A Qualified, Bonafide, Certified Countrified, Chicken-Fried Obsession

Al Bohl, a retired artist and educator from Bossier City, has spent 18 years perfecting the Howdy Dawg

When Al Bohl greeted me on the front porch of his Bossier City home on a recent Tuesday evening, the first words out of his mouth were: “This is embarrassing.” 

And, for some reason, the story that follows probably would embarrass some people. But I don’t think it’s embarrassing; I think it’s American.

Al and his beatific wife, Doris, live in a picturesque subdivision just off of Benton Road, where all of the streets are named after things that were plowed under in order to make way for the streets.

Al was wearing a kitchen apron emblazoned with an anthropomorphic wiener: his beloved Howdy Dawg. Taking a closer look at the apron, I could make out the specific shades of Welch’s grape jelly, French’s mustard, and a variety of other unknown condiments that had splattered and dripped over the years.

Al has spent eighteen years developing a batter and technique for chicken-frying hot dogs. He calls it the Howdy Dawg, and it’s more than a chicken-fried hot dog—it’s entertainment.

“When you bite into a Howdy Dawg, you’re biting into an amusement park,” he said, showing me to the kitchen. On a small island in the center of the kitchen, Al had staged his mis en place: a small deep fryer, an assortment of wieners and sausages, strips of bacon, kitchen tongs, and a vat of Al’s secret batter. 

I took a seat at the bar and watched as Al battered and dredged the first round of wieners. Doris settled in on a neighboring stool and we waited for Al’s signal that it was time to eat.

Eighteen years ago, Al said, he and some business partners developed a concept for a country and western theatre in Bossier City—a place with regular live music showcases like you’d find in Branson—and Al was placed in charge of conceptualizing an on-premises country music museum and gift shop.

“Also, we wanted to have somewhere people could get something to eat before the theater opened or during intermission,” he said, keeping a close eye on the sizzling Howdy Dawgs. “We had to design a food that wouldn’t be messy. It just hit me: Howdy Dawg!”

While the original plan for the country music theatre didn’t work out, Al continued to tinker with the concept of the Howdy Dawg. He wrote a jingle, designed a mascot, and named value meals and promotions. Over the years, Al estimates that he iterated fifteen or more versions of Howdy Dog batter.

“The problem was my batter,” Al said solemnly. “I’ve been tweakin’ my batter.”

“The ones in the past, the crust would fall off,” Doris added. “The thickness of the crust was inconsistent, and it would fall off.”

As we spoke about Al’s failed batter experiments, the energy in the room dipped. Everyone’s voice lowered several decibels, as if we were talking about a child who’d dropped out of school and begun setting park equipment on fire.

“Have you seen The Hot Dog Program?,” Al asked, shaking off the spectre of inferior batters from his past. “It is an excellent documentary about hot dogs. It shows all of the different ways that hot dogs are cooked. I was just so inspired by it, and I got to thinking: what about a chicken-fried hot dog?”

Al would like to produce his own sausage, but logistics and costs are a challenge.

“You’ve gotta order five hundred pounds of wieners at a time,” Al said, shooting me a look over the rims of his hip Warby Parker spectacles. That look quietly communicated that Doris—as supportive of Al’s hot dog obsession as she has been—would never go for storing fifty cases of wieners in the garage.

Al began to gather dipping sauces, and Doris and I moved to the dining table as he fished Howdy Dawgs out of the fryer.

Al brought a platter of toasted buns and a stack of golden brown Howdy Dawgs to the table, and the three of us began to eat. Silence fell over the table. The sensation of a crunchy hot dog really is a satisfying one, and the breading was delicious, crisp and flavorful.

“Can you imagine a Howdy Dawg with coleslaw and jalapenos?,” Al marveled.

“Al,” Doris said, letting her husband’s name hang in the air like a Chopped judge. “This is the best crust so far. I have to admit it. You told me you had it down, but I said: ‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’ But this is good. One hundred percent, Al, you nailed it.”

Al beamed back at Doris.

“It’s about time,” he said. “I feel so vindicated.”

As we each ate several Howdy Dawgs—sampling different sauces like remoulade, Thai chili sauce, and grape jelly—I could see that Al remained lost in thought. I mentioned that he seemed pretty preoccupied, for a guy who had just completed an eighteen-year-long project.

“I’m thinking about a special kind of potato that could go with it,” Al said.

“But are you really done with the dog?,” I asked. “Or are you gonna lay in bed thinking about how to make this thing better for the rest of your life?”

Al thought about it.

“That is probably correct,” he said.

“I’ll say it,” Doris said. “He will never stop.”

“You’re kinda quiet yourself,” Al said to me.

I admitted that I was worried that this story didn’t really have an ending.

Doris, now chomping into a crisp slice of chicken-fried bacon, said something barely audible.

“Sing your song, Al,” she said proudly.

So, for the first time in Stuffed & Busted history, I am ending a story with a link to a media file. If you’d like to hear Al Bohl—one of the most creative people I’ve ever known—sing the Howdy Dawg jingle, here it is:

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