Couriously in Philadelphia mango drinks are outselling papaya, says general manager Orlando Figueroa.

What it is, actually, is the perfect metaphor for Americans' self-deception and ambivalence about food: "Hey, how bad for me can this hot dog be if I wash it down with a hit of tropical elixir?" This epiphany strikes me on 40th Street at the edge of the Penn campus, where I've perched at the bright yellow counter in the latest franchise of the regrouping Papaya King empire. I am chewing over the signature combo, which was also something of a signature at the Nedick's and Orange Julius chains, two other formerly ubiquitous New York traditions. The Papaya King roll is toasted on the grill, giving it a nice warm crunch. The hickory-smoked hot dog, while not exactly "tastier than filet mignon," as the Barnum-esque signs profess, is in the time-honored New York style: It's long, skinny and all beef in an imported natural casing, grilled and sticking out of the bun like a glistening thumb. I've had better: split and dripping, grilled-over-the-campfire Jordan's dogs in Vermont; the pale, succulent German wieners that Walter Rieker cranks out at his butcher shop in Fox Chase. And I've had worse. What's good about the PK dogs (still made by the original North Jersey supplier) is that they aren't overly priced, they're not too greasy, and they're fingerling-size, meaning you can have two and a 16-ounce papaya drink for the same amount of damage -- coronary and financial ($3.99) --as one jumbo ballpark dog. The papaya drink? It's refreshing and apparently commingled with some sort of sugary extender, resulting in a very deinkable, though not precisely identifiable, flavor. (There's also fresh mango, banana and a host of other juices.) It was Greek immigrant Gus Poulos who made the odd pairing click at his fruit stand on 86th Street in Manhattan. The iconic shop still sells 2,000 franks a day. Gradually the Poulos empire extended its reach. Papaya Kings were all over the place -- in Miami, San Francisco, Baltimore and, until the late 1950's, on 69th Street in Upper Darby. But the chain got unwiedly, and the family let the leases lapse, maintaining only the original New York mother ship. There were copycats: Papaya Queens and Papaya Princes, says Horan, 34. "But we brought suits. Now anything with papaya royalty is ours." This is important because Horan has set about restoring Papaya King's luster. "It has magnetic appeal," he says, noting the irresistible papaya-head logo and slogan festooned decor. He is scouting for other locations where "the vibe" is right and the market -- college kids, for instance -- is ripe. (Who else would stand in a 30-person line at 2:45 a.m., just before closing?) On the question of odd combos, the papaya king-elect may himself offer the perfect balance -- a shiny M.B.A. from Yale and a proud shre in an organic farm in Connecticut. The hot dog, so to speak, in an all-natural casting.