Off the Chain

Took a new walk, tried a new dog.

While I've been doing lots of new to me walks lately - I did the floodwall west Friday, ending up in the SunTrust parking lot on southside, and Randolph and the cemeteries there Saturday (even heard gun shots followed by a bugle playing "Taps") - today's jaunt had two major things going for it.

The historic nature of the slave trail, heartbreaking as it is, and the practically perfect weather, sunny, breezy and absent humidity.

I walked all the way to the Manchester docks where I met three gentlemen fishing and shooting the breeze.

They suggested I join them but I politely declined.

Coming back, I decided to circumvent the last part of the walking trail and instead clambered up the rip rap to access the bridge and save myself quite a few steps in the process.

Despite not being the clambering type, the good news is I neither dropped my keys nor scraped up the moneymakers.

Back on terra firma, I took the pipeline walkway, did a leg soak and climbed the hills home, where I immediately picked up the phone and called a friend for lunch.

A six mile walk will give you an appetite no matter how much breakfast you ate.

Last time we'd gotten together for lunch, he'd been in the midst of a terrible, awful, no-good day but today's mood was considerably sunnier.

Making our way through gaggles of VCU students with not a clue how to navigate crosswalks, sidewalks and streets (one young twerp stood in the right lane of Broad Street to light her cigarette), we ducked off of Broad and into Unleashed Gourmet Hot Dogs, dodging cold drips from the air conditioner over the doorway in the process.

Inside, it was cool, empty and a laundry list of imported and housemade hot dogs greeted us. A server at Empire had turned me on to this place, raving about the quality of the dogs.

My only complaint? Not one was named after that noblest of breeds, the beagle, nor was a picture of a beagle among those hung on the walls for decoration.

I'd call that a gross oversight.

When I asked the owner what was so great about his dogs, he boasted of importing some and making others.

"They're the best," he said. 'Let me know after you try one."

Friend went straight for the English pointer, a smoked sausage with roasted pepper, sauteed onions and honey mustard while I selected the Mutt International, a crisp-skinned oversized wiener that snapped when I bit it, with beer-roasted barbecue pulled pork and cole slaw riding atop it.

Both of us were impressed with the non-traditional rolls, more a crusty, toothsome bread pocket than a typical bland hot dog roll.

Russian potato salad, bright red with beet juice and a nice tang, went down easily as we sat at the window counter and watched the colorful street theater of Harrison Street parade by.

"So?" the owner called to us from his perch behind the counter.

Mighty fine dogs, sir, we answered and he beamed. "I told you!"

Now just hang a picture of a beagle on the wall and this place'll be practically perfect.

And, I might add, only a short walk from home.