Cruising for Guidos and Micks. Ipswich?

Ipswich, ah Ipswich. The lovely North Shore haven was immortalized on several occasions by Hollywood: as the source of Leonardo di Caprio's fancy accent in the Departed and as the site of filming for the Witches of Eastwick. But I digress. I actually ended up eating hot dogs in Ipswich by accident, if it is possible for me to have such a thing happen. Liz and I were headed to the North Shore to hit the lovely beaches and cruise for Guidos and Micks (both ended up successful, if you were curious). One rather lovely Saturday we decided to avoid the parking lot that 128N becomes during the 6 week festival we New Englanders call summer and take back roads. So for no apparent reason we took Route 62 to Route 1A, and ended up cruising through Ipswich and past the infamous Clam Box en route to Plum Island National Park. Our little beach trip turned into an excursion, complete with Dunkin Donuts iced coffee and the entire playlist of FutureSex/LoveSounds. We really wanted to go to the Clam Box, because we love fried clams almost as much as hot dogs. But as we stood in a ridiculous line, we were told it would be 3 hours. 3 hours?!%$ Are you serious? I wouldn't wait that long for a Manolo Blahnik fire sale.

So we got back into my little Honda, still starving, and drove to downtown Ipswich. I had my eyes peeled for a hot dog stand, pizza joint or similarly priced alternative to yuppified fried crustaceans. In the name of saving time, we just started asking people where we could find a hot dog stand. First lady, about 50 years of age and rocking cankles, had no suggestions. She was a disgrace to her big boned ankles. The I spotted him. Old dude in the blue t-shirt. And I just knew he was the one with the answers we wanted to hear.

We sauntered up to old dude in the blue t-shirt, approximately 65 years of age and showing every second of it and asked the age-old question, "do you know of a good hot dog stand around here?" Now you would have thought we were asking for directions to the Vatican, given his long-pondering before answering, "well, you could go to the Choate Bridge Pub over the-ya, it's kinda fancy, you know, a real fancy sit-down mee-all, but they got some good sandwiches." We thanked old guy in the blue t-shirt (in fact, I am still thanking him) and wandered over. Now considering this pub is over the oldest stone arch bridge built in the United States, in 1764, I was expecting something fancy, perhaps not suitable to our budget or love of processed meats. And then we walked into a full-on bar. I mean, every inch of space was consumed by this wrap-around bar. And I thought, fancy sit-down place? Where are you normally eating? Now I love dive bars, so I was in my element. And this is a dive bar, full of uber-locals who only consider you "from the-re" if your family emigrated in the eighteenth century. Those nineteenth century punks better step off, because they are NOT welcome. And neither are credit cards or out-of-state or duplicate IDs. So it's a good think I'm rocking a Massachusetts license now.

Anyway, we got the dogs. And they were great, a lot of flavor on butter-doused, grilled buns. $3.50 with chips and big - Boar's Head maybe? Coupled with delicious Ipwich Ale, we ate like North Shore royalty for under $20, with tip. I suddently felt like I was in my own Hollywood movie, rocking an accent. And it felt wicked.