The Last Wurst

12 years, 8 months and 12 days. 111,264 hours.

663 ‘Dogs of the Week.’ 3 million hot dogs, half a million sausages and a few hectares of free-range chicken. 387,000 pounds of potatoes and 125 metric tons of onions.

Chili and slaw? We filled an ocean.

At least 1,000 employees and over 1.5 million guests served.

We tried it all. Yankees spring training in Clearwater. FAU Main Campus in Boca Raton. The Charlotte Hornets arena. Professional golf tournaments. HOA’s, weddings, funerals and divorces. Uptown, Ballantyne and Dilworth.

By the close of 2019, we had three restaurants open, and – while not necessarily thriving – we were on our way. We began to attract some industry attention too, winning two ‘Brands to Watch’ awards from Fast Casual magazine in 2014 & 2015 and many “Best of Charlotte” awards through the years. News segments and national television. (Including yucking it up on camera with Guy Fieri on Diners, Drive-Ins & Dives in 2017)

Influencers, Yelpers and Bloggers. Everyone seemed to love us.

Then, on March 17, 2020, as fire and brimstone quilted the globe, we were forced to close two of our locations overnight. Our business was mortally wounded. We hit a fat, pork shaped iceberg. So, we began rearranging the deck chairs, ignoring the inevitable, improvising poorly. Like old men with banjos.

But we weren’t alone. The industry reeled. All of us were throwing deck chairs around. We 86’ed all the lifeboats.

Of course, there were ways to save it. We could have raised prices incoherently, changed the menu and service model, lowered our quality standards, or slashed staff to the bone. But that would have been a horrible mess.

So here we are.

Failure is confusing and multi-faceted, especially when you need to be proud of it. Explaining it and why it happens is a fool’s errand. Conversely, so is success. It’s such a thin line.

Restaurants are furious little factories. It’s a thousand blistered, burned and calloused fingers. You never get the smell out of your clothes. Some days, you feel like Wolfgang Puck. The next day, you are cracked in half.

Hard work is the oxygen. That much I have learned. My father taught me that. He is the best that ever was.

One thing I do know is that it would have never happened without you. So, we need to say thank you. To everyone.

Thanks to every brave soul who ripped into one of our meatcakes.

You, our guests, who relished the wacky idea of a hot dog and sausage concept in Charlotte, NC, and who continued to support us through the Covid debacle, store closings, and the like. We will especially miss our weekly regulars and superfans, without whom we would have never made it past the first few months.

Also, a ‘shout’ out to the innumerable expat Buffalonians who came in over the years for their Sahlen’s hot dog fix. We will miss you all. Go Bills!

Thanks to Brandy Newton and Matt Stevens, who helped us create and grow the JJ’s brand. Those were heady days at the beginning and seeing JJ’s Red Hots explode into existence was incredibly thrilling. The candle still burns.

Thanks to Mark Bruinooge, one of my closest friends, fellow Whisky Dollar, and a founding partner. He instilled in me the confidence and courage to get off the couch – often the most difficult thing to do. He was sitting next to me on an airplane coming back from Chicago in 2011 when I scratched a few harebrained ideas about encased meats on the back of an American Airlines beverage napkin. He enthusiastically nodded his approval. It was all I needed.

Many thanks to Meredith and Paul (Owners of Providence Sundries and Lebowski’s), Scott, Sue and Chef Chris. (New South Kitchen), and John Love and staff (Red Rocks). I spent many an afternoon with them, asking questions and wringing my hands. They were good and proper council.

A huge thanks to our entire restaurant staff over the years – especially Scott Stewart – who was always there, managing through the madness, and consistently delivering on the JJ’s mission. Boots on the ground. MVP.

Thanks to my father, Jon Luther, Sr., and my mother Sharon. They enthusiastically supported us through the years, especially when we needed to make payroll or pay rent. They are very special people. Wonderful parents, grandparents, mentors, friends, uncles, aunts, brothers and sisters. Ask anyone.

