My 3-year-old is best friends with a 70-year-old hot dog vendor. Their friendship taught me the power of unexpected connections.

The author’s son is friends with a hot dog vendor named Billy, who has had a long-standing hot dog cart in their neighborhood. 

New York City has over 23,000 street vendors, including 4,000 hot dog stands, but for my son, there’s only one: Billy’s Hot Cart. What started as a toddler’s fascination with the hot dog man has become a daily visit, reminding me that community exists even in a massive city.

A daily ritual turned into a friendship

Billy met my son Cooper the day we brought him home from the hospital, and his face lit up. My family had been going to his hot dog cart for years, and he had tried (and failed) to win over my daughter, who was iffy on any food other than noodles. But in Cooper, Billy saw a chance.

Before the child even had teeth, Billy called him his “future customer.” Now 3, Cooper dances through life, a vivacious little dude who makes friends everywhere. Billy’s contagious laugh and magnetic personality make them the perfect buddy duo.

Every morning when we walk by, Cooper is met with an enthusiastic, “Look, it’s the little man!” Cooper stops just to tell Billy about his day — swimming lessons, Taekwondo class, whatever is on his toddler mind, from trucks to dinosaurs to his best bud, Levi. Their conversations are both hilarious and heartwarming, given their obvious generational gap. And once Cooper started eating hot dogs? Game on. Billy truly found a lifelong customer.

Billy’s cart often has a line down the block, but Cooper marches right up to the front, an unofficial VIP, and orders for himself and his friends. Billy jokes that Cooper is part owner, and that always makes the other patrons laugh. Cooper once preferred bunless hot dogs, an amusing sight in a stroller tray. These days, he orders them on a bun with ketchup. When Cooper and his friends don’t want hot dogs, Billy refuses to let them go empty-handed, offering chips or lollipops or some other treasure.

Our family holiday card hangs on Billy’s cart along with many others, a testament to long-standing community relationships. He is the unofficial mayor of the neighborhood and has fans from police to doormen to construction workers; even Peloton instructor and fellow Upper West Sider Matty Maggiacomo is a beloved fan.

The author’s son looks forward to seeing Billy the hot dog vendor every day. 

New York City has over 23,000 street vendors, including 4,000 hot dog stands, but for my son, there’s only one: Billy’s Hot Cart. What started as a toddler’s fascination with the hot dog man has become a daily visit, reminding me that community exists even in a massive city.

A daily ritual turned into a friendship

Billy met my son Cooper the day we brought him home from the hospital, and his face lit up. My family had been going to his hot dog cart for years, and he had tried (and failed) to win over my daughter, who was iffy on any food other than noodles. But in Cooper, Billy saw a chance.

Before the child even had teeth, Billy called him his “future customer.” Now 3, Cooper dances through life, a vivacious little dude who makes friends everywhere. Billy’s contagious laugh and magnetic personality make them the perfect buddy duo.

Every morning when we walk by, Cooper is met with an enthusiastic, “Look, it’s the little man!” Cooper stops just to tell Billy about his day — swimming lessons, Taekwondo class, whatever is on his toddler mind, from trucks to dinosaurs to his best bud, Levi. Their conversations are both hilarious and heartwarming, given their obvious generational gap. And once Cooper started eating hot dogs? Game on. Billy truly found a lifelong customer.

Billy’s cart often has a line down the block, but Cooper marches right up to the front, an unofficial VIP, and orders for himself and his friends. Billy jokes that Cooper is part owner, and that always makes the other patrons laugh. Cooper once preferred bunless hot dogs, an amusing sight in a stroller tray. These days, he orders them on a bun with ketchup. When Cooper and his friends don’t want hot dogs, Billy refuses to let them go empty-handed, offering chips or lollipops or some other treasure.

Our family holiday card hangs on Billy’s cart along with many others, a testament to long-standing community relationships. He is the unofficial mayor of the neighborhood and has fans from police to doormen to construction workers; even Peloton instructor and fellow Upper West Sider Matty Maggiacomo is a beloved fan.