8 Best Hot Dog Spots in Durham, North Carolina
From New York dogs to Carolina classics Jul 2, 2025, 1:49 PM UTC
Probably one of the least pretentious of popular American foodstuffs, hot dogs, along with the establishments serving them, are broadly adored but rarely reviewed. The ubiquitous sausage, made from highly processed, condensed ground meat, is one of the most iconic American foods, steeped in nostalgia and evoking images of backyard summer cookouts.
Dining out has gotten more expensive and less accessible, but in Durham, North Carolina, the quality and quantity of affordable local hot dog joints will give any fast food chain a run for their money. The Durham County Library even hosted a hot dog crawl in 2023. Think pillowy buns, grilled dogs, topped with an array of tangy, dripping condiments. From the Southern classic all-the-way dog (topped with chili, mustard, coleslaw, and onions) to new twists, like a pulled pork barbecue-topped dog, there's something for every hot dog lover in the Triangle.
Locations are listed geographically from north to south.
From New York dogs to Carolina classics Jul 2, 2025, 1:49 PM UTC
Probably one of the least pretentious of popular American foodstuffs, hot dogs, along with the establishments serving them, are broadly adored but rarely reviewed. The ubiquitous sausage, made from highly processed, condensed ground meat, is one of the most iconic American foods, steeped in nostalgia and evoking images of backyard summer cookouts.
Dining out has gotten more expensive and less accessible, but in Durham, North Carolina, the quality and quantity of affordable local hot dog joints will give any fast food chain a run for their money. The Durham County Library even hosted a hot dog crawl in 2023. Think pillowy buns, grilled dogs, topped with an array of tangy, dripping condiments. From the Southern classic all-the-way dog (topped with chili, mustard, coleslaw, and onions) to new twists, like a pulled pork barbecue-topped dog, there's something for every hot dog lover in the Triangle.
Locations are listed geographically from north to south.
The most unassuming place to grab a bite is Blake's Coney Island. This is a one-man operation, owned by Blake Hawthorne, whose cart is parked outside of Lowe's Home Improvement, which has been its home for the past 15 years. Though Hawthorne is originally from Oklahoma, he has lived in North Carolina for three decades, but serves up New York specialties. Sabrett hot dogs, the same snappy, all-beef franks iconic to NYC street carts, are boiled then finished on the flattop. Italian sausage and bratwurst are available for those craving something with a bit more kick, or you can ask for your dog with Sabrett onions and red sauce, another New York specialty. These all-beef hot dogs are set on a potato bun for an extra layer of richness and comfort. The highlight of a visit to Blake's is a chat with the man himself, whose friendly demeanor beams as he preps your dog. 117 William Penn Plz, Durham, NC 27704
With two locations, in North and South Durham, chances are anytime you're craving a hot dog, you're not too far from a Jimmy's. Have your hot dog with ketchup and mustard for $2.09 or go 'all the way,' piling on chili, slaw, onions, and mustard for $2.59. Plus, you have your pick of beef, turkey, or pork. Jimmy's nails the classic hot dog. The dog is expertly grilled, and the bun is toasted. As a bonus, classic toppings like coleslaw and pickled jalapenos are free. And, if you're not in the mood for a sausage, don't sleep on Jimmy's fried catfish with an extra crispy coating or the homemade banana pudding loaded with fresh bananas and vanilla wafers.
The space itself feels like a time capsule. Black-and-white photos of Durham streets and sports stars adorn the walls, lending the place a nostalgic energy that feels older than it is, like a local institution that has been open for years, perhaps even decades. 2728 Guess Rd, Durham, NC 27705
(919) 471-0005
(919) 471-0005 Visit Website
Driving by one of the four locations, three of which are in Durham, and one in Hillsborough, you cannot miss the Dog House. The outposts are true to the name; the buildings are shaped like an actual dog house, making it a fun, quirky roadside destination. The playful theme continues on the menu where customers can keep it simple with the 'Puppy Dog,' just $2.35, or try something tangy like the 'German Shepherd' with spicy mustard and sauerkraut for $2.95.
The standard offering is a snappy red hot dog, but for an extra 50 cents, diners can upgrade to beef. Either way, expect a soft, slightly mushy bun and a no-frills approach. The Dog House leans into simplicity, nostalgia, and value.
