My first brush with classic North Carolina hot dogs is a sign by the register of an iconic local stand that reads, "NOTICE our hot dogs are RED and made with PORK & BEEF." It is my first hint that something is a little different about the dogs around here from what outsiders might expect, and they are not about to change. In fact, at old local spots like Kermit’s Hot Dog House and Pulliam’s Hot Dogs, those differences are part of the secret to a long, beloved tradition.
The red color came from Bright Leaf red hot dogs, introduced in 1941 by Carolina Packers in Smithfield, North Carolina. It started as a branding move to set these dogs apart, but over time that bright red color became the trigger for a sense of nostalgia — hot dogs the old-fashioned, North Carolina way. Today, that nostalgia is a big part of what is on the menu at old hot dog stands. In this rapidly changing world, it is reassuring to think there are still simple pleasures that are the same as they ever were.
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Pulliam’s Hot Dogs has been around for 116 years. When I pull up to the address on Walkertown Road, I find a small board-and-batten building surrounded by cars, pulled in headfirst like gazelles at a watering hole. There is no name on the front, just a giant Cheerwine sign nailed up under the gable. Below that, two small signs hang over the entrance. One says "Laugh," and, right next to it, a different sign says, "When Pigs Fly!" It feels like refrigerator magnet poetry that I cannot quite decipher. Inside, I ask the lady at the register what the signs mean. She shrugs. "Everything’s pork around here. That’s just something we put there."
Looking around, I start to get the idea. The green walls are covered in faded photos of the owner’s family along with shots of NASCAR greats, old license plates and an antique ad for bread. It is a collage of memories put up as they were collected — a museum for the culture and history of hot dog stands.
Behind the counter, I spot a policeman I know. He is chatting with the workers and munching on a hot dog.
"How’s it going, Captain?" He looks like a regular, so I ask, "What’s the ‘must try’ thing to order here?"
He holds up his dog. "Two ‘all the way’ with a Cheerwine. That’s what I get."
I turn to the older gentleman at the grill. "I’ll have what he’s having."
The captain nods toward the cook. "That’s Harold. Look out for him."
Harold gives me a trickster’s grin. I love this place already.
The hot dogs at Pulliam’s are similar to the ones at Kermit’s, but the vibe is completely different. Kermit’s is a hot dog stand housed in the body of a 1950s-era drive-up diner that began life as an A&W. It has racked up six decades in business, but all these years later it still looks like a waitress on roller skates might just glide by.
I am at a booth inside, finishing up a bright red, foot-long dog dressed with relish and mustard when the friendly waitress pops over to my booth — the name Jenna embroidered on her apron. "Can I getchya anything else?"
"Yeah. Where can I find out a little bit about the history of this place?" For me, the backstory of these old places is the sauce on the side.
"We’ve got a little bit right here."
Jenna points to a write-up on the back flap of the menu that tells me Kermit’s was started by Kermit Wade Williams. Before that, he ran the famous Dine-in-Car restaurant on North Liberty Street. Using the skills he learned there, he opened his own spot in Waughtown in 1966 and ran it until he passed away unexpectedly in 1968. Fresh from graduating from high school, his son, Buster, picked up the reins and kept the place going, turning it into a local landmark. Buster sounds like quite a guy.
"Buster’s working today. He’s right back there," Jenna says.
She points to an older man with a beard coming out of the kitchen wearing a white apron. I turn back to Jenna, eyes wide.
Fifty-eight years later, and Buster is still holding down the fort?
"Wow. So this is a real family affair?"
"Oh, yeah. I’m his daughter. The girl who took your order, that’s his granddaughter."
"No kidding?"
Jenna laughs. My face must really show my surprise.
"Almost everyone in the family has worked here at one time or another."
A regular at the next table chimes in. "We can’t get rid of her." Jenna gives it right back, and the guy smiles, clearly enjoying their banter.
"It’s always full of regulars here," she says. "We just have a good time."
Back at Pulliam’s, I tell the owner, Mark Flynt, about my trip to Kermit’s and how I was already eating my dog with mustard and relish when everyone around me started ordering theirs "all the way." I figured I might have missed out on something.
"You’ve never tried one ‘all the way’?"
"Never."
Harold dresses and wraps my order and slides it across the counter with an expectant grin. "Two ‘all the way.’"
I take a bite and nod in approval, enjoying the subtle kick of the chili and mustard against the creamy crunch of slaw. I can see how this tradition stuck.
As I eat, Mark shows me around, pointing out a picture of an antique car parked out front of the original J.S. Pulliam stand with what looks like a dog and a monkey aboard. Above that is a picture of Mark’s dad, Ed, looking young and strong. Another shot taken in middle age shows a grinning and balding figure out front of his house, wearing an undershirt. It is captioned "Big Ed Flynt. 300 pounds of romance." His buddy’s name is written below — a byline for the ribbing caption.
It is a welcoming place that does not take itself too seriously. Jokes and smiles come easy but at the same time I get the sense Mark is a kind of keeper of the flame for something really special to this city.
I ask about all the NASCAR memorabilia on the walls and whether it gets busy here on race days.
"Oh yeah." Mark opens a scrapbook full of famous NASCAR greats embracing the staff or feeding on hot dogs. My former home of Los Angeles is not exactly the seat of NASCAR culture, so the drivers’ names go over my head. What comes through clearly is the sense of tradition — the idea that no matter how fast the world changes, you can still enjoy a hot dog with your kids on race day the same way you did with your family when you were a kid.
I sit on one of the big stumps outside Pulliam’s, enjoying the sunshine, washing down my lunch with a Cheerwine and pondering those signs above the door: "Laugh" and "When Pigs Fly!" I am probably forcing it, but somehow with great food in my belly and the sun on my face the little poem feels like an invitation to enjoy a fleeting moment.
