Russ Choka created what we all yearn for – a place of community

On Friday, Russ Choka was laid to his rest, a much-deserved one. The gray skies reflected the somber mood at the morning vigil outside his restaurant, later at his funeral in the cathedral and finally at his grave in the Catholic cemetery.

So what was it then? Homage to Mr. Choka or simply that old familiar craving for a coney dog that drove us downtown three nights before Christmas? I don't know, but whatever it was when we pulled into the last space in the darkened parking lot, it was evident we were not alone. The place was jam-packed!

We stumbled through the back door, down the steps, through the kitchen, past the stove with the huge pots and the counter with tubs of dirty dishes into the restaurant, where we joined half of Fort Wayne. There was no room at this inn. We latecomers huddled together at the front and rear entrances of the old-timey establishment, eyeing the crowded tables, wondering “how long,” eager for our chance at the trough.

I'm telling you, that blazing Santa Claus sign was the slickest promotion Choka ever devised, shooting his revenue through the roof every December.

There were big-bellied Steelers fans chomping down dogs. Small shepherds and wise men with their worn-out parents chomping down dogs. Hot-shot high-schoolers in letter jackets with their girlfriends, businessmen, a woman in a fur coat, the ragged, the rich, the young and the old, all chomping down dogs. Why, it was “weinermania”! A fat baby in a high chair with a hot dog in one hand and pacifier in the other. An 89-year-old Leo Lion retelling the tale of his 1940 championship season when the whole team celebrated at this very establishment.

Knowledge handed down from one generation to the next is a beautiful thing to behold, and I watched as a doting grandfather hoisted his little angel onto a barstool at the counter. It took the child three seconds flat to discover the mystery of the motion of the swiveling stool, as she looked up in gratitude at her grandpa.

It had now been almost 10 hours since the vigil, and still the exhausted staff displayed a professionalism that would put the high-class joints in town to shame. In their soiled aprons and sweaty T-shirts proclaiming “Our buns are steamed,” I observed as they smiled patiently doing their best to satisfy all comers, sorting out Rubik's-cube orders — “Twenty- one coneys, nine with mustard, four without, five no onion.”

Thank heavens, a righteous man in a dark suit and tie, obviously straight from the church, was helping out, acting as maitre'd and busboy, alternately wiping tables and his brow.

Soon it was our turn to be seated, and in just an instant, like magic, our chili and coney dogs were placed before us. Gloria in the highest! Those dogs are the world's best!

Confirmed by the neon “World Famous Coney” sign blinking back in the window, I surveyed the scene. Only Norman Rockwell could have captured the magnitude of the neighborliness — friends sharing tall tales, strangers invited to pull up a chair, the laughter, the hugs, the “Merry Christmases”…

It was then I spotted her looking down on all of us — Mary with her baby, on a memorial blanket hung on a wall at the far end. Now my husband thinks I'm goofy, tearing up at the most inappropriate times, but honestly, that did it — that and the knowledge that Choka had chopped 50 pounds of onions seven days a week for more than 50 years!

And in that instant I knew why the place was packed, why business was booming, why the children would bring their children. The recipe was simple. With a humble hotdog, a spoonful of sauce and a fresh bun, Russ Choka had created what we all yearn for: a place of community.