Opened in 1970, this local fixture also serves up Southern staples like golden hush puppies and an old-school fried bologna sandwich. It's the kind of place where convenience meets comfort food. No fancy presentation, just a reliably satisfying bite when you're on the move.
Dain's Place serves a hot dog that is a cut above the rest, both in taste and price, coming in at the relatively steep, but justifiable price of $4.99. The dog is delivered 'on a fresh baked roll' as the menu proudly states, that is thick and slathered in butter. The all-beef hot dog is split down the center, perfectly grilled and crispy on the outside, and sauces come drizzled across the top in a zig-zag for a lofty presentation.
The free toppings list is impressively long, covering all the classics and venturing into more adventurous territory with options like chipotle mayo, banana peppers, and Thousand Island dressing. All of the freebies are tempting, but exercise restraint to find the ultimate balance of sweet, tangy, creamy, and spicy elements.
Dain's also stands out in its ambience, with cozy bar stools and booths. Regulars sit for hours nursing a beer on the outdoor picnic tables as students trot up and down Ninth Street. The hot dogs are a secret highlight at this Durham establishment. 754 9th St (W Markham Ave), Durham, NC 27705
(919) 416-8800
(919) 416-8800 Visit Website
If your timing is right when you visit King's, hop across the street with your hot dog and watch a high school baseball game at the historic ballpark. Centrally located in downtown Durham, King's is a piece of history surrounded by breweries and new builds. Opened in 1942, King's is one of the longest-standing restaurants in Durham. It provides a quintessential hot dog experience all the way, nothing fancy. When asked what toppings are offered, the cashier responded, 'Anything you can think of putting on a hot dog.' Vegetarians will appreciate that amidst the menu of dogs, burgers, and shakes is a fine veggie dog. Loaded with all of the toppings, it's hard to notice the difference.
A veggie dog will ring in at $3.50, while a traditional 'King's' hot dog starts at just $1.85.
When it comes to budget-friendly dogs, it's hard to beat Dollar Dog Night at the Durham Bulls Athletic Park. Thursdays, during the season, Sahlen's all-beef hot dogs go for just $1. Few things are more American than hot dogs and baseball, and here, you can indulge in both without breaking the bank.
It's also the cheapest (and boldest) way to attempt the infamous Nine Innings Challenge — that's one hot dog and one beer per inning.
Earlier this year Que Dogs upgraded from a humble hot dog cart to a brick-and-mortar. Though in true hot dog spirit, it's a walk-up window tucked in the middle of the Lakewood Shopping Center parking lot. Que Dogs isn't shy about its raison d'etre, the hot dog topped with smoky, tender pulled pork barbecue. Que Dogs is pricier than other vendors, with the signature Que Dog set at $9, and toppings are available at an additional cost. But the indulgent combination of bold flavors makes every cent and every bite worthwhile.
Taking over the former home of Joe's Diner — once known for its One Pound Big Dog Club — Cate's has some seriously big buns to fill. The spirit of Joe's lingers with articles about Joe's encased in glass and pinned to a bulletin on the wall. One reads, 'Stand with Joe and President Obama and tell Congress to extend tax cuts for middle-class families.'
Beef, chicken, and turkey hot dogs are all $3 each, with a selection of free toppings. While the decor may be no-frills, the food isn't. Cate's doesn't try to reinvent the hot dog, but it does master the basics with care. The potato bun and hot dogs are grilled to order, and toppings are generous. On any given day, you'll find a rotating cast of soulful sides, such as creamy mac and cheese and collard greens.
