Well, maybe. But don’t utter such words in Cumberland, where Gino Giatras, proprietor of Curtis’ Famous Weiners Since 1918, serves up wieners and a secret-recipe meaty sauce that pairs like caviar and vodka. Here, wiener worshippers near and far trade the labyrinthine menus of modern big-city life for a taste from simpler times.

It had been awhile since my folks and I had lunched together, and as semi-foodies, they rattle off many multiple-starred restaurants in our area as possibilities.

“I was thinking wieners in Cumberland!” I announce with what I hope is infectious enthusiasm. Their brows become at once furrowed and peaked. They look perplexed like, well, gourmands who are served wieners.

“My treat!” I continue, still trying to sell the idea.

Ever the adventurers, they agree, and we make the traffic-free trip west on I-68 toward Cumberland, whose skyline of spires and storied structures is clad in deep-red brick. Taking in the view, I feel like a passenger aboard a miniature toy train ambling past a charming, Victorian-era town.

With a push of the glass doors, my parents and I enter Gino’s joint and slide into a small booth. The mosaic of mingled decorations spread throughout the cozy restaurant reminds me of my grandma’s décor: family photos, houseplants, and trinkets of affection pinned and perched wherever there’s space. Despite the relaxed atmosphere, though, Gino displays behind-the-counter wiener go-go (“Some places put the low in slow, but we put the ast in fast,” he quips).

He assembles orders of wieners, fries, and drinks without breaking a sweat or the cadence of the conversations he simultaneously carries on with his customers, often wrapping up the chats with a big grin and a bellowing “Yeah, oh, yeah!”

A fixture at the eatery for nearly three decades, Gino grew up behind the counter alongside his mother, father, and grandfather, as well as around the numerous customers who began eating Curtis’ Famous Weiners when Gino was knee-high to the bun warmer. The family feel rubbed off on loyal customers—and loyal employees—who see Curtis’ Famous Weiners as a second home.

“We are a real family restaurant,” says Gino. “Our atmosphere is one that people can relax in. And I don’t think of my employees like ‘help.’ We have each other’s back.”

Despite earning an MBA from Frostburg State University, Gino confesses that he learned everything about business management from his mom, Alchea, and dad, Louie (Alchea has passed on, but Gino’s dad still cooks the fries from time to time).

“All the books did was put names to their methods,” he affirms.

Neither academics nor family style can take credit, however, for Gino’s devoted customer service. He memorizes regular customers’ schedules and food selections so that their orders are ready and waiting; at Christmastime, preparing special gift packages is one of Gino’s specialties. (Yes, folks give Gino’s wieners as presents!)

“I once arranged a gift package in a sun pattern—a large hamburger center with rays of wieners!” Gino chuckles.

But are his wieners really gift-giving good? After all, they’re just hot dogs, right?

Wrong.

My parents and I relay our orders to Nikki, a waitress clad in a cheerful cartoon scrub shirt who quickly disappears into the mass of carryout-ordering customers lined up by the door. Within minutes, she returns with our wieners balanced on her forearms three deep and two high; we gasp as if watching a high-wire act occur without a net. The wieners, slimmer than hot dogs, are grilled, tucked into soft buns, and slathered with the famous Coney Island Sauce that is more meaty than saucy. After the first bite, my parents and I agree that these wieners are unlike any stadium or street-vendor chow we’ve supped.