Through the course of presenting our area’s epicurean identity, I consistently find myself arching over our eateries’ finer techniques and ingredients, nuanced sourcing and refined approaches. All worthy material mind you and the essential substance for connoisseurs, but I don’t want to be aristocratic in covering the foodie kingdom. For all our ever-refining options, sometimes, you just have to throw down some good ole fashion junk food—light on the wallet, heavy on the stomach. The key for me here is that it’s quality junk food, and though that might sound like a contradiction, think of it more as a paradox. “Junk” is a genre too, and it’s not all equal. I think you’ll see what I mean. 

Clockwise: Bradenton Donuts, Night Owls, Rippers Roadstand. Photography by Evan Sigmund.

CLOCKWISE: BRADENTON DONUTS, NIGHT OWLS, RIPPERS ROADSTAND. PHOTOGRAPHY BY EVAN SIGMUND.

Rippers Roadstand in Ellenton is a build-out of the four Gio brothers, who also own the Italian restaurant next door. Rustic in presentation, with textured walls and large, stained beams spanning the ceiling, the spot’s a portrayal of the neighborhood-specific ripper culture found in parts of northeast Jersey and New York.

The ripper is a natural hot dog deep-fried (no batter) in oil until the casing bursts or “rips,” but more than that the food is a portable delegate of that area’s edible character as governed by location. Primarily in the suburbs, locals take sides between Rutt’s Hut in Clifton or Libby’s in Newark over who’s the original and best, and in the case of the Gios, whose owners are from Hoboken near the George Washington Bridge, its allegiance lays with Hiram’s Roadstand.

The brothers come from an enterprising background and from youth seemed to have a fateful proclivity for hot dogs. When they were kids, they’d trek over to the Fort Lee local pool, where one day they noticed the ice cream guy making a killing, which set the cogs turning. Their mom got free dogs from a local guy, and a spot called Callahan’s allowed customers free reign to condiments with a purchase. The boys tracked down a pushcart, rounded up a host of dogs and buns, bought a single hot dog from the restaurant and preceded to pack close to 20 containers of condiments to offer customers. Their impromptu food cart blew up the pool that day, selling out and setting the ice cream man on edge. Unfortunately, the budding enterprise was halted by way of a phone call to the health department, but it set the tone for future endeavors. The Gios utilize a “butcher-style” dog with sheepskin casing they source out of Jersey and fry in non-hydrogenated, cholesterol-free oil kept a specific temperature. After the dog rips through frying, they finish it off on the grill and throw it on a toasted bun sourced from a local bakery. There are several iterations on the menu that range from cultural classics–see the “Texas Ripper” covered in spicy chili and made famous at Libby’s–to family originals, such as the “barking pig” that incorporates a German bacon kraut recipe passed down to their mother.

All ripper orders fall in the $2.99 to $3.99 range, and it’s no bite-size dog either. They come saddled with a side of fries made from Idaho rustic potatoes blanched and meticulously fried. For those who tend toward beef, Rippers fresh grounds its patties daily from certified angus and serves them as a bevy of quarter-pounders with fries for $4.99 or less. Both sides of the menu provide satisfaction on a budget.

Betty Ann Eppler spent the greater portion of her professional life working in restaurants, and she’s full of entertaining stories that seem to correlate with nearly every imaginable aspect of the biz, including one about how she met her husband (who’s head chef at The Cottage on the Key) while working at The Stadium in Clearwater. The best part about these anecdotes is its nuggets of practical eatery insights that she mentally catalogued for so long: each story held her reflection that, “if I had a restaurant, I’d do it like this.” A good example is onion rings. She wonders aloud, “Why would you ever give a small portion of onion rings? That drives me crazy! Whenever I ask about it, I’m told it’s because they’re so costly. Really? Onions are that expensive?” She has a point, and consequently, Night Owl’s Eatery in Venice not only serves large portions of onion straws, complete with a trio of homemade remoulade, BBQ and ranch sauce, but gives a free sample basket to all first-time customers.

When you hear Betty Ann’s stories and spend time with her and her daughter Jessica, you begin to understand Night Owl’s pulse. It’s a late-night spot (because Betty Ann hated not having a place to eat when she got off a late shift) that’s open 6pm to 2am or 3am and is full of an off-the-cuff friendliness and informality that makes it easy, familiar and fun. Jessica does her best to remember everyone’s name, and the Epplers serve good ole’American comforts like cheesesteaks, burgers, quesadillas, wings, both fried appetizers and the dessert specialty of fried Oreos and cookie dough, a completely French-fry-covered corn dog as well as epic sandwiches that seem fit for an episode of Man vs. Food.

That last sentence probably nestled the spot under the hangover food label, yet that only tells a part of the story. Night Owl’s makes everything fresh from real ingredients, so get comfortable, order some fried mac ‘n’cheese (the inclusion of which was inspired by a sub-par order at Cheesecake Factory) and enjoy your anti fast-food.

Betty Ann serves straightforward versions of her dishes, but I tell her I’d rather go big and get the full dose of character. She sticks me on the cheesesteak line and tells me I’m going to make my dish Night Owl-style, which denotes that it’s going to be piled high and fried. I throw six ounces of select prime rib on the griddle and let it sizzle before I go to town choppin’. While I’m handling this, she removes a chunk of mozzarella from the refrigerator, slices and batters it along with the mushrooms, onions and green peppers, all of which she throws in the fryer.

The Epplers are big on what they call a “universal bite,” which means the whole dish needs to eat evenly and have the same character beginning to end. That’s where their philosophy of layering comes in, which equally applies to sauces. For my cheesesteak, Betty Ann grabs a bun from Simply Yum Yum Bakery in Englewood, toasts it and has me slather on a layer of her cheese sauce, made from cheddar, sour cream and some Velveeta to take off the grittiness. From here, I give my dish a foundation of meat and set to sorting out my jigsaw puzzle of fried toppings and additional sauce drizzle. The end product looks as if the appetizer menu is impulsively stationed atop my bun. I like it that way. It’s quality indulgence and very Night Owlish.

Peter and Jenny He run a classic donut shop, the one we picture in the stereotypes with an old-time diner aesthetic, tradition, a bunch of locals, quality coffee–they serve a donut-shop-specific brand called Supreme, and donuts, cheap and delicious. Though they serve regular wheat flour as well, the He’s present a laundry list of donuts made with potato flour, which must be shaped and refrigerated before frying but give a slightly fluffier and more airy texture, and they couple their products with a secret homemade honey glaze that Peter has made for 14 years.

Though proud of all their products, if you ask the Hes for a recommendation, they’ll steer you in the direction of the apple fritter and old-fashion sour cream cake donut. Jenny makes the fritter by hand by finely chopping the apples, adding in the cinnamon and sugar, integrating it in with the potato dough and rolling it out very thin in order to maintain the crispy outer layer and inner juiciness through the frying process. When done, she dips the fritter in Peter’s homemade glaze and sets it out to cool. The finished product comes out looking thinner and more portable than I expected, but it gets glowing reviews from both me and the likes of “best ever” from the out-of-towners sitting nearby.

I’ve always been attracted to the density and texture of cake donuts made without yeast, and I particularly love it when it incorporates a little heavier dairy fat, such as buttermilk or sour cream. The He’s Old-Fashion fits that bill, and they make it by throwing the sour cream into the dough and easing up on the icing at the end, which further compliments the flavor. I’m admittedly biased, but if you’re asking for my “don’t-miss” endorsement on their donut line, this is it.