So there I was, strolling around the meat department at my local Lowe's Foods (I love a grocery store that sounds like it might also sell hardware) when, lo and behold, I came upon my cherished Hebrew National Dinner Franks in the "sell today" discount bin.

I'm a lover of the discount bin. Almost every grocery store has one, and it's a great place to find cuts of meat that would normally be outside your budget ... as long as you're hungry for them that night.

I snatched up the hot dogs and went in search of buns and Tater Tots. Now, I normally eschew frozen potato products of any kind, far preferring my own frites to anything Ore-Ida or the rest of the frozen-food giants crank out, but there's something about a hot dog that demands it be accompanied by little cylinders of shredded potatoes cooked to a crispy golden brown. If you can find the Onion Tots, you're golden.

I returned home, introduced the 'dogs to my boiling pot (with onion and beer added) and began to set out my condiments. That's when I got to pondering on the truly staggering range of things both mundane and bizarre that folks plop on top of their wieners.

Before you get your e-mails in an uproar, I'm not going to even begin to wade into the Chicago style vs. New York style vs. Texas chili dog debate. Besides, the chili dog wins simply on the ground that anytime you pile meat on top of meat, you get double points.

No, we're going to stick to the more mundane condiments here, the mustards, relishes, slaws and even, if you must, ketchups that a large portion of the world keeps close at hand for hot dog night.

Mustard

My name is Scott, and I'm a mustardholic. I LOVE mustard. I love it on meat. I love to dip raw veggies in it. I love to eat it straight out of the jar. Other than a jar of XXX Bohemian Extra-Hot mustard that Barry Levenson of the Mustard Museum tried to kill me with, I've never left a jar of mustard unfinished.

For hot dogs, it really depends on the type. For cheapie "cookout in the park" dogs, I go for plain yellow or at the most a spicy brown mustard, just to complete that whole "I'm 10 years old" feeling. For more classy meat missiles, I usually go for a good garlic or coarse-ground mustard. The flavors meld well with those of a good hot dog, and their aroma, released full strength once they hit the hot, straight-from-the-pot meat, will make you hungry if you aren't already.

When I'm traveling, I always keep an eye out for new mustards to add to my palate experience. I spot mustards the way birdwatchers spot their prey, but my specimens are edible. (Anyone writing to tell me cute li'l robins and bluebirds are edible will get it in the jimmies.) The Internet is a great place to go mustard hunting, too. The Mustard Museum's a great place to start.

Relish

Pickle relish is perhaps the most American of condiments. Only a country as convenience-obsessed as ours would figure a way to take the pickle, which is shaped fine for a burger but doesn't wrap so well around a weenie, and make it bun-friendly. But we didn't stop there, of course. No, friends, relish can be had in a variety of flavors, and made from a variety of ingredients, that makes Old Man Heinz's 57 flavors seem paltry.

You'll even find relishes under other names in various regions. One of my favorites is chow chow, which I first encountered in south Louisiana. It's a heavily onion-based relish that is capable of a spice kick that will blow your dentures into the neighbor's pool. Of course, the same can be said for most food in south Louisiana, so I wasn't taken totally by surprise.

Did you know that salsa, a south-of-the-border cousin to relish, is the most-used condiment in the United States? It's true! Of course, that no doubt has much to do with the fact that salsa tastes great with tortilla chips, whereas if you sat around squeezing ketchup onto Tostitos someone would eventually haul you away.

I love to crack open a jar of either red or green salsa from TexMexToGo.com and glop it on top of a chili dog, or use it with some good stout hot mustard for a true taste delight. Annie DuBois runs the site, and I've always said you can trust any Mexican food products sold by a French-Canadian. (Actually, Annie's partner Henry Riojas is the genius behind the salsa, but it's funnier my way.)

Slaw

When I moved to North Carolina, I noticed an odd thing: These people put cole slaw on EVERYTHING. My first pulled pork sandwich arrived drowned under a mound of slaw that would have fed a family of three. My first flea market hot dog was slid through the stand window adorned with festive streamers of slaw. I was pleased to see that at least the local Waffle House hadn't seen fit to add slaw to its signature concoction.

Lest you think I'm being critical, I'm not. The slaw is good stuff, and this is from a man who's tossed more sides of slaw in the trash than you could count. The tang of slaw dressing (recipes for which are guarded more closely than the one for Coke) just meshes well with pork barbecue. I'll confess that I still prefer other things on my hot dogs, but I'll not down those who like a bit of multicolored vegetation on theirs.

And stop snickering, New York. You put slaw on your dogs, too. You just call it sauerkraut. It's monochromatic, but the process by which it's made is very much the same.

Ketchup

Love it or hate it, ketchup does deserve inclusion as one of the classic American hot dog toppings. So, I'm including it.

There, now that that's done with, let me tell you about a new sauce discovery that may well have you tossing your ketchup, along with your storebought barbecue and dipping sauces, into the Dumpster.

I first encountered Old Mule sauce while hanging out with the Drunken Parrotheads at the Blue Ridge Barbecue Festival. The Parrotheads used it on their competition barbecued chicken, and I was hooked from my first taste. But to call Old Mule a mere barbecue sauce is to do it a grave injustice. This stuff has a sweet-and-spicy flavor that will wake up any meat from venison to veal, and makes a fantastic dipping sauce for wings, crudites or anything deep-fried.

One of the secrets is that there are no thickeners whatsoever added to Old Mule. It is cooked slowly and reduced, just like any fine sauce, until the proper consistency is reached. That gives a depth and complexity to the flavor that will have you finding new notes in it with every use.

I've made the Mule Dip, a version of the classic seven-layer dip recipe, and watched an 11-by-13-inch pan be emptied with alacrity.

One thing that impresses me mightily is that all the owners make is Old Mule. There are no Old Mule dessert sauces, no Old Mule Light, nothing but their original creation in all its saucy glory.

So, why are you still reading this? Go buy some, why dontcha?

Got a comment? A question? A topic you'd like to see covered? Drop me a line, anytime!