Ask Ron Butler what the deal is with the light-brown beanless chili soaking into the buns on the hot dogs at his wiener bar attached to a Marathon gas station, and his eyes will roll back in his head as he waxes nostalgic about the restaurant culture in his adopted hometown, Detroit. "It's almost like they're putting on a show," Butler says of the boisterous operations in many of Motown's high-volume hole-in-the-wall eateries, where employees yell and scream at each other and "Coney Island" refers to a style of hot dog, not to an amusement park in New York.
Last summer, Butler unleashed his Coney Island dogs — beef-and-pork franks in natural casing, topped with beanless chili, diced white onions and a zigzag of yellow mustard — in a South Nashville locale that formerly housed Ant B's and a Sylvan Park Express, among other enterprises. He built a high wooden bar the length of the narrow room and pulled up about a dozen extra-tall black-leather-and-chrome stools. (The lofty seats make for some awkward mounting and dismounting, so you might prefer the regulation-height picnic tables out front, on the days when the asphalt isn't actually melting before your eyes.)
Once you're perched up on a stool, settle in for a comparatively subdued show, courtesy of Butler and Michelle Green. The duo, who live next door to each other in nearby Woodbine, work so well together that they defied the odds by perfectly executing our ungainly order for eight, without so much as a yell or a scream.
A portrait of the eponymous Jim, an endearing canine of uncertain breeding, hangs above the bar, and the narrow room is adorned with colorful twinkle lights, two televisions screens and endless Michigana. Cases of Faygo soda line the bar, cans of Wolverine caramel corn form pyramids around the room, glamour shots of snowmobiles deck the walls, and a Koegel's hot dog T-shirt hangs from the ceiling. (After debuting with Koegel's, from Flint, Mich., Butler replaced the brand with Kent franks, from Grand Rapids.)
But the real ode to the classic Michigan Coney Island is the natural casing — the length of sheep intestine used to contain the 80/20 blend of beef and pork — and of course, the chili.
"Michelle and I know, when someone asks for a 'hot dog combo,' they mean they want ketchup, mustard and relish. But if they ask for a 'Coney combo', they want chili," Butler says. The chili in question is a yellowish, oatmeal-textured medley of ground beef and cumin — not the deep-red pepper-fired and kidney-riddled stew of the ubiquitous chili dog. The slop on top adds just a touch of moisture and subtle spice to the frank, without smothering the signature snap of the casing when it pops between your teeth. That feeling — akin to biting into one of those long balloons used to fashion animals at children's birthday parties — can be something of an acquired taste, but it's a sensation ardent Midwesterners will defend until their last dying swig of Vernors ginger soda or red-dyed Faygo Rock & Rye.
For Southerners who don't cotton to the elastic crack of natural casing, Jim's serves up a burger that's easy to love. With telltale ragged edges of hand-patted beef, the generous burgers lop over the sides of sweet, soft flour-dusted buns, loaded with lettuce, tomato, onions and melted American cheese.
Check the specials board behind the counter for the occasional Reuben sandwich, which folds bountiful corned beef onto golden buttery slices of grill-kissed rye and adds a tangle of cool sauerkraut and a schmear of brown mustard for a decadent layering of temperatures and textures.
Combos come with a drink and a pile of crisp fries dusted with Lawry's seasoning salt.
Fried cheese sticks and so-called "wing dings" — breaded chicken drumettes — round out the tight menu. The meaty handles of chicken are encased in thick crust and doused in a tangy, orange lather of Frank's RedHot sauce. Neither the chicken nor the cheese pretends to be homemade, but both finger foods get high marks for deft deep-frying, emerging crisp and clean from the oil.
In this shrine to the delicacies of Detroit, the conversation invariably steers toward the vehicular. When asked if the small door in the side of the room leads to the restrooms, Butler says no — for those you'll have to walk next door to the adjacent Marathon gas station. Speaking of the Marathon, he adds, it's one of the only places in town that sells ethanol-free gasoline. That little-known fact lures a discriminating clientele of car enthusiasts, not to mention chainsaw- and lawnmower-jockeys willing to drive the extra miles for corn-free fuel. Or maybe they're coming to the corner of Trousdale and Harding to fuel a hankering for Coneys and Rock & Rye soda, which Butler imports from Michigan and sells by the 12-pack. Either way, it's worth the trip.
Jim's Coney Island is open 11 a.m. to 7 p.m. Monday through Friday and 11 a.m. to 5 p.m. Saturday.
Email arts@nashvillescene.com.