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Dad's Secret Past Revealed After His Mental Illness
In my memory, there are two dads: the Richard before mental illness — and the one after. The Richard before never seemed very rock 'n' roll. He was just another workaholic father, keeping his brick of an early mobile phone close, even on vacations, and coming home late from the family business, the Great American Tent Company. The one after ... well, I try not to dwell on him as much. But there was a third Richard I knew nothing about until after he was gone. One day when I was 26, just months after my dad's death from congestive heart failure, I visited to check on my mom. I found her at the kitchen table with a pile of well-worn manila folders fanned out in front of her, an ashtray nearby with a half-smoked joint still smoldering. Mom was an old eBay queen from the '90s — she bought and sold Beanie Babies for profit back when that was possible — and I could tell she'd hunted up something good. I looked closer. Each file had a famous name written on it in my father's neat print: Lynyrd Skynyrd, Lionel Richie, Allman Brothers, Santana. 'What is this?' I took a seat across from Mom. 'Your father's rock files,' she said, toking on the joint. 'He kept everything from his days running Peace Concerts.' 'Peace Concerts?' 'Take a look!' I could tell she was high on more than just pot. She opened a folder and produced a yellowed letter that read, 'The Birmingham Hyatt House will not be able to accept any further rock group reservations. This directive is a result of many bad situations with these groups staying in the hotel and especially the malicious destruction caused by Lynyrd Skynyrd staying here over July 4th, 1975.' The letter said the damages amounted to $500. I looked up at Mom, eyes wide, and we laughed. My soft-spoken dad had dealt with these musical madmen? 'Richard said they were the nicest boys,' Mom said, 'when they weren't drunk.' 'You knew about this?' 'Not this,' she said, taking back the letter and handing me the joint. 'Why would Dad save this?' 'Eh, he was a hoarder. But also probably for tax purposes.' I dragged on the joint and ruminated with the smoke. That was Dad, always business-minded. However, I suspected there was more to the story. He'd always loved music, filled his days with it from the radio or cassette player, or his voice, smooth as Southern syrup, or his acoustic guitars, which he left me. He loved music until depression struck him down. In addition to his heart issues, my father spent the last dozen years of his life numbed by mental illness and antidepressants. Years ago, when he began to slip mentally, he paced our house at night, thought my mother was poisoning him, and believed my siblings and I were starving (even though we were all chunky). I've never been a big fan of Valentine's Day. Maybe that's because on that day in 2001, I came home from school, sensed something was off, and asked, 'Where's Dad?' My mom told me that she and my older cousin had taken him to the hospital, that he'd tried to jump out of the car on the way, that he was now admitted to a psychiatric ward. I was on the cusp of turning 14, my mother 44. Over the next dozen years, as I meandered through adolescence and early adulthood, I grew to resent this man, his apathy toward his family and even his own life, as he deteriorated mentally and physically. His nails grew long and yellow, his hair dreadlocked into a mat of gray wire. And after years of an all-fast food diet and not taking care of himself, his heart finally gave. But here was my father, an energetic young promoter, in folder after folder of rare rock memorabilia: a contract signed by the legendary guitarist Duane Allman, another by Glenn Fry of the Eagles, a promotional flyer featuring a 20-something Lionel Richie in some of the first concerts the Commodores ever did — all shows my dad booked. He was a pioneer in carving out a new Deep South concert scene, billing these rock shows as 'dances' because, as Mom explained, going to concerts back then wasn't yet accepted in the buttoned-down Bible Belt. Not once did Dad talk about this to me. I wondered if he was secretly ashamed that his dreams had deflated into owning a company that supplied concerts with tents, tables and chairs instead of attention-grabbing talent — a company that started from the leftovers of those rosy rock days, with an old red-and-yellow tent top Richard put up over the stage for his acts. 'Where did you find this?' I asked Mom. She waved me down the grungy, carpeted stairs to the basement, where a battered tank of a file cabinet stood tucked away in a nook. As a kid, I'd overlooked it a million times, more captivated by the toys and board games surrounding the 1940s-era metal tower. Opening a squeaking drawer, I saw it fully packed with documents, an extremely thorough paper archive focusing on Dad's time as a concert promoter from 1968 to 1976. He'd saved it all: contracts, guest passes, flyers and posters, ledgers, photos, receipts (sometimes scrawled on a bar napkin). Bathed in the sickly, fluorescent basement lights, I was overwhelmed by the gravity of these artifacts. What to do with all this? Back upstairs, Mom and I discussed selling some of the hoard. Dad had saved many copies. But I was hesitant. 