The Michigan Dog- Chili’s first Cousin, Twice Removed

I originally wrote this piece two years ago and, at the time, felt the need to disclaim that I had never actually tried a Michigan. I was just mesmerized by the pictures my foodie pal Eric would post on his way to Quebec, and I’ve always been intrigued by the origin story of this North Country hot dog.

Also—Plattsburgh, New York is hella far from New Jersey. But I was always confident I’d eventually make the five-hour trek up the Thruway.

For those who don’t know, a Michigan Dog is a geographical misnomer—Plattsburgh’s signature hot dog topped with savory ground meat. And no—I didn’t say chili dog. Even though it looks like one.

It’s also not quite a Texas wiener. Not quite a coney. It’s a doppelganger to both… but definitely its own thing. Same DNA, different personality.

From Brooklyn to…

Annddd, so this is where I nerd out a little.

It’s generally accepted that Coney Island is the birthplace of the American hot dog, when German immigrant and entrepreneur Charles Feltman transformed his pushcart pie business into a full-blown hot dog empire in the late 1800s. Shortly after, in true American capitalism fashion, one of his employees—Nathan Handwerker—undercut him by a nickel (literally half price) and launched Nathan’s Famous.

At that point, hot dog joints were like crypto—everyone wanted in. As the food exploded in popularity, and with a steady wave of immigrants passing through Ellis Island, Brooklyn kitchens were packed with a revolving door of Greek and Macedonian cooks who learned the trade and then left to open their own spots across the country.

Michigan became the epicenter of that exodus—Jackson, Flint, Kalamazoo, Detroit.

These entrepreneurs leveled things up by adding their own spin: a loose, beanless meat sauce with aromatic spices—cumin, cinnamon—more akin to a Greek saltsa kima than anything you’d find in Brooklyn.

They called it a coney dog. A nod to where it all started.

 The M. Night Shyamalan twist

Sometime in the 1920s, after a brief stint in Michigan, Eula and Garth Otis moved east to Plattsburgh, New York, bringing with them a modified version of that coney sauce. Eula’s take was meatier, lighter on tomato, and ditched most of the Greek spice profile altogether.

They called it a Michigan Red Hot.

And just like that, the triangle was complete—

New York → Midwest → way upstate New York. Cool, right?

The Otis's eventually sold to a former employee, Nitzi Rabin, who ran it for decades before it became McSweeney’s Red Hots, open since 1991. Every spring, a cluster of seasonal Michigan stands wakes up from hibernation, ready to feed vacationers rolling through Lake Champlain.

Clare and Carl’s (since 1942), Ronnie’s Michigan in nearby Morrisonville, and Gus’s Red Hots are all local staples.

Gus’s… is where I finally got my shot.

I ordered the Red Hot Michigan and opted for the 75-cent upcharge for the red-dyed Glazier’s dog—something my waitress nodded at like I made the right call. I paired it with a side of poutine, loaded with room-temp cheese curds that somehow hit exactly how they’re supposed to.

The snappy dog itself was steamed and absolutely buried in a tangy meat sauce, yellow mustard, and chopped white onion.

And here’s where it surprised me. There was a lowkey umami depth to the sauce—maybe a little Worcestershire, maybe reduced ketchup, something working in the background—but it didn’t eat like chili. It didn’t eat like bolognese either. It just… worked.

Courtesy of Cultinary Road Trip

No heaviness. No overkill. No putting meat on meat just for the sake of it.

It was just a really balanced, dialed-in bite.

The hot dog may have started over a hundred years ago in Plattsburgh, but it’s quietly spread into parts of western Vermont and across the border into Montreal, where you’ll spot it on menus next to local steamé and toasté.

Still, this is a hyper-local thing. And that’s what makes it great.

If you’re heading up the Thruway toward Montreal or Vermont, do yourself a favor—pull off and hit one of these spots.

You’ll be glad you did.