"Budweiser in one fist, two dogs loaded with kraut in the other"
Dad had season tickets to the Mets—prime seats down the third-base line, the kind you earned working 60 hours of overtime at the FDNY with an unbreakable spirit. Before kids had Venmo or Apple Pay, we’d stuff twenty cash in our wallets, MetroCard tucked like a winning lottery scratcher, no smartphone to bail us out with directions. We’d take the SIRR to the Staten Island Ferry, sneak a few Foster’s lagers on the ride, hop the 4 train to the iconic 7 train—straight shot to the promised land: Willets Point–Shea Stadium.
Budweiser in one fist, two dogs loaded with kraut in the other, vanilla helmet sundae crowned with rainbow sprinkles—our religion. We were 16 and those were the days, kid. Real New York.
Although I dreamed of playing under the lights wearing blue and orange, college injuries put me out of commission, and reality set in.
I had to get a job; turns out college loans don’t pay themselves. Rent in the city was a knife in the ribs, and my paycheck barely covered a Coke and a slice. I’d visit my Uncle Gus, an old salt with a voice like gravel in a blender, and he’d talk about his Navy days; I had my eye on the Marines, green and mean, but my buddy talked me into the squid life instead. I joined with my brother, and we quickly learned two lessons: never volunteer for anything, and seasickness ain’t got a cure.
I wound up meeting a couple of stand-up guys on those endless mid-watches, chatting under the stars about what we’d do when we got out. That’s when the idea for Frankie’s Franks was born—scribbled on napkins between coffee that tasted like battery acid. I spent two solid years between 2017 and 2018 hashing it out with a few guys, and didn’t flip the first dog till June ’22 when the stars, the cash, and the guts finally lined up. One of those guys still flips ’em with me today; loyalty thicker than Sunday gravy.
My wife and I are raising a couple of kids in the middle of the madness. The cart life ain’t for the soft—sunup to blackout, juggling a day job and bedtime stories without dropping the ball. But that’s the gig, and I wouldn’t trade it. Nothing beats a customer walking off with mustard on their shirt and a grin that says you made their day. We’re holding on for dear life and loving the ride. God bless, grab a dog, see you on the line.
Let’s Get Your Event Cookin’
Fast, friendly, and full of flavor — book your hot dog cart in under a minute.