A Farewell to a Milwaukee Legend: Coney Island’s Secret Sauce and Lasting Memories

Coney Island on West National Avenue was more than just a restaurant—it was a piece of Milwaukee’s soul. For decades, it stood as a cherished spot for anyone craving a hot dog slathered in their iconic “secret sauce,” a recipe so unique and addictive that it left an mark on anyone lucky enough to experience it. For me, it was the best Coney Island hot dog I’ve ever eaten, a memory I can still taste as if it were yesterday.

I vividly remember the last time I visited, almost like fate led me there. My friend and I were driving around, and out of nowhere, we spotted the “open” sign glowing in the window. Coney Island wasn’t always open; it had become one of those elusive spots where, if you saw the doors unlocked, you simply had to stop. That day, we rushed in, greeted by the familiar smells and the aroma of the secret sauce. It was everything I remembered—simple, unpretentious, and utterly delicious.

Coney Island had a charm that can only come from places built over decades of dedication. Housed in a 1900s-era brick building, it had all the hallmarks of a classic diner: vinyl-padded booths, Formica counters, and rotating stools where generations of customers sat, waiting eagerly for their food. The open kitchen concept added to the magic—you could watch as the cooks worked, flipping burgers and hot dogs with care, while the secret sauce simmered in the background. The excitement in the air was infectious. Everyone there, from first-timers to lifelong regulars, was united by a love for the food.

The secret sauce, brown and pungent with a flavor unlike anything else, was the star of the show. It drenched every bite, soaking through paper bags and dripping down fingers, leaving a lasting impression on anyone who tried it. Even now, I can close my eyes and almost taste it—a testament to how powerful those flavors and memories were.

Coney Island had its roots in Milwaukee’s Greek immigrant community. Mike Syrrakos and his brothers bought the restaurant in 1949, modifying the sauce recipe they inherited to make it their own. For decades, it was a neighborhood institution, serving hot dogs, burgers, fries, and even pizzas at one point. Its secret sauce became the stuff of legend.

As the years went by, the rise of fast-food chains and changes in the neighborhood took their toll. By the time it closed, Coney Island had been pared down to a shadow of its former self, opening just a few hours each day. Yet, even in its final moments, it remained a place where you could get a meal with the same care and authenticity as it had been since the beginning.

I’ve since heard that Romine’s High Pockets, a sports bar on South 27th Street, purchased the recipe and still uses the same ingredients from the original supplier. While I haven’t made my way there yet, I plan to. Maybe someday I’ll sit down and see if it can recreate that unforgettable flavor.

Coney Island wasn’t just a restaurant; it was a cornerstone of Milwaukee’s culinary history. It was one of those places that felt like home—comforting, warm, and timeless. Though it’s gone now, the memories it created, and that secret sauce, will live on for generations.