To my sister Tiffany and my brother (in law) Danny ‘Ballgame’ Bowers. They too are familiar with the grind and have been incredible cheerleaders throughout both joy and blues. (Tiff will get that reference) Smart, driven, talented. Great parents. My heroes.

To my children, Jack and Jesse. (The ‘J & J’ in JJ’s) – such unconditional champions! Flesh and blood inspiration. JJ’s was such a huge part of their lives. It was all around them. And they always beamed with pride and wore the jewels. They picked us up when we were down. They still do. We will be forever grateful.

To Weber and Frank, the canines. They took aggressive noogies and belly scratches. I took filthy face lickings, snappy little bites and deep scratches. Dogs are a zero-sum game. We don’t deserve ‘em.

To Melissa Luther, our CFO, and my sweet patootie. She kept the train on the tracks when money, margins and patience were as thin as butcher paper. Not gonna lie, it was harrowing at times, and Melissa handled it with grace and fierce determination – never giving up, robbing Peter to pay Paul on the regular. And, because she is a genius, she made it work. My sweet Melissa. She is the most beautiful person I have ever known. I never want to have ice cream with anyone else the rest of my life.

And know this.

You can find it in every lake, stream, swamp, bayou, ocean, backwater, hardpan, field, farm and plain.

You can steam it, you can braise it, you can roast it. You can poach it. You can puree it, put it in a pastry bag and squeeze it on everything. It can be crispy, caramelized and golden brown. It can be bloody as hell or grey as a rainy Sunday. It can be juicy or dry, tart or toasty, funky or fruity, sweet or savory. Salty, spicy, ground into a paste, succulent, unctuous or gamey.

You can grind it and stuff it into impossibly thin entrails. You can soak it in buttermilk, batter it and flash fry it. You can pound it thin or inject it with brine. You can massage it, you can slam it, suck it, or slurp it. You can make a bubbling, salty rolling boil for it. You can grill it, you can smoke it, you can pull it out of the oven and take a heady snoutful of it.

You can both keep it alive or kill it. You can take it down with a variety of heavy tackle or brash artillery. You can snip it with scissors. You can shave it with a razor. You can wet age it. Hell, you can dry age it!

You can slice, dice, mince, blitz and batonnet it. You can make it into a quenelle, layer it in a terrine, suspend it in aspic, and sprinkle it with sugar.

You can take the marrow out of it and slather it on sourdough. You can roast the bones. You can hack up the carcass, chop up some mirepoix and make a deeply complex stock out of it. You can strain it through a sieve or a tamis, add aromatics, a shower of flour, and some good butter. You can whisk it, watch it and simmer it gently. Sauce!

You can make it loose, if it’s too tight.

With some good limes, flaky salt and fresh one, you can eat it raw. It can be briny, bland or boring.

You can dig a pit. You can layer the bottom with hot stones and wrap it in banana leaves and bury it in the ground for hours. It can fall off the bone or get stuck in your teeth. You can drown it in ketchup, you can lick it off your fingers or bathe it in mayonnaise.

You can forage for it, pick it and wash it. You can pull it out of the ground and gnaw on it. You can smell it all over the house. You can blanch it and sauté it. You can throw toasted nuts on it.

If you have a ripe lemon, good olive oil and some fresh herbs, it will take a nice little vinaigrette.

You can soak it overnight and cook it al dente. You can make cheese out of it, crack an egg on it, make foam from it and lightly dust it with bee pollen.

You can strain it through organic Indian muslin, sous vide it, jam it in a walnut shell, cover it with watermelon sorbet, nestle it in rock salt, serve it with a stupid fork on an obscenely large plate, dot it with some exotic herb pesto and call it an amuse bouche.

Garlic, onions, carrots, celery and fat red beefsteak tomatoes from South Jersey in the summer.

Whatever it is, it’s there for you. Go find it.

Please continue to support local independent restaurants while you can. Put down your phone. Tell ribald jokes. Order another cocktail or espresso. Linger over dessert. Fight for the check. Overtip your server.

It’s been my honor to serve you; in fact, it was all for you. See you down the road.

Jonathan Luther, Proprietor
JJ’s Red Hots