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Friday September 5, 1997

In first person... Dad finds `Brooklyn' hot dog in a parking lot

ARLENE RAYE
Special to the Bulletin My father, Joe Waldbaum, moved from Brooklyn to Los Angeles in the late '40s, met my mom on a blind date

As my dad got older, and quite possibly after my mom passed on, he became decidedly obsessed with finding the ultimate hot dog.

As a dutiful daughter and one who "grew up" on the outskirts of Berkeley's gourmet ghetto, I vowed we would find it.

On one blustery January day as he was turning 80, my mission was to chauffeur him to places that came close to his ratings mark.

Age had not deterred my father from the art of compromising. "I want it hot," he would shout as we were loading up the car.

"Not warm," he would continue, "hot, and I want the bun toasted."

My daughter was 6 at the time, and questioned her grandfather's energy at what she considered a less than important topic, a big waste of time in her book.

"It's my birthday lunch," he would laughingly explain to his granddaughter.

Alas, I checked my route, Shattuck Avenue, over to Euclid, down to Fourth Street and finally, the parking lot of that big discount store on Central Avenue.

"This is a Jewish deli?" he would disclaim at the first location. "This is a sorry state of affairs for the deli business. Very, very sorry," he made a point of telling the proprietor.

Location No. 2 warranted more of the same. "You don't get kosher-style at a place that sells hot links. This is not right."

Location No. 3 had the bun toasted. For this, he replied with a subtle bit of the Brooklyn crude, "Closer, but not boiling water. Do they think they're pulling a fast one on me for $2.95?" I, too, saw the second microwave of the day in the kitchen's open window.

Oh God, I imagined the worst. He would begin asking for his money back. Luckily, our shortage of time prevented that scenario.

Fourth stop, Central Avenue, just off the freeway, somewhere in Richmond.

"Not here," he admonished, "We don't strike gold in the middle of a place that sells corn chips by the half ton."

"Dad," I insisted, pointing to a hot-dog stand, "take your granddaughter. Go over there. I'll be back in 20 minutes."

I did the impossible, I finished my shopping within the half-hour mark. Outside in his mismatched sweater and turtleneck shirt, hugging the winter cold, I found my dad. His granddaughter was betting him he would not finish the third hot dog steaming gently in its foil wrapper.

He thought he found Brooklyn in a parking lot.

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