The Piper-Heidsieck Champagne Garden is tucked into the fountains area of Hard Rock Stadium, squeezed between Turns 3 and 4 and the long stretch between Turns 8 and 9. It’s pretty. There are couches. There is champagne, if you want it.
And there is, if you know where to look, a stand run by Chèvre — Miami’s self-described World’s Finest Cheese House — operating under its in-house caviar brand, Golden Goat Caviar, which has decided — correctly — that the Miami Grand Prix is an ideal place to sell a $100 hot dog.
The hot dog is called the Golden Glizzy and has been generating buzz at the track all week. So, someone at The Athletic had to try it.
It’s an Australian Wagyu hot dog on a Ficelle Bakery croissant bun, topped with crème fraîche, mascarpone, 30 grams of Classic Ossetra, which is sturgeon roe, chives and 24-karat edible gold flakes. There is also a sandwich called the Gold-Digger, a Wagyu beef bresaola with black Périgord truffle mayo, Golden Goat Caviar, onion confit, crispy onion, more edible gold, on mezzo doppio bread.
I knew what about half those words meant. Both are $100 individually, but you can get both in the Grand Prix Combo for $210 total.
Last week, for the record, I went to a Texas Rangers game on ‘dollar hot dog night.’ Two hot dogs, a beer, and a water ran me $36. I remember telling my wife I couldn’t believe we’d spent that much on water.
Now, here I am.
The Champagne Garden, where one can procure expensive hot dogs and dance during the Miami Grand Prix. (Patrick Iversen / The Athletic)
My colleague and I arrived at the track at 9:30 a.m., before gates had even opened, because that’s what this job requires. It was already 90 degrees and humid. We found the Caviarnita (yes, it’s styled after a Miami ventanita — small window — and, yes, that is what it’s called at the track). And it was closed. I was not particularly disappointed. I have many feelings about caviar wagyu hot dogs for breakfast, and none of them involve hunger.
We returned after the sprint race, by which time it was around 2:30 p.m. With some fear, I realized this hot dog, in a stifling 95 degrees, would be my lunch. These were not the conditions I would have chosen to consume hot dogs.
The Champagne Garden and the fan zone around it had, at least, transformed. In the morning, it was an empty tent surrounded by empty walkways and tables. By afternoon, the fountains area and promenade were jam-packed with people seeking shade and checking out every booth and area. Some were even dancing — the DJ’s volume made the passing cars barely audible — and I understood why hardcore fans grumble about whether F1 is still about the racing.
While the rest of the fan zone (merch tents, food stalls, shaded tables right next to the track) felt accessible and alive in the way Austin does, the Champagne Garden felt like a separate world that had briefly touched down near a race circuit.
As we waited to order, the soundscape pelted me with Dead or Alive’s “You Spin Me Round (Like a Record).” I stood there, considering the choices I had made that had led me to this point. I unearthed no good answer.
So loud was the DJ’s set that the ordering process tested the vocal cords. Speaking at a normal volume felt optimistic. The young man who eventually emerged through a door behind the counter carrying our food announced our order three times. I didn’t hear him. Understandably, he looked absolutely miserable.
The $100 hot dog in all its glory. (Patrick Iversen / The Athletic)
Eventually, we received our hot dogs and retreated to a couch. A small crowd had gathered behind my colleague as he filmed with his phone. Mid-bite, they started gesticulating — raising eyebrows, giving a questioning thumbs-up.
Well? Is it good? I gestured back, helplessly. I had $100 worth of wagyu and one of the most expensive types of caviar in my mouth, and I still didn’t know.
But after some consideration, here’s the verdict: The hot dog is good. Genuinely good.
The wagyu is, and I say this without exaggeration, some of the best beef I’ve eaten. The croissant dough works. The mascarpone, which started cold and strange, eventually melted into something that made sense. The caviar provides a burst of salt at the front of each bite, but the dog itself is the story. The gold flakes? They taste like … nothing but look great and, sprinkled on the caviar, felt very much on the nose.
The Gold-Digger sandwich? The less said about it, the better.
The sandwich is essentially a truffle delivery vehicle – The Périgord truffle mayo runs the whole operation, and everything else on the sandwich is a guest. One bite, and I reached for the water. (Truffle is not my thing, sorry.) The caviar is in there somewhere; you can feel a bit of texture, something that announces itself as fish eggs. But the truffle overwhelms everything, including, briefly, a fleet of GT supercars that roared past just as we started filming my reaction. We waited 30 seconds for them to pass, which felt like ages to my truffle-hating body.
Presentation-wise, both items are interesting. The gold flakes catch the light. People noticed. For the rest of the afternoon, my hands sparkled with the residual evidence.
I did not feel any richer, and my bank account agreed. A few hours later, sitting in the media center, my stomach started making its own editorial comments.
As much as I liked the hot dog, this is the last time I’ll pay $100 for one.
One man walked up as we wrapped up filming and asked where we’d gotten them. I pointed him toward the Champagne Garden, and he set off immediately. I called after him.
“It’s a hundred dollars!”
His eyes went wide. But he didn’t stop.