Some chefs will forever be associated with their most famous creations. Wolfgang Puck and his smoked salmon pizza. Jean-Georges Vongerichten and his molten-center chocolate cake. Chandler Goff and his Hamdog.

Hamdog?

JOHN BAZEMORE/Associated Press (ENLARGE)
Impaled by its creator — Chandler Goff, owner of Mulligan's in Decatur — the Hamdog oozes originality: It's a hot dog wrapped by a beef patty and cheese that's deep-fried, covered with chili and onions and served in a bun. It's also topped with a fried egg.
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Two months ago, Goff, the owner of a grubby Decatur pool hall called Mulligan's, stepped onto the world culinary stage with his gift to human civilization: a hot dog padded with sliced cheese and a half pound of hamburger, dropped in the deep fryer, bedded like the reclining Olympia on a hoagie roll, then lavished with chili, bacon, onions and a fried egg. The Hamdog.

Goff's 15 minutes of gut-bomb infamy came as the result of an Associated Press article about the eating habits of Southerners. The article caught fire not, I think, because people are that interested in the prevalence of stroke in Dixie, but because the Hamdog is such a beautiful thing to wrap your mind (if not necessarily your lips) around.

Just think of it. The hamburger and the hot dog — those fraternal twins of American cookouts — somehow conjoined into one great, dual-natured tube of beefy plenty. Plus chili!

The AP article also mentioned, in addition to the Hamdog, Goff's other original sandwich creation called the Luther Burger — a bacon cheeseburger with a sliced, glazed Krispy Kreme doughnut for a bun, supposedly a favorite of Luther Vandross.

The Hamdog story hit the big time, appearing in newspapers and Web sites the world over, from New Zealand to Wales. The Chicago Tribune defended the occasional Hamdog and Luther Burger in an editorial. The Baton Rouge (La.) Advocate conducted nutritional analyses (623 calories with 35 fat grams for the dog, 828 calories with 50 fat grams for the burger) as a public service to Southerners.

One blogger vowed to make the 680-mile trek from Baltimore to sample the Hamdog. Another offered to marry any woman who agreed to pose topless with one. (Talk about low self-esteem.)

Hamdog honeys aside, I knew I had to have one of these behemoth creations. On the day of the big event, I went through the various stages of food guilt — first deciding to fast until the moment of hamdoggie delight, then abruptly changing course and cramming my face full of a "healthy" salad so I wouldn't be starving and thus overeat, then deciding my nutritional day was already wrecked and I might as well snarf up the Girl Scout cookies that collect on our newsroom desks like Spanish moss on live oaks.

I convinced a friend to leave work early that day. We got to the dimly lit, beery-smelling Mulligan's late in the afternoon, looked over the bar grub menu in its sticky plastic sleeve and ordered one each of the two specialties.

"Did you read about us?" Goff asked. We were pegged: Hamdog pilgrims.

In the time it took for one game of pool, Goff emerged from the kitchen hefting two portentous plates.

My Hamdog looked like the train wreck I had hoped it would be — splayed and rude, glistening like a pile of egg-covered fresh tar. The shriveled weenie poked from one end like it had wriggled free of its ground beef interment only to meet its end in the bubbling caldron that is the fryer. The whole horror had been impaled with both a knife and a fork, and chili ran down the side of the bun like coagulating blood.

It was the perfect metaphor: food as death. Are we eating ourselves to an early grave? Yes, yes, oh, yes!

This Hamdog would either be the best thing I ever ate or the worst.

It was, blast it, the latter.

The black meat clanked like rocks against my teeth, the egg was rubbery, the bacon buried in the murk of beans. When the Hamdog split in the fryer, the cheese had dissipated, leaving behind only another layer of grime.

The Luther Burger — also hard and dry, right down to the stale doughnut — at least had a little kinky chicken-and-waffles spirit to it.

But I had worked myself up for a Hamdog. A good Hamdog.

"I could make a better one," I sputtered, and vowed then and there to do just that.

I paid Goff, bade my friend goodbye and drove directly to DeKalb Farmers Market to load up on the best ingredients I could find. Boar's Head beef frankfurters. Coleman all-natural beef. Organic chili beans. Baguettes.

Back at home, I seasoned the beef liberally with salt and pepper, crushed garlic and shallots, and a handful of chopped Italian parsley. I used a rolling pin to flatten it to quarter-inch thickness between two sheets of plastic wrap. I laid slices of cheese over the top and then rolled the hot dogs, one by one, like sushi. Lacking a deep fryer, I baked the Hamdogs in the oven.

I heated the chili beans, fried and crumbled bacon, cooked perfect over-easy eggs in sweet butter, warmed the bread. And called everyone to dinner.

"This looks disgusting," said my oldest daughter of the heap on her plate.

"I don't really like hot dogs," protested the youngest daughter, who picked off bits of ground meat with her fingers.

Middle daughter was silent. Her mouth was full. Well?

"I think it's really good, Daddy," she said before opening wide for another bite. "Can I have the leftover one for lunch tomorrow?"

This, from the child who complains when I put parsley on buttered noodles? Go figure.

The Hamdog claims another victim.

• HOME OF THE HAMDOG

Mulligan's is at 630 East Lake Drive, Decatur. 404-377-0108.