Eat more dogs Jimmy's way

Jimmy Rellos' body has transformed itself into an efficient shape for one thing: making hot dogs.

He's 89 years old, and for nearly 60 of those years his job has been grilling hot dogs.

His shoulders have a permanent forward curve, from bending over the grill and from spooning condiments onto the dogs.

His left hand comfortably holds two hot dogs and buns side by side, so his right remains free to dress them. Jimmy has been doing this so long that you might wonder if he learned to hold two because it was the standard order, or if it's the standard because Jimmy can hold that many.

And then there are his fingers. They are thick, as thick as hot dogs, and shiny like a dog's casing if it's left on the grill too long. That's because Jimmy puts his Hormel dogs on the hot grill with his hands, not a fork, and then uses a hand to press them down.

Jimmy's been doing this since 1950, here at his place with the straightforward name, "Jimmy's Hot Dogs," for the past 35 years. He has scores of customers who have become addicted to hot dogs made this way.

And he's done it by bucking several major business guidelines. At Jimmy's, change is not good.

Variety is not the spice of life.

The customer cannot have it his way: He can have it Jimmy's way.

But as all his customers know, maybe not for much longer.

A man walks into Jimmy's. The customer turns to his left, before taking a seat at the counter, and orders:

"Two," he says, holding up two fingers, "and a Coke."

He says nothing else; he doesn't have to. If you say "two," they come with mustard, onions and chili. Jimmy's special chili, not lumpy and full of beans, but a smooth texture and a sneaky spiciness.

This is a "Norfolk hot dog," even though Jimmy's is on Euclid Road in Virginia Beach. Almost every hot dog-only grill in South Hampton Roads serves them like this.

Many U.S. cities have a traditional way of serving hot dogs, and to connoisseurs the brand or type is important, but what goes on top might matter even more.

A Chicago hot dog is all beef, on a poppy seed bun, a dill pickle, sliced tomatoes, chopped onions, relish, mustard and a dash of celery salt. Someone ordering one all the way might say, "a hot dog, and drag it through the garden."

In the Carolinas, many prefer a "slaw dog," with cole slaw, chili, mustard and onions.

In New York, a standard-issue hot dog seems to come with mustard and onions.

In Norfolk, at Jimmy's, Tony's, Tony Jr.'s: mustard, onions, chili. Ask for ketchup at one of these grills, and you might get a similar response from the chef at a five-star restaurant: Rolling eyes, and a question with an answer: "Ketchup, huh?"

Jimmy's wife, whose name is Effie but whom customers call "Mrs. Jimmy," takes orders as Jimmy moves back and forth from the grill to the fixings.

A man and a woman walk in. They say "hi" to Jimmy and Mrs. Jimmy, but they do not order.

In two minutes, Mrs. Jimmy brings their hot dogs and drinks and slides them across the counter. Most customers have been coming here for decades, and Jimmy knows what they want. He can start preparing their dogs as they walk across the parking lot.

The Norfolk hot dog was born at Bacalis' Hot Dog Place on City Hall Avenue, where a Greek man named George Bacalis began selling hot dogs his way just after the Great Depression. Jimmy was Bacalis' grill man for 20 years, until 1970 when he left to help another Bacalis' employee, Tony Mirabelle, open Tony's Hot Dogs on Lafayette Boulevard.

Jimmy kept the same quick-order set up and bare-bones menu. At a true hot dog stand, that's what you get: hot dogs and a drink. No burgers, no fries. A true hot dog joint offers about the same items as a street-corner cart.

Jimmy's entire menu is this: Jimmy's dogs, mustard, onions, chili, $2, soft drinks, $1.10; milk, $1.75. He also sells Lay's chips and Lance crackers, though most people don't order them.

On a Friday in late June, Jimmy and Mrs. Jimmy were running the place as they have since the first day. Jimmy stood at the grill and said very little. Mrs. Jimmy took orders, and spoke just a tiny bit more.

"How many?" she'd ask as soon as a customer opened the door.

A man held up three fingers.

"Thr-r-r-r-ee," Mrs. Jimmy called to her husband, trilling the "r."

