, chicken salad with sweet pickle relish, food that’s not balanced, like too much gravy for my rice, or not enough juice for the meat in my gumbo, and a salad of mixed greens that can’t be stabbed with a fork are just a few. It’s impossible to list them all, plus I don’t want to annoy anyone because I know how that feels.

But at the top of this long list is a bad chili dog. I tried a new place recently, drove away, pulled over, took a bite, and threw it out the window for the birds, minus the paper part. 

Way back when, when the bus dropped me off on Wayne, and after I passed the Patout, Oubre, and Texada houses, and as I approached the Delahoussaye and Alfano houses, the smell of chili floated off the range, slid off the chrome-trimmed red formica, slithered across the linoleum, did somersaults down the back stoop, passed up Miss Elaine’s Beauty Shop that drowned out the smell of a Tony, and floated down the driveway and around my book sack filled with Miss Lecia’s heap of homework. 

Any homesickness I might’ve felt in her classroom in the Big Hall at Mt. Carmel quickly disappeared into a comforting swirl of Mexene. A treat before Mary Beth and I practiced our Qs with Daddy who was coming off his Texaco shift, and after Mary Beth had just gotten a shot in her left writing arm. “Mr. Maney, I can’t make my Qs,” were said through tears, but cured with the first bite of a chili dog…and him.

The Belangers didn’t splurge, but you could find us in Torrido Village at Mickey’s often. The carhop tray was precariously placed on the driver’s window and chili dogs without the weenies were gobbled up in a Bonneville filled with two parents, three children, bottled Cokes, and crumbs. I needed nothing more than what was inside that car in 1965, or ’66, or ’67…suddenly I can’t remember.

Upon ordering from Viator’s now, a system’s been developed because our mom said, ”You gotta have a system.” After watching customers do the Viator’s Drive-Inn Stance with folded arms leaning up against a column for no less than 30 minutes, the shaking of the bag in the window due to the microphone being on the blink means your order’s ready. We’ve said for years, “Good thing we occasionally glance that way.” 

After walking up to the counter and returning to the car, two napkins are spread upon a lap, the white bag is opened, a bit of chili is ritualistically scraped off for better balance with the aid of a french fry, the bag of fries is opened, the window is rolled down, the bag is hung out, the salt is sprinkled, then without further adieu, the bag is shaken and we commence to eating. We don’t really like the fries, but it’s part of the system. After, we stand outside, pound on the seats for crumb removal, then return home for a chili dog induced nap. It’s a simple system that anyone can master.

Now that Torrido Village is being resurrected by some fine folks here, my dream is to open up a chili dog place at that same corner where Mickey’s stood. It would be called, “Phyllis’s Mickey’s.” If Ruth’s Chris can get away with a name like that, then so can I.

PHYLLIS BELANGER MATA was born at the old Dauterive Hospital and grew up on Wayne Street. She is a 1974 graduate of Mt. Carmel Academy and is a chili dog “without the wiener” aficionado.