THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, May 12, 1996 TAG: 9605080042
SECTION: REAL LIFE PAGE: K1 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: REAL SLICES
SOURCE: BY EARL SWIFT, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: Long : 115 lines
THE RUSH has started, as it does just before noon on any balmy day.
Five people stand in line on the sidewalk outside the entrance to the Wards Corner Mall. ``A hot dog with mustard and ketchup, please,'' chirps the first, a woman in an oversized T-shirt and tights. ``And chili.''
Cherie Stumpf whips a square of foil from a dispenser to her left, snatches a hot bun from a locker to her right, plucks a steaming Sabrett hot dog from a heated tub in between.
She squirts a squiggle of ketchup and mustard onto the dog, adds a dollop of chili. Fifteen seconds.
Two painters step forward, their cream trousers and shoes splattered with color. Two hot dogs, ketchup, very little relish. Twenty-two seconds.
An older woman in a flowered blouse. ``Two hot dogs - one with mustard and chili, and one with everything but sauerkraut.'' Cherie's hands are a blur.
Four days a week, every week, Cherie hauls a blocky metal portable kitchen to this busy stretch of curb, raises a big, blue-and-yellow umbrella overhead, fires up a propane cooker and fills the air with the aroma of hot dogs, chili and 'kraut.
She sweats out the summer bent over her trailer's steaming pots. She bundles up in colder months, when those pots are a meager source of heat. Throughout the year, she serves not only shoppers, but a loyal clientele drawn to her kitchen to chat, as well as eat.
Noon, a Friday. Stumpf is hustling to keep up as Barbara Luzzi and Sabrina Drabic pull up a few feet away in a Ford station wagon.
The women are fellow fixtures on the sidewalk outside the mall entrance. Clad in conservative, almost martial black uniforms and no-nonsense shoes, they unpack a folding wooden table, a small electronic keyboard and two instrument cases. ``Hello, Cherie,'' Sabrina says. ``How are you?''
``Doing great,'' Cherie waves back with the hot dog tongs, midway through construction. ``How are you?''
``I'm very well, thank you.''
Barbara and Sabrina set up their equipment a few feet away. Then the ladies of Norfolk's Grace and Hope Mission play a hymn on organ and trumpet.
A wiry man strolls up, glances at the missionaries. ``Hello,'' Sabrina says over the music, ``how are you?''
``I'm doin' fine,'' he says, headed for Cherie, ``and I'm gonna be doin' even better in a minute.'' He reaches the cart. ``Three hot dogs, everything on 'em.''
Someone shouts from across the parking lot. The man nods, turns back to Cherie. ``Make that four.''
``You got it.''
Barbara and Sabrina play ``Amazing Grace'' on two trumpets, then sing it as another customer approaches the kitchen. ``Two hot dogs, mustard, onion, relish.''
``How you doing?'' Cherie asks.
``Oh, I'm here,'' the man says.
Two women stop by with a little girl. The toddler, who's pushing a doll in a tiny stroller, stands by quietly while the adults order lunch, but throws a fit as the trio heads for a nearby car. Wailing, she throws herself onto the pavement and kicks her feet.
``Now, what is this all about?'' one of the women says.
The girl just screams. Barbara and Sabrina keep singing. The woman turns to them. ``Thank you for your song,'' she says, ``because it's keeping me in a good mood. It's giving me inspiration.''
Cherie became the Hot Dog Lady seven years ago. She'd been working in a now-closed surf shop in this mall - in fact, just 10 feet away from where her cart's now parked - and found herself envying a man who then sold hot dogs outside.
``He was leaving every day by 3, and I was working 'til 9. He got to enjoy the sunshine all day,'' she says. ``And I thought: `Man, I wouldn't mind doing that.' ''
So when the fellow retired, Cherie began sharing the location with another vendor. She has it Wednesday through Saturday. Her husband, Bob, runs a second cart at special events.
Their carts are studies in efficiency. Unhitched from her truck, Cherie's stands about 5 feet high, and incorporates an insulated soda cooler, a heated hot dog tub, a bun warmer, and heated bins for chili and sauerkraut. Another tub stores her utensils, and a two-tiered cabinet at the rear of her work surface holds extra buns, foil, wipes, napkins.
Its umbrella, emblazoned with the name of New Jersey's Sabrett hot dogs, notes they're ``The Ultimate'' and ``U.S. Gov't Inspected.''
They're also inexpensive and tasty. She sells, on an average day, about 100 of them, many more than that on Saturdays.
Even so, if this were her family's sole source of income - Cherie's the mother of three - life would be uncomfortable. ``I guess you could make a living at it, but it would depend on how good you wanted to live.
``The winters make it hard,'' she says. ``If it was always like this, I could do this until I'm 65, no problem.
``But I missed more days this year than I have since I started. I don't come out here if there's ice or snow on the ground.''
What it lacks in income, it offers in conviviality. The same faces happen by every day, and Cherie commands the sidewalk with an easy familiarity.
``People go to the bank. A lot of people go around the corner to the bookstore to buy lottery tickets. And there are a lot of senior citizens who live in the buildings around here,'' she says. ``It makes it nice.''
A Revco clerk strolls up. ``Hi, Laurie,'' Cherie smiles. ``How ya doing?''
``Fine, fine,'' Laurie nods.
A young, bearded man follows her.
``Tea?'' Cherie asks.
He nods.
She reaches into the cooler, snares an iced tea, passes it to him. He drops change into her hand.
``Thanks,'' she says.
He grunts and walks off. ILLUSTRATION: Color photo
EARL SWIFT
Cherie Stumpf's hands are a blur at her portable kitchen, stationed
outside the entrance to Wards Corner Mall in Norfolk.
by CNB