The Promised Rand

Where sometimes a hot dog is more than just a hot dog.

A buddy of mine with impeccable foodie bona fides has yet to let me down with a recommendation, but when I asked him about Randy the Hot Dog Guy, his response surprised me. He had yet to visit “The Promised Rand”, but asked me if I knew he was a MAGA Republican. I replied that I didn’t care about that. “He gives you a choice of hot dog. Who else does that?” 

The fact that Randy writes prolifically on his Facebook page didn’t hurt. A hot dog in a bun is about the simplest meal one can make. Therefore, those who want to make a living serving them better have some kind of angle. They need to put on a show. But what if that show involves an epic, twenty-year battle with city hall? 

I also wondered if Randy Pollack’s online persona reflects the reality. He describes himself as “a shameless promoter/writer/political junkie/slayer of windmills/under-achiever who happened to be seduced into the wide world of tubular beef.”

However, one of the first things that Randy said to me after I shook his hand for the first time was, “This is not a hot dog story. This is a political story.” And we were off to the races.

The Hustler

On one of the hottest days of a scorching summer, I stood in whatever sliver of shade I could find for nearly five hours listening to Randy unspool his tale of woe and triumph. This portly guy speaks eloquently with a thick north Jersey accent and walks with effort thanks to back problems and the physical nature of the job — and perhaps an expired gym membership. Moving heavy equipment, loading supplies, and standing all day to do business is a young man’s game. Randy sets up six days a week at a busy intersection in Union County, behind which looms the retaining wall for the viaduct that carries historic U.S. Route 22.

Randy Pollack hard at work.

Jersey residents reacting to derisive remarks about refinery odors and its congested highways might deflect attention to New Jersey’s abundant bucolic, pastoral regions. This isn’t one of them.

This is the land of the Sopranos and one of the country’s more turbulent ethnic melting pots. It requires a rough and tumble mindset that answers to constant challenge. It may be the land of Springsteen, but proving it all night just doesn’t cut it here. To get ahead in these neighborhoods, the proving lasts well into the day. It’s as hard a place to love as it is to navigate.

Randy entered this tubular world of beef in 2004, but the hustle began while still a buff surfer dude back in the 1980s. He sold car stereo and consumer electronics during the whole Crazy Eddie era. When that industry matured, he transitioned to cellular phones, the simple type people used to actually make calls, occasional texts, and in a pinch, take low-resolution photos. Then Apple crashed the party with the iPhone, and the little guys like him had to scramble again. 

With each transition, Randy learned that in any hyper-competitive market, he had to look for an edge. Advertisers call it positioning — elevate your product above the competition by branding it. “It’s not just a hot dog. It’s a Randy the Hot Dog Guy hot dog!” 

As Randy says, anyone can throw a hot dog into a pot of boiling water, stick it in a bun, and spread on it a little mustard. “The business is full of dreamers,” he says. And yet, this time next year will mark his twentieth anniversary as The Hot Dog Guy — no small feat. 

So in 2004, he jumped off another sinking ship and into a pot of boiling water.

Scratching the Underbelly

It began promising enough. Randy parked a cart in front of the building on property he inherited from his father, who had a similar career history selling after-market car seat covers and sun roofs. “His best years were wasted on used car dealers installing seat covers. He worked like an animal,” he said. But he knew instinctively the value of that corner at Long and Liberty Avenues. 

“We spent many a day here, saying ‘Look at what we got here. Look at this traffic. We’re misusing this.’” His father’s building sat sandwiched between a garage on the left and a defunct gas station on the right.

“In the end,” Randy solemnly explained, “my father became very scared of people. He was a tough man, but later in life, he got very afraid of the liability. Someone would come and ask for someone to put a sunroof in the car, and he’d be scared he would destroy the roof.” When his father passed away in the 1990s, Randy leased out the building, keeping it in his pocket for a future brainstorm. 

Shortly after Randy set up his stand at the corner of Liberty and Long, the state notified him of their intent to seize his property through eminent domain. This derailed his plans for several years while he went through two law firms, but he finally prevailed. He had to give up a small piece of his parcel behind the building, but with his modest settlement, he purchased the remainder of the already-cleared garage parcel on the left. The state demolished the gas station as well, but kept the lot. With the viaduct completed, it otherwise made no improvements.

Meanwhile, flush with state redevelopment grants, Hillside seemed to covet that corner, but The Promised Rand stood in the way. Thus in typical municipal fashion, they weaponized their code and targeted Randy with tickets and fines for minor violations that they previously ignored. When Randy’s public support of an independent candidate for mayor helped him win the office, the harassment stopped.

At this level of very small business, insulating one’s self from the incompetence and petty antics of meddling bureaucrats consumes unrecoverable amounts of personal time and energy. Once the mom and pop sits in front of an attorney, they’ve already lost. Standing on principle usually results in thousands of dollars of legal fees, months of sleepless nights, and severed relationships. Maybe you can fight city hall, but few can afford the ammo. 