She and Jimmy still speak accented English, having come from Greece. And they have stuck with the Greek mentality that if you like their food and eat a lot of it, you like them.

"Got a little kick in the chili today, huh, Jimmy?" long-time customer Chuck Narducci called to Jimmy.

"It's good though, right?" Mrs. Jimmy said, answering for her husband.

Narducci and his friend William Strout are like most Jimmy's customers, in that their patronage of the place is measured in decades. They've been coming there for three decades.

How often?

"What," Narducci said looking at his friend, "couple of times a week?"

"We try to," Strout said.

The two men are retired police officers who now run motorcycle escorts for funerals. They have a system: If the funeral is in Virginia Beach, they hit Jimmy's for lunch; if it's in Norfolk, they swing by Tony Jr's.

Narducci likes the tough skin on the Hormel hot dogs, a natural casing dog that "snaps" - or pops like a grape - with each bite. Strout looked down at Jimmy and pointed out that the hot dogs are "hand rolled on that grill."

Jimmy changed almost nothing from the set up at the old Bacalis place. He uses the Hormel dogs, which Mrs. Jimmy snips the ends off of with a pair of scissors, and Mary Jane rolls and Lynnhaven mustard (both of which were made in Norfolk). The rolls are steamed.

The grill, the same one he's had for 35 years, faces the front window, so Jimmy can be seen in his white hat from the parking lot. Jimmy makes the chili himself every other day, and he chops the onions daily.

Ketchup is out, but would Narducci or Strout eat a Jimmy dog with, say, mustard only?

"Oh no," Narducci said, "that's blasphemy."

Everybody who comes to Jimmy's knows that Jimmy is 89, tired from standing for so many hours in the day, and has to shut down sometime. And there have been hints, just a word here and there, that July might be it.

"I don't know what we're going to do then," Strout said. "We've talked about it."

Another man walked through the door.

"Five?" Jimmy said, turning his head toward John Mays.

Mays laughed.

"Let's start with two."

Mays will eat five. He usually does, he just doesn't want them all at once. He explained that four generations of his family have eaten at Jimmy's: His grandfather, father, himself and now his children.

Mrs. Jimmy slid a Diet Coke and two hot dogs in front of him.

The secret is in the chili, Mays said, and if you request it, Jimmy will fill one of the Mason jars on his shelf and sell you some to take home.

"That's the pot he makes it in over there," Mays said, pointing to the sink and speaking with reverence.

Mays also will not know what to do when Jimmy hangs it up, but like most regulars he's checking in often.

"This is sad," he said. "I come once a week, because I don't know when it's the last."

Mays turn ed his head to the left, toward the grill.

Jimmy look ed at him.

Mays nod ded.

A minute later, Mrs. Jimmy slid two more dogs in front of him.

A hot dog place like Jimmy's is similar to a bar, only for people to eat.

A person can come in alone, grab a stool and not feel out of place. Many people do. But you don't hang out; most dog eaters are in and out within 10 minutes. If you're taking up a stool and not downing hot dogs, Mrs. Jimmy might ask: "You gonna eat?"

Lynn and Jim Nelson walk in. They don't order. Two minutes later, Mrs. Jimmy slides their drinks and hot dogs in front of them: two dogs each.

Lynn apologizes when asked how long they have been coming to Jimmy's. It took her a while to find the place, and she only stopped in after a neighbor told her about it. She's been coming for 28 years.

"We have some neighbors who won't come here because they don't have ketchup," she says.

"Yeah," her husband says, and chuckles like it's the craziest thing he's ever heard.

She turns to Jimmy and says they are going to come to Jimmy's house for hot dogs after he retires, if that's OK.

"Yeah," Jimmy says, "I'll put a sign up, too."

"You're welcome at our house anytime," Mrs. Jimmy says.

Lynn's husband tells Mrs. Jimmy the couple will split a fifth hot dog.

Mrs. Jimmy looks toward her husband, holds out her index finger, and motions for one cut in half.

Jimmy says nothing, and turns toward the grill.

Lon Wagner, (757) 446-2341, lon.wagner@pilotonline.com