The Chicago Cubs, in a nostalgic nod to the 1950s, decided to introduce a hot dog that pays “homage” to one of the decade’s most questionable inventions: the TV Dinner. For those unfamiliar, Swanson and Sons first marketed the TV Dinner in 1953, and it quickly became an American staple. These prepackaged frozen meals, brimming with salt and artery-clogging fats, sold millions in their first year, sparking America’s enduring love affair with convenient, yet often questionable, frozen food. While the concept of frozen meals existed prior, notably on airplanes in the 1940s, Swanson’s “TV Brand Frozen Dinner,” featuring turkey, sweet potatoes, peas, and cornbread dressing, was marketed as a modern marvel for just 99 cents. The infamous apple cobbler addition wouldn’t arrive until 1960.
Having sampled my fair share of these decade-themed hot dogs at Wrigley Field, I must admit, skepticism creeps in. Does anyone in the Cubs marketing department actually taste these creations before unleashing them on unsuspecting fans? Past experiences haven’t been promising. The Reuben Dog was a salty, under-meated disappointment with cold cheese. The Cheesesteak Dog? Let’s just say “smegma-covered low quality meat” and “cold peppers” come to mind. I strategically avoided the 1920s Chicago Style dog, as, well, Wrigley already serves those classics. And the 1940s Corn Dog Nibblers? Seven dollars for corn dogs I don’t even particularly enjoy? No thanks. So, entering this review, the TV Dinner Dog seemed poised to fittingly mirror Swanson’s 1953 creation – potentially inedible, yet a curious piece of Cubs Food history.
My personal threshold for what qualifies as “food” tends to lower with each ballpark beer. After a few, even General Tso starts looking like a culinary genius. Therefore, it wasn’t until the seventh-inning stretch, fueled by sufficient liquid courage, that I ventured to sample the TV Dinner Dog. Post-rousing Ernie Banks/Tom Morello sing-a-long, I headed to the decade dog stand near Wrigley’s main entrance, ready to order two TV Dinner Dogs for my brother-in-law Rob and myself. The response? They were out of hot dogs.
A baseball concession stand… out of hot dogs? At a ballgame? Inconceivable! Hot dogs are practically synonymous with baseball! Hunger gnawing, I questioned the concession worker, but perhaps should have just accepted my fate. Just as I inquired, a shout from the grill announced the miraculous discovery of… more hot dogs!
Magically reappearing hot dogs? It felt akin to arriving late at a BBQ and being offered those questionable, foil-wrapped wieners that have been lingering for hours. Hesitantly optimistic, I placed the order. We waited. And then, we were presented with two fully loaded, undeniably delicious-looking Chicago Style dogs. This concession run was rapidly descending into farce. First, no hot dogs. Then, hot dogs materialize. And finally, the wrong hot dogs entirely. Politely, I corrected the error, explaining our TV Dinner Dog order. Apologies were offered, Chicago Styles whisked away, and within moments, redemption arrived in the form of the TV Dinner Dogs.
Behold, the TV Dinner Dog: a hot dog nestled in a bun, generously topped with boxed mashed potatoes, corn, and what could only be described as a dead ringer for my high school cafeteria’s gravy. Observing the specimens, one dog was visibly “over-corned,” the other tragically “over-potatoed.” Rob, ever the brave soul, claimed the corn-heavy decade dog and took the inaugural bite.
His reaction spoke volumes. Swallowing hard, Rob turned, offering a polite, “I’ll say thank you, just to be polite.” My turn.
The experience was… memorable. Imagine Socrates contemplating hemlock, and you’re halfway there. The mashed potatoes, glue-like, adhered stubbornly to the roof of my mouth. Meanwhile, the corn kernels swam across my tongue in a lukewarm gravy bath. Then, the salty essence of the hot dog itself valiantly attempted to rescue the bland landscape of textures and flavors. A swallow, barely making it past my epiglottis, and bite number one vanished into the depths of overpriced ballpark beer.
It’s been years since I’ve encountered boxed mashed potatoes. To me, they are the K-Cup coffee maker of the starch world. Making coffee is easy. Making mashed potatoes is also easy. Why opt for a more expensive, often inferior alternative? Especially when “much worse” is the more accurate descriptor in the case of boxed potatoes. My homemade mashed potatoes, enriched with heavy cream, butter, and fresh basil from my windowsill garden, are a far cry from the wallpaper paste consistency and flavorless void of the boxed variety.
And the corn? Picture that bag of frozen corn lurking in your freezer for a year, unearthed only when your pantry is nearly bare. Paired with a can of baked beans in a moment of desperation? Yes, that corn. That’s the corn gracing the TV Dinner Dog.
The gravy, however, presented a personal dilemma. I harbor a secret fondness for my high school cafeteria’s gravy. Confession time: I still occasionally slather processed, store-brand gravy over perfectly good homemade mashed potatoes and roasted organic chicken. Culinary sacrilege, I know. But sometimes, fake food just hits the spot. “Better living through chemicals,” as they say. Sadly, even the gravy couldn’t redeem this ballpark creation. The bun, overwhelmed by the moisture, quickly devolved into a soggy, disintegrating mess.
But truly, what did I expect? It’s a TV Dinner Dog. TV Dinners, by their very nature, are… well, horrible.
Ultimately, I would have been far more impressed if the Cubs had embraced the decade theme with a gourmet twist on the TV Dinner concept. Imagine: real mashed potatoes, fresh corn, perhaps even keeping the gravy (for nostalgic value, if nothing else). And, even though it arrived in 1960, a hint of apple cobbler might have elevated the experience, though cherry cobbler would undoubtedly be a superior choice. I understand the logistical challenges of crafting gourmet ballpark food at Wrigley Field, but this TV Dinner Dog, much like its frozen namesake, simply falls flat.
In fact, across the board, these decade dogs have been underwhelming. They all desperately need a culinary upgrade, reflecting the more sophisticated palates of today’s food enthusiasts. Imagine a Cheesesteak Dog with real provolone and quality steak. Or a Reuben Dog piled high with corned beef, Swiss cheese, sauerkraut, and dressing on a proper rye bun. For a $7 hot dog, frankly, I expect more.
Rob, ever succinct, captured the essence of the experience after bravely finishing his portion: “I know why they call them decade dogs… because it takes 10 years to get the taste out of your mouth.”
He tried, we both tried. And while the effort at novelty is appreciated, this particular piece of Cubs food is definitely a swing and a miss.
