Hot Dog Louie’s
Al Koch
February 2022
Almost every community has establishments and characters that garner legend and engender melancholy remembrance. Whiting, Indiana has several. The following story is about one of those places, the individuals and supporting cast who transformed the ordinary into an extraordinary heartfelt memory.
This 1939 ad in the Whiting High School yearbooks lets ladies know that they are invited to enjoy the sandwiches, chili and soft drinks at Indiana Red Hots.
The official name of the business was Indiana Red Hots, but townspeople referred to it as Hot Dog Louie’s, named for its proprietor, Louie Marath. It was a cubbyhole of a business, located at1409 on the south side of 119th Street facing Oliver Street; a storefront of no more than 15 lineal feet, with a second floor that housed the law office of Joseph P. Sullivan. Hot Dog Louie’s resembled an elongated telephone booth laid on its side. There was enough space for a gas grill, four stove-top burners, eight diner counter stools and room for customers changing direction to pivot—and not much more. I vaguely recall a pay phone booth in the hallway that led to the back of the business. Upon entering the business, on the back wall that could not be missed, Louie had a framed picture of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. That conveyed a reverence and shrine-like quality.
By the mid-1950s, the original white, metal-stamped ceiling installed when built, sported an off-color brownish-ivory acquired over years of capturing columns of steamy droplets of grease from countless patties of grilled beef. The atmosphere was Early American yummy! Should a courageous customer look up—and only a few ever did, they would have seen an array of dust bunnies hanging like gray fuzzy icicles from the embossed decorative ceiling panels.
A massive fire destroyed several downtown Whiting businesses in 1980, including the building which housed the original Hot Dog Louie’s. This photo of the fire’s aftermath shows the narrow size of the restaurant. The entire front of the business is shown inside the box that is drawn on the picture. The building was seven feet wide from wall to wall. In that seven-foot space there was a cooking area and space for the workers to move around, a long counter for the customers that ran much of the length of the 45-foot-deep store, a dozen stools for them to sit on, and barely enough room for an aisle behind the stools.
Attached to the ceiling, two, well-worn fans struggled to improve the air-quality and provide some semblance of comfort from unrelenting grill and summer heat. At the hub of the fan’s stationary center, Shell Pest Strips were affixed to capture errant flies that frequently found their way inside as customers entered and exited the establishment. What added to the ambiance of this hot dog heaven was those Pest Strips remained unchanged for several years. Now coated with dead flies, the bug strips jiggled with each oscillation of the rotating fan blades occasionally loosening the adhesive grip on its deceased quarry. Regular dine-in customers seated along the counter would hunch over with their back serving as a canopy to deflect any falling fly carcasses from landing in their chili.
The flat-iron gas grill by the front window provided a tantalizing, mouth-watering view of scorching ground beef as Louie seared the hand-formed patties into hamburgers. Displayed in the upper half of the front window was a circular red-orange neon sign advertising Indiana Red Hots in script. Open or closed, the sign illuminated Louie’s primary workstation. When Hot Dog Louie’s was closed, the ruddy glow and interior shadows cast by the neon added a restful, picturesque tranquility. Adjacent to the grill, against the back wall was the well-used stove top.
Hot Dog Louie’s menu was blue collar and delicious: hot dogs, hamburgers, coffee, soda pop, his special chili and for dessert, pie by the slice displayed in a wall-mounted glass and wood case with sliding front panels for pie lovers to peruse.
Louie himself appeared to have been designed to fit within the establishment. A diminutive man, small in stature, Louie made up for his lack of physical size by the loudness of his voice. When irritated, Louie’s vociferations would send shockwaves throughout the diner, causing a variety of multi-legged creatures to lose their footing on the apple slices in the pie case.
Why was the building which housed Indiana Red Hots so small? Originally, the land on which it sat was a sidewalk between the two buildings on either side of it. It was a popular short-cut for many Whiting residents in the early 1900s. Patrick Sullivan, the owner of the land as well as one of the buildings which sat alongside it, thought about expanding his building to use up the extra seven feet of space. But he determined that would be too costly. So, instead, around 1924, he constructed the narrow building. Louis Marath and John Hanis were the building’s first occupants., Their restaurant instantly became the smallest store in Northwest Indiana.
His counter man, George, often the target of Louie’s retorts, serenaded customers by singing, Hoagy Carmichael’s, Ole Buttermilk Skies, acapella. He, too, was a custom fit, a few inches over five feet tall, George always asked patrons if he could add a little vinegar around the inside of their bowl of chili. He kept a cruet of vinegar on the counter next to the condiments for those who preferred self-serve.
