Spike’s Junkyard Dogs, Somerville.

I was very excited to hear that a new restaurant, Spike’s Junkyard Dogs, was opening up in Davis Square.  I had heard that it is a small chain of hotdog restaurants, and the hotdogs are supposed to be superior.  Anything labeling itself as superior peaks the interest of a connoisseur, and so I stopped by at dinnertime, prepared to be wowed.  The atmosphere was very Coca-Cola diner feeling, with a condiment bar set on a faux-truck bed and an eating bar in the center of the location surrounded by stools.  I stepped up to the counter, eager to purchase a meal of delicious dogs.  The cashier did not even look up.  One of the runners in the kitchen behind her asked me, “What can I get for you, bud?” and I replied, “I would like to have two Junkyard Dogs, please.”  I figured that I would have to eat the dogs that share the namesake with the restaurant to get an accurate portrayal of their A-grade product.  The guy asked me, “Zat it?” to which I replied, “Ummm…and I guess I’ll have a drink?”  The woman at the register slapped an empty cup onto the counter and hit some numbers and then said that it would be eight bucks and some change, to which my eyes widened.  Not even Fenway Franks cost that much at the ballpark.  I recovered and handed my debit card over.  “We only take cash.”  I had not seen a sign.  I did not see this pronouncement on the menu or on the door as I walked into the establishment.  I’m not saying that it wasn’t there, because it might have been, but I didn’t see it prominently displayed.  I even checked later on the travel-sized menu, and there was no mention.  I said that I would be right back and they directed me to an ATM machine in the corner of the lobby.  I went to it and then realized the scam.  It was one of those business-owned ATM’s that charge you a $2 per use fee, and those fees go to the machine’s owner which, in this case, was Spike’s Junkyard Dogs.  So, after getting my cash from this machine, I paid my bill.  They had collected my name when I had first ordered, and as I was waiting for my change, one of the cooks came out with two delicious-looking hotdogs.  He looked right at me and said, “Jon?”  My eyes lit up.  That was quick and it may just be worth the sub-par experience thus far when I ate those dogs.  I reached out toward the dogs and the cook said, “Wow, that was quick, huh?” but at that moment, my hand was literally batted away by the cashier who said, “Nonononono…those are NOT for you.”  I replied, “My name is Jon, and I ordered two hotdogs.”  Another man came up and retrieved the dogs. Now I had just about had it.  My eyebrows were high on my hairline as I looked in disbelief at the rudeness of this cashier.  Steam was welling up inside me.  I am not a big fan of being made the fool at a restaurant.  Soon enough, the dogs came up, I filled my own drink up and left the establishment, just hoping that when I got the dogs home, there would be something redeeming about the 10+ bucks (8+ for the food and a $2 cash surcharge) I had spent for two hotdogs, a drink, and shitty service.  I cracked open the dogs when I got home and was immediately disappointed.  I was expecting to see the same dogs as I had almost taken, but that evidently belonged to another Jon.  Those dogs were covered with chili and cheese and were all melty and heart-stoppingly good-looking.  My dogs, the “Junkyard” dogs, were laid on the bun next to a deli pickle slice, 2 half slices of tomato, and covered with Dijon mustard, scallions, and two pepperoncinis.  This 100% beef dog was hidden in a salad, not at all junky as the name would have you indicate.  I guess this teaches me to not read the full menu.  I assumed that a “Junkyard Dog” would be covered with grease, junk, trash, et cetera.  I was looking for cheese, beans, chili, bacon, meatballs, marinara, hamburgers, breaded and deep-fried, but instead I got the salad of hotdogs.  I felt castrated.  The wind was completely out of my sails, and I was in a rage of fury as I stuffed down the first dog.  The bun was slightly toasted and too wide for my big mouth, causing me to scrape my mouth on the bun edge.  Immediately following this, the Dijon hit the scrape, and that, ladies and gentlemen, doesn’t feel good.  Fury and rage build up, and I was swearing and huffing and stuffing down the dogs, just to spite them at that point.  To be fair, they tasted alright.  The mustard was good, and the scallions were a nice touch, though would have been nicer on top of a mound of chili.  The deli pickle did not match at all, ant the tomatoes were in that partially cooked state where they get grainy.  As for the pepperoncinis, there were two slices of the pickled pepper on each dog.  Come on.  All in all, I was very disappointed in the overall product.  The dog was hidden in too much bun, and the toppings covered the beef flavor.  I might have been able to give Spike’s a second chance, were it not for the “don’t-let-the door-hit-your-ass-on-the-way-out” attitude I got from the lousy cashier.  I hereby denounce Spike’s and send it back to the junkyard form whence it came.