Bacon-wrapped danger dogs: A late-night sidewalk delicacy that’s thriving

BAKERSFIELD, Calif. (KGET) – If you’re a true foodie, you’re probably not interested in merely the flavor and appearance of your food. You’re interested in the backstory as well. Does that apply even to the common, omnipresent bacon-wrapped street dog? You bet it does.

Most nights in Bakersfield, evidence of entrepreneurial spirit is evident: The humble, bacon-wrapped hot dog is almost everywhere there are drinking establishments.

The sidewalk delicacy goes by a multitude of names, including most accurately, the Sonora Dog, or, more derisively, the Danger Dog. Depending on the hour, the day of the week and the location, it sometimes seems like you can’t walk 10 feet without bumping into someone grilling up a couple dozen of the beef-and-pork mini-meals.

A line of bacon-wrapped hot dogs sizzling alongside piles of onions, bell peppers and fat jalapenos – staffed by vendors behind makeshift carts – might strike some as evidence of culinary appropriation. Latino vendors only sell street tacos, right? Anglos sell hot dogs? Well, no.

Bacon wrapped hot dogs originated in Hermosillo, a city of 800,000 in the Mexican state of Sonora, about 50 years ago. Credit goes to the late night appetites of students at the University of Sonora. Soon, dogos, as they were also called, were being sold everywhere on the streets of Hermosillo.

Back then they were tucked not into soft, American hot dog buns but firmer, baguette-like bolillos, which can better handle the weight and volume of all sorts of add-ons – mushrooms, tomatoes, shredded cheese, chopped cucumbers, guacamole, pico de gallo, even cottage cheese.

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Dogos eventually migrated 250 miles north to Tucson, Arizona, where in the 1980s, they achieved celebrated status as a civic culinary trademark. From there, they migrated west to Tijuana, Ensenada and then Los Angeles.

There, they became known, somewhat dramatically, as danger dogs because the improvised kitchens that serve them – often just stainless-steel baking sheets positioned over cans of sterno  – may or may not have been cleared by the local health department. Still, somehow, despite the perceived lack of food safety precautions, in 2010 the L.A. City Council proclaimed the danger dog the official hot dog of Los Angeles (although the council didn’t use that particular nickname).

In San Francisco, danger dogs are called Mission dogs. In Chicago, deep-fried with cheese, they’re called francheezies. In the northeast, they’re Texas Tommys, or, with cheese and an egg, Jersey breakfast dogs.

But in Bakersfield, they’re just street dogs and the vendors are everywhere, demonstrating their entrepreneurial spirit on the sidewalks outside bars, hockey games and rock concerts.

And the vendors are from everywhere, too: Guatemala, Nicaragua and northern Mexico on one particular night.

As one might imagine, street vendors have the attention of the Kern County Public Health Department, which has a dedicated staff of 19 food inspectors, including three who specialize in unpermitted food vendors.

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They operate on a complaints-only basis. That is, they don’t inspect food carts on an annual basis, like they do fixed-location restaurants. Some 760 mobile food operations are currently licensed in Kern County, according to the health department. Since July 2023, another 422 have been issued cease-and-desist orders. As for the number of vendors not on either list … that’s anybody’s guess.

Street vendors, be they in the business of selling hot dogs, tacos and burritos, or cut fruit, are supposed to have access to hot running water, a hand wash sink, and reasonable proximity to a bathroom, the health department says. If they don’t, the health department can confiscate their food and equipment, and issue fines of three times what the relevant permit fee would be.

It should go without saying: Many of these danger-dog operations fall short.

You’d think street vendors would aspire to own one of those expensive silver trailers with permits posted in the window, but that’s not always so profitable. Vendors say customers want the authenticity, the personality and the aroma of a simple, makeshift operation. Some vendors end up pulling their old illegal carts right in front of their food trucks and turning on the propane. The fancy trailer becomes mostly a backdrop to the sidewalk grill – and the sidewalk smells – that customers expect and prefer.

With so many near-identical bacon-wrapped hot dog operations working the sidewalks of Bakersfield, how does an entrepreneur set himself apart? At least one guy – Original Martinez – seems to have it figured out. He sings, he dances, he tells bad jokes – and he makes like a baton twirler with his tongs. Think teppanyaki chef with mustard and mayo.

Original – real name, Victor  – works five nights a week with his wife and small staff on East California Avenue, near Mount Vernon. Customers can spot them, across from the used tire shop, under the blue and red canopies, Mariachi music blaring from a car speaker.

Original Martinez’s Original Dogs – secret ingredient, pulverized Flamin’ Hot Cheetos – survives on repeat customers.

Repeat customers and good prices, that is. Some bacon-wrapped hot dog vendors sell their dogs for $6, $8, even $10 bucks a pop. Original Dogs are $5.

If customers knew the fascinating, circuitous route to Bakersfield of the ubiquitous bacon-wrapped hot dog, they might be willing to pay even more.

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