We've succumbed to the "ball park eating syndrome" at the Boise Hawks game. Food that you would immediately run from on the "outside," casts a spell on you as soon as you surrender your ticket at the gate.
None of us has eaten dinner and we have a hot dog craving. Unfortunately, the vendors circulating in the bleachers are only hawking beer and sodas so I'm sent to brave the early inning lines at the concession stand.
My order of hot dogs takes 15 minutes to fill because of a kitchen snafu, but the folks behind the counter are cheerful and keep offering me a chance to change my order to hamburgers, popcorn chix and halibut and fries. But I am on a mission for hot dogs.
The concession stand carries the usual assortment of sunflower seeds, peanuts and Cracker Jacks. I am tempted to order some Cracker Jacks to satisfy childhood memories, but pass after learning they no longer come in boxes--only in bags--some how it isn't the same. The BBQ pit, across from the concession stand, does a bang-up business while I wait. Customers watch their chorizos, Italian sausage and Philly cheese steaks being cooked on an outdoor grill while they banter with the cook.
After finally grabbing our dogs we wander down to the Hawks Den, the restaurant along the left field line, to sit in the plastic green lawn chairs and order some beers. Their selection doesn't disappoint us as they offer us familiar standbys such as Bud and Rolling Rock along with a wide selection of imports and northwest microbrews.
We're watching a disaster unfold for the Hawks--the visiting Eugene Emeralds have scored three runs without taking the bat off their shoulder--as the Boise pitcher comes completely unraveled. Two balks and a passed ball have cleared the bases and our talk turns to the food we've eaten while watching baseball.
Between the three of us, we have over a century of experience gathered from lowly Winston-Salem Warthog and Toledo Mud Hens games to shrines such as Fenway Park and Wrigley Field. We've ingested crab cakes, garlic fries and funnel bread during that time, but we all agree that hot dogs are the signature food for baseball.
"A hot dog is just a hot dog, until you eat one at the ball park," says Joanne.
"Hot dogs always taste better when you get them at a ball game," Sandy chimes in.
They're chomping on the basic "Hawk" dogs while I'm trying to figure out how I'm going to get my mouth around my "German" dog without letting all the accompanying grilled onions, peppers and tomatoes slide onto my lap.
Joanne and Sandy give the Hawk dogs a thumbs up as they are tasty, juicy and hot and the bun is nicely steamed. My German dog isn't very spicy, but what it lacks in quality it makes up in quantity and the accompanying garnishes.
I throw caution to the wind and go back to the BBQ Pit for a Philly cheese steak. Unfortunately, the steak and onions have been sitting in a steamer and aren't fresh off the grill. Besides looking limp they taste as if they have been cooked in Philly and shipped to Boise.
But all isn't lost as there is always something else to try at a ball park. We decide to give the dessert selection a go. I order the ice cream in the plastic helmet from the concession stand while Joanne and Sandy select the Grasshopper Mousse and Skillet Cookie from the Hawks Nest.
The ice cream is real--a true find in ball parks these days--not the softserve you get in most ball parks these days. Joanne's mousse gets the balance of mint and chocolate just right, with neither overpowering the other. Sandy's chocolate chip cookie is the size of a piece of pie and smothered in ice cream and chocolate sauce.
While the Hawks weren't able to send us home happy, the ball park food did.
Illustration (A woman eating a hotdog)
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