A third employee, worked in a small utility room toward the back, performing kitchen duties, preparing the ground beef, cutting onions, and mixing ingredients for Louie’s chili.
For company when business was slow, and to control a problem of uninvited mice, Louie kept a cat in residence. Walking by the closed diner late at night, one would see the feline mice-marshal peacefully snoozing on top of the still-warm iron grill. Sometimes Louie would cover the grill with a towel for his purring sentry to lie on, but often, the cat could be seen stretched out on the cozy metallic bed, with its eyes closed, soaking up the remnants of the days’ grill grease with its fur coat. Because of this slovenly habit, Louie’s customers nicknamed the cat “The Crisco Kid. ”Mysteriously, the diner’s cat would disappear never to be seen again. This didn’t seem to perturb Louie, as he soon found another mouser to assume the responsibilities of rodent warden.
Though Indian Red Hots’ main fare was its titular 15-cent hot dog, Louie prepared a ready supply of his special chili, which became his favorite menu item. When a customer ordered a hot dog, Louie would open the steamer positioned on one of the stove-top burners, takeout a hot dog, place it on a bun and using a mini-spoon, apply three tiny ladles of chili sauce to the bun. Then, with a similar mini spoon, he added three helpings of chopped onions to the hot dog and chili-sauced bun. Hot Dog au jus—scrumptious!
Louis Marath, Hot Dog Louie, died in 1961. He was born in Greece. John Hanis, his cousin, was his business partner. Hanis died in 1978.
Louie loved America and the Armed Forces. Anytime a customer serving in the military showed up in uniform—their lunch was free. This was one of the ways Louie showed his appreciation and thankfulness of those serving in the military.
Those who grew up around Whiting, Indiana in the ‘40s and ‘50s knew about Hot Dog Louie’s cure-all chili. Word got around that if you felt a cold coming on or had a cold already, the way to get rid of it was to eat Louie’s chili. Legend had it that it killed all unfriendly bacteria and could cure the common cold. Dispensed at 25 cents per serving, a single bowl of this germ-killing, body-cleansing elixir was usually sufficient. But should you be troubled with chronically stuffed sinuses, a prescription of three bowls per week eliminated congestion and kept you breathing like a mating moose!
No one knew for certain the ingredients used to make the chili (and secretly, no one wanted to know). A customer would order a bowl, toss in a few crackers, add a touch of vinegar, and chow down. Louie was light-years ahead of his time. He guarded the formula of his chili long before Colonel Sanders came along with his secret herbs and spices. Given the beneficial nature of his spicy bean stew, Louie could have built a cold-curing empire—a chili HMO!
That’s how it was in the good ‘ol days when you didn’t have to worry about being sidetracked by a cold. Germs knew better than try and take up residence in a hot Dog Louie chili-eatin' he-man!
Today when I feel a little sub-par, I long for a bowl of that fire-hot, flavorful boyhood remedy. Modern pharmaceuticals, many boasting quick relief and pleasant taste, have nothing on the healing power of Louie’s amazing chili con-carne. Take it from a loyal customer who enjoyed not only the nutritious hot dogs and chili, but also the therapeutic banter and comments of patrons who added to the “flavor” and folklore of Hot Dog Louie’s:
In the fall of 1958, as a 17-year-old Inland Steel apprentice, enjoying a mid-afternoon lunch with several blue-collar Youngstown mill workers seated at the counter, one of the men complemented Louie on the delicious taste of his chili. He asked if the recipe was available so he could have his wife make the same dish at home. He brashly offered to pay Louie for the recipe. Louie smiled and told him the recipe “was not for sale.” The guy next to him said the chili should be more prominently advertised—he loudly offered: “Louie’s Special Chili!”
The two mill guys kibitzed back and forth, one holding a spoon for emphasis, while the other guy, in between shoveling full spoonsful of con carne into his mouth, voiced agreement: “This chili is more than special-- it’s perfect!” Another guy chimed in: “That’s why the cat sleeps on the grill where it’s made--it’s Purr-fect!” “Sounds like an advertising slogan,” one quipped. They laughed at the play on words, finished their chili, gulped their sodas, wiped up with counter napkins, and headed outside to catch the Shoreline bus to the mill.
A small snippet of hometown appreciative banter, and a few ordinary minutes that became moments celebrating a legendary business owner and the unofficial feline mascot that snoozed on the warm grill after the business closed at day’s end.