Who're you calling a hot dog?

No other iconic American food product is less show-offy, or more likely to be underestimated than the humble dog. No hot dog-centric equivalent of McDonald's exists to boast of "Over 20 Billion Served." Nobody hosts fancy, dress-up "Hot dog with all the trimmings" dinners at Thanksgiving or Christmas.

Chris Hunt/AJC (ENLARGE)

The tang of beer and vinegar and the slight zing of the hot dogs elevate Warm Wheat Beer Potato Salad above the usual side dish. See the link to the recipe below.

YOUR GUIDE TO HOT DOGS • Frank talk about dogs: Pure beef is perfection • Humble hot dog gets its due from lifelong fan • Sample these tube steaks of distinction TASTY RECIPES • Hot Dog Pizza • Pigs in a Kimono • Warm Wheat Beer Potato Salad • Beard-ed Dogs • Franks for the Memory PERFECT FOR SUMMER • Grilling recipes • Atlanta Picnic recipes and guide • Atlanta Summer Events Guide

Nope, it's strictly the flip-flops and s'mores holidays for our friend the frankfurter.

"Memorial Day, the Fourth of July," Leo Shababy Jr., owner of the always-crowded Skip's Hot Dogs in Avondale Estates, ticks off the times when his catering business gets even busier than usual. "It's like an American tradition."

What's downright un-American, though, is refusing to think outside the big boxy Weber when it comes to hot dog cuisine. Tragically, most people think there's only one way to prepare them: Grilled (usually by someone hunched miserably under an umbrella, since it inevitably starts to rain at the precise moment the flames get going), slathered with yellow mustard and shoved inside a rather tasteless bun. While this standard recipe might get the occasional tweak — sophisticated Parisians eat theirs on baguettes, slathered with bechamel sauce, mon dieu! — it's all pretty much one endless Cub Scout weenie roast.

But not for me. The only "grill" I own plugs into my kitchen wall socket and is autographed by Mr. George Foreman; yet I'm a lean (cough!), mean hot dog cooking machine, armed with a thick sheaf of soup, bread, entree and hors d'oeuvre recipes in which dogs are an unlikely, yet vital ingredient.

Unfortunately, not everyone can handle the bun-less truth.

"What are you, like, 5 years old?" a friend recently groaned when I offered to whip us up a delicious Hot Dog Pizza. "Not even Chuck E. Cheese serves that."

"Do you know what's in them?" a neighbor, who claims never to have eaten a hot dog or watched anything but the Discovery Science channel on television, lectured me one day on the unhealthy evils of my franks-filled potato salad.

Remarkably, he's still single. Er, I mean, yes, I do know what's in hot dogs, thanks to Consumer Reports:

"Today, according to Department of Agriculture standards, they're made of beef, pork, poultry or a blend of all those ... plus water used to cool the meat as it is ground, binders such as nonfat dry milk or cereal, salt, sweeteners and seasonings," the magazine recently reported.

OK, so that's not exactly a wheat grass smoothie, but it's also not the nutritional time bomb critics contend, especially if you choose one of the many healthful varieties (low-fat, turkey, vegetarian, etc). Meanwhile, the hot dog is incredibly versatile: It can be stuffed with good cheese to make a standout, stand-alone entree as no less a culinary icon than James Beard enthusiastically recommended; or diced and folded into another dish to add unexpected texture and bite. They're also cheap: For less than the cost of a single gallon of gas, you can buy a pound of hot dogs — enough to make Pigs in a Kimono for a medium-size cocktail party.

Best of all, the right hot dog recipe can bring families closer together.

As a child, I knew hot dogs mostly as "the Dinner That Dare Not Speak Its Name." My brothers and I rarely had them anywhere but at summer afternoon backyard cookouts or while lunching in our clammy bathing suits at the nearby Jersey shore. No amount of whining on our part about the unfairness of not getting to eat them at the dining room table on, say, a random Tuesday night in February could ever change that.

"A sandwich is not dinner," my father would always respond calmly, but firmly, passing us seconds of meatloaf and brussels sprouts.

Eventually, I learned the reason for this unwritten rule. During his own rather Dickensian upbringing in New York City, Dad confided to one of my brothers (who blabbed it to me), he had vowed that if he ever had children, they would never have to make do with just a sandwich for dinner. In a weird way, not serving hot dogs was a sign of his love.

Until serving hot dogs was. Years later, I came home from Atlanta to spend a long weekend with my parents. One night, instead of the usual gorgeously roasted chicken or leg of lamb, Dad served something he called Franks for the Memory. I stared down at the big, gloppy concoction of cheese, chili sauce, eggs and — yes, hot dogs — overflowing a football-size roll on my plate, and just like that, I knew how much he missed me living 800 miles away.

"We're having hot dogs for dinner?" I asked in a wondering tone.

"W-e-l-l, you might need to use a knife and fork," he said slowly, almost as if trying to reassure himself it was OK. "So it's not really a sandwich."

As usual, he was absolutely right. It was so much more than that.