Practicalmadness

The City Center, the new yuppie-oriented shopping center a few miles away in Vestavia Hills, has the obligatory asian joint and sandwich shop, but I was drawn to something I really, truly did not want to exist: Sneaky Pete's Cafe.

Birmingham residents know all about Sneaky Pete's hot dog stands, serving franks of questionable lineage doused in a mysterious 'special sauce' for over two decades. In Chicago, this sort of place would be some kind of local legend. In Birmingham, they're just the sort of local dive we're desperately trying to reinvent ourselves away from.

It turns out that even Sneaky Pete's is down with the whole reinvention thing, hence this unholy cafe concept.

Here's how a Sneaky Pete's Cafe works: there is a hostess, and table service. You are seated, your drink order is taken and you ponder a large selection of standard lunch fare. The "steamed" sandwiches don't really fill one with confidence, but the few entrees and salads sound appealing enough, and the burgers sound downright good. And, of course, there's the Sneaky Pete's hot dogs, listed with the same crimson embossed lettering as the finer foods on the other five pages of the menu.

There is nothing wrong with an eatery serving nicer food in a nicer setting in this really rather nice little shopping center. But this is Sneaky Pete's, serving the same greasy chili dogs with mustard as can be had in a greasy little stand in the mall, cafe fries be damned. And coming to Sneaky Pete's for a chili dog, fries and sweet tea should not be a production -- my food should come wrapped in paper and stuffed carelessly into a paper sack, for which I shall exchange a wad of crumpled bills, as if I'm a wino staggering in for my 2 AM fix.

It is this juxtaposition -- a genteel dining experience which yields only wieners -- that troubles me so, Dear Reader. Some of my fondest...well, pleasant...okay: there are memories from high school which involve Sneaky Pete's. They are not unpleasant, nor will I make a point to tell my grandchildren about them. When I tell the grand, sweeping narrative of how I met my true love and found Happiness Everlasting, I only hope Sneaky Pete's will not come into the story even as a tangent.

And yet, I was served my chili dog the other day. It was brought to me on a non-disposable plate, with agreeable presentation and more subtly-seasoned fries than I remember, and when I was done, the check was brought to me in a leather folder. I stuck my credit card in the slot and left it on the table, per the same procedure I would use paying for an exquisite brunch at the Bongo Room.

We are talking about chili dogs here, people. Sneaky Pete's chili dogs, for christ's sake. And then, when everything was paid for, I found myself deciding between the microcreamery ice cream parlor and Starbucks for dessert.

When I left town for my freshman year of college, Birmingham wasn't even a twinkle in Starbucks's eye. Now there are five stores, and a local market primed for microcreameries, organic markets and hot dog stands with table service and a wine list.