Oki Dog
860 N Fairfax Ave, Los Angeles, CA, USA

Sometimes I wish I had more genuine affinity for punk rock, because it sure would help me appreciate some of L.A.'s dirtier layers—specifically the ones that are intentionally, defiantly dirty, like a formerly spoiled suburban brat who now fishes lunch out of the dumpster behind Genghis Cohen. "Take that, mom and dad! I'm MAKIN' IT in HOLLYWOOD!"

Yeah, well, you're makin' somethin' alright darlin', but it's in Tarzana, and it involves two black guys and no pants. Don't worry, though, afterward I'll treat you to an Oki Dog!

Oki Dog is a classic (not necessarily in the good sense) L.A. (that's "L.A." and not "Los Angeles") institution that had its heyday in the 80s as the primo destination for shitty grub after shitty punk shows. There are actually two locations; this one is scummier, while the one on Pico is grimier, if you follow that distinction.

It's the kind of place that only makes sense if you've entered a phase of life seedy enough that you no longer clearly see what came before. It's a shithole, the proprietor is a "character" (in the "off his meds" sense), and the patrons are all similarly kinda sketchy and blown out.

And this isn't even me being judgmental, it's me just trying to be accurate! It's the diviest dive bar of hot dog stands you can imagine; by comparison Pink's over on La Brea is the fuckin' Ritz-Carlton. Of, uh, divey hot dog stands.

The Oki Dog itself is a bit of a weird miracle: two hot dogs, pastrami, cheese, and chili all wrapped up in a flour tortilla—a giant coronary event of a burrito that is far too much simultaneous bad food for any sane person to finish. I mean, I dined here with a teenage runaway who hadn't eaten in three days, and even she took just enough bites to "get it" before wanting to leave. I took a few more, hoping some kind of lightbulb would go off, but it never did.

Which is not to say that Oki Dog isn't memorable. But, like getting trapped in a particularly gnarly mosh pit at a particularly violent punk show, it'll take something out of ya. I'm sure this place has its true fans, and kudos for keepin' it really fuckin' real, but on a culinary level, this is like eating a big, surly middle finger.

Review by Poomp, June 2011