'Some items should be off-limits,' I said. Out of respect for Dad, for his story, for this side of him I didn't know. Mom agreed. So we went through each document of Dad's old music promotion business, Peace Concerts. I read the print too tiny for Mom's eyes and wrote descriptions while she priced and categorized. For an eye-catcher, we chose a silvery, vintage poster of a bare-chested Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham when they were still a duo. My dad had booked the last concerts they did before joining Fleetwood Mac and made a bundle on those few shows. The pair were treated so well that Nicks later said in an interview: 'We could join Fleetwood Mac or we could move to Birmingham, Alabama.' Mom and I decided we would not part with the poster. However, we did make glossy reproductions and sell them for $20 a pop. On a too-bright spring day about a year after Richard's passing, I packed my mom's car with the rock files and drove us to our first record show at a modern, red-bricked convention center. Set up in a large room by plate glass windows, we sold 'retro musical mementos' mostly to old rock 'n' rollers and longhaired hippie-looking characters, all grizzled or gray now, some with a limp or cane. Yet when they browsed the faded posters and dog-eared flyers, a smile would break across their faces as they remembered that packed after-party my dad threw for Stevie and Lindsey for their sold-out show at the Birmingham Municipal Auditorium, the last concert they played before merging with Fleetwood Mac — or how everyone's ears were ringing after that raucous Lynyrd Skynyrd concert at Rickwood Field in '74, the first time that group performed 'Sweet Home Alabama' in the state. For this generation, music was a spiritual experience, and my dad was at the center of it. Well, center backstage. I fidgeted in my chair as I nodded along, jealous that it seemed like these strangers knew my father better than I did. Occasionally, one would squint at me and say, 'You look just like him.' It's true. I have my dad's red-brown curls and intense blue eyes. Although I always thought his shade of eggshell blue was far prettier. Music was another thing we had in common. Dad possessed a sweeter voice, but I was the better guitarist. I didn't start learning until I was 16, so he never played music with me nor expressed an interest after the depression sank deep inside him. Years into his isolation, I visited to perform for him. I must've been 20 and studying classical guitar, eager to show off my new finger-style skills. But after I finished my first piece, a difficult and delicate arpeggiated prelude by a Paraguayan composer named Barrios, he snapped at me, 'That's good, and I won't even count those two mistakes you made.' My throat clenched — my voice evaporated. His ear was still so sensitive. It wasn't a spotless performance, as he'd demanded of his local bands back in the Peace Concert days — he'd told my mother how he kept detailed, sometimes harsh, performance notes from his spot in the back row. I wanted to snap all my guitar strings. Instead, I never played for him again. For years, a feeling of shame flooded over me when I flashed back to that memory — and I carried my resentment around inside like a balled-up mass of old strings. So it went at the record shows: After selling for several hours, Mom and I would gingerly repackage everything back into her car, and I'd drive us back home. We'd split the cash, and I'd roll us a joint. 'For Richard,' we'd toast as thick blue smoke unfurled around our heads. 'Did he hang out with the acts other than just working with them?' I asked. Mom bit her lip and thought about it. Long ago, Richard told my mom some of Peace Concerts' history — how he saved money from his job at the telephone company to book his first acts, and how promoting was like gambling and he lost it all on a bad run of concerts where the ticket sales didn't materialize. 'Not really,' Mom said. 'He wasn't in it for that. He liked making money — and he did it for the thrill.' The thrill of the risk, or of creating an event that would reverberate in people's minds for decades? She said she didn't know. My mom, Shari, met my dad when she was 22. A theater major and techie, she'd just blown out of college from Michigan State, headed 700 miles south before landing in Birmingham and met him just three days later, introduced through a mutual friend. By then, he'd lost everything to concert promotion. Their first 'date' was him grilling steaks on his patio, The Marshall Tucker Band's 'Can't You See' playing loud on the turntable. I asked Mom when she learned about Dad's rock days. She had to think on it — her hair gray and down to her back now, unlike the dark bob she'd sported most of my life. 'After just a few days together,' she said. 'He said, 'I'll tell you my story, but only one time.'' 'Whoa, it was like that?' She said he hated old concertgoers wanting to wax nostalgic with him about the glory days. I figured Dad, like me, always had big dreams hounding him down. Time spins like a vinyl, and after doing a few of these record shows and hearing every tale Mom knew, I began reaching out to Dad's old friends and work associates from his promoting prime. Yet I heard the same thing I already knew: Dad was a 'workaholic.' 