Randy’s dimensional sign, before and after the city demolished it.

The latest skirmish in this war started with the town’s destruction of Randy’s self-made signage he placed with permission (or without objection from) NJDOT on its parcel right at the corner. Made from a surplus hot dog cart, Randy affixed placards that said on one side, “Thank you for shopping and dining in Hillside,” and on other , “Park Here for Randy the Hot Dog Guy and Barney’s”, a thrift store across the street. 

Without warning six months later, as Randy tells it, the city demolished his expression of civic pride and dragged it back to the wall. It then sent him a summons to remove the crushed cart from property neither of them owned. Why the city felt it could trespass on state property to destroy private property is now up to the courts to answer. Meanwhile, the legal fees pile up.

Randy sums up his tale of woe with, “The lawyers won!” 

That’s a given. 

Make Mine Snappy

As I said, I did come for a hot dog or two. Randy keeps a simple menu: Dogs, canned drinks, a few ice cream novelties, but no sides. All the cooking, or boiling, happens on the cart, while he uses the building mostly for storage and minimal prep work. He’s a one-man band, which keeps overhead low and eliminates personnel issues, but if he can’t work, he makes no money. 

Chili dog on a Sabrett’s.

Of all the hot dog joints I’ve sampled in my half-million miles, his is the first I’ve found that lists a choice of hot dog brands. Don’t fancy Sabrett’s? Randy will serve up your chili dog on a snappier Thumann’s. He also offers Best’s as well as Stahl Meyer. Randy says this gives him a hedge against supply issues and price hikes.

I only tried two of the four available choices, the Thumann’s and the Sabrett’s. I give the edge to the Thumann’s because of its satisfying snap. Randy says his dogs are “always boiled and never oiled. The way mother nature wants it to be.” Some may take issue with that, but I’ve had them grilled, steamed, boiled, deep-fried, and roasted over an open flame. I prefer grilled, but I’m not as picky as some. 

I look for quality condiments and proper dog-to-bun proportions. I take issue with well-made dogs enveloped by so much bread, I have to tear it away as I eat. Again, here Randy gives you choices. He serves dogs on brioche, potato rolls (my preference), and the standard-issue Packer’s. 

With condiments, I prefer homemade relishes and German style mustards. Absolutely no ketchup ever — not even with a gun to my head. Yellow mustard only if the nearest jar of brown is fifty miles away. Randy may not provide artisanal relishes or mustards, but he otherwise accommodates with many choices.

I ordered a dog with cole slaw and a second with chili with added Asian chili sauce which I’d definitely try again. The slaw dog? Not so much. His slaw source uses far too much dressing for my taste. 

For service that includes such variety and a floor show all for three bucks and change, Randy deals one of the best food bargains in the Garden State. 

The Show Goes On… And on.

I love the hot dog joints with the big neon signs or the vintage interiors. I love the bustle of a busy shack where seasoned short order cook expertly turns them out by the dozens every hour. I love the wizened guy at the cart dispensing street wisdom with every pup. I love Coneys, franks, dogs, wieners, red hots, or whatever the regional preference confers. And I especially love the theater that comes with the best of these. Randy does it justice, but if you’re in a hurry, avoid any discussion of politics.

A very tiny sampling of Randy's online contributions.

A visit to his Facebook page or his YouTube channel reveals his more public persona, something he sees as his brand. He looks to hit the big time, but I think he must focus more on the Promised Rand experience and less on the legal battle. He needs a plan and a landscaper, and his branding needs polish. 

Having spoken to dozens of owners of a variety of restaurants, I know most would agree nothing kills business faster than your political opinion. No matter how popular the issue, best to keep the pie hole shut. Randy undoubtedly understands this, but he shrugs it off. As he sees it, the town has not played fair, and he feels he needs to drum up public support to help preserve his father’s legacy.

He fights his fight in one of the more entertaining displays of defiance I’ve seen in my travels. In The Promised Rand, he’s created a Finster-like world with its untidy assortment of monuments to hot dogs, his eclectic collection of folk art, and his on-going struggle with city hall. It belongs on the cover of an issue of Weird New Jersey. 

Does the muck-raking sell hot dogs? Randy doesn’t give it much thought. He posts daily on Facebook, not only on his own sites, but also on the local community group. In June alone, Randy posted sixteen times — not including comments on others’ posts — citing the mayor, other municipal departments, his legal woes, and his take on the world as seen through the window of his homemade dog wagon.

He may be right that his is a political story, but I wish it weren’t. This is a hell of a way for someone to spend the last remaining productive years of their life. I look forward to everyone playing fair and for the Promised Rand becoming a genuine north Jersey landmark embraced by the community and permanently cited on the map.

Let’s make a hot dog just a hot dog again. You can’t eat politics.