Like the hamburger, the hot dog has suffered all manner of indignity, from slabs of foie gras to seaweed strips, to — gasp! — ketchup, as Chicago-style devotees will decry in a tone usually reserved for finding a centipede in one’s morning coffee. One-upmanship dominates (and sometimes devastates) hot dogs to the point that the honest-to-goodness American dog is harder and harder to find. Like any good foodstuff, it’s not about what’s on it, but what’s in it. Dogs at the Wienery are as they were meant to be: all-beef Vienna affairs that snap when you bite them. Accompaniments are varied, but not embarrassing: think mayo, cheese, kraut, pickles, and baked beans from a can. You know you’ve come to the right spot when you see a row of vinyl stools, their surfaces sometimes cracked and revealing a tuft of stuffing, and a sticky countertop that sometimes gets wiped down between patrons and sometimes not. Just the right place to eat a juicy hot dog with its dignity intact.