'And how exactly did he fall out of promoting?' About this I'd heard different stories. Mom had always said he'd lost it all on a bad concert run with Joe Cocker, and that he was distracted chasing a woman nicknamed 'Little Red' who never reciprocated my father's interest. But I'd heard more than one old associate say that Dad had also been outgunned by a hotshot New York promoter named Tony Ruffino who today gets the credit for putting Birmingham on the map for big rock bands. One old rock buddy who used to hang up flyers and do other promotional work even said that Richard tried to go rogue and represent Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks on his own, and for this the record biz blacklisted him. 'But what was he like as a person?' I'd ask these strangers who knew 'the old Richard.' That was always harder for them to answer. 'He was a private guy,' was the best answer I got from a man named Wendell, a partner in an early booking agency my dad founded and later sold. 'He didn't talk much about what was going on in his head.' I became desperate, looking to our family albums and VHS tapes for answers. But here, too, Dad was the invisible promoter, so frequently on the other side of the camera capturing/directing holidays and trips instead of being in them. A backstage man, even in his personal life. Wendell suggested I visit the iconic 2121 high-rise in downtown Birmingham to see my father's old office, where he built his Peace Concerts empire nearly six decades ago in what was then called 'the penthouse,' room 1727. When I told Mom about the idea, she smiled and said Richard used to point out the 2121 building in their earlier days, telling her he worked at the top in an office with a view. So I drove a half-hour into town to see for myself, uncertain what Wendell thought I would find so clarifying there. Riding the elevator up, my reflection rippled in the scratched, stainless steel doors in front of me, looking like a leaner, taller ghost of my father. On the top floor, I saw only three suite numbers: 1700, 1710, and 1720. I rang the bell at 1700, where a woman with graying blonde hair and sleepy eyes answered. I explained I was writing something about my relationship with my father and trying to hunt down his old office. Albeit bemused, she was nice enough to let me in and give me a quick tour. She explained that this suite connected to 1720 but there was no room #1727, not even 27 separate offices on that floor. The place had clearly been redesigned since my dad last stepped foot there. It was hard to believe that any rock concerts were ever planned in this now drowsy, overly air-conditioned space. But what I did see, everywhere I looked, were plate glass windows waist-high to ceiling. It was the kind of space where an overachiever could dream big while watching the world spin down below — exactly like something I would prefer, for I need a window nearby to write. 'I'm sorry I don't know any more,' the office worker said before walking away. I snorted a laugh and had to accept that I would never know my father like I wanted — that a history of objects can reveal but never resurrect — and also that, to some degree, he'd been there right in front of me. That private but friendly guy always working, always dreaming — that was my dad. A dozen years after my father's passing, the days of selling rock files are done. My mother eventually sold what was left in the file cabinet to a local collector who's creating an archive of the Birmingham music scene with the hopes of turning it into a museum. The archivist hauled away that clanky metal thing that, although lighter from fewer files, still had to be hand-trucked out by two strong guys. But one day, Dad's papers and accomplishments could be on public display. Mom kept a few favorites, including that black-and-white poster of Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham, forever frozen in their 20s, forever beautiful, boldly staring back at the viewer like wild-haired rock gods. Mom displayed it in her living room, a reminder of when she and Richard were young. Over the years of selling rock documents, the parent I got to know was my mom. Even though she frequently griped about Dad not being more involved in child care and housekeeping, I could tell part of her still loved him — the version of Richard before the disease of depression stole him from us. That's why she kept selling these rare items, not for the money, which she didn't need, but to keep his memory living and moving, just like the music they both craved. Remembering is also reacquainting. Although I thought I never played for my father again, that's not entirely true. I never played for him in person. While writing this essay, a memory returned to me: I used to keep in touch with Richard over the phone in the early days of his decline, when there was still some little spark of the old dad inside him. I must've been practicing guitar during a call one evening (a habit I still have) because he grew silent, listening to me play. I stopped plucking the strings, anxious. 'You sound good, son,' he finally said. 'Sound really good.'
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