Florence Stacy is a legend in these parts, but not by that name. For many friends acquaintances and thousands of customers know her simply as Flo.

Little is known about Flo or the secret hot sauce that transforms an ordinary steamed dog into a Flo dog because that’s the way Flo wants it.

Opened in 1947 as Bob’s by original proprietor Bob Johnson, Flo’s Hot Dogs has served thousands of gourmets, gourmands and hot dog lovers — most of them since September 1959 when Florence Stacy, a former school teacher born in Mercer, Maine, in 1907, purchased the tiny establishment on Route 1 in Cape Neddick and decided to stay open year-round. The rest is hot dog history.

“She never would give an interview,” said Gail Stacy, Flo’s daughter-in-law who, with her husband John, bought the famous stand from Flo 12 years ago. The small red stand is legendary far beyond Cape Neddick, but “Flo herself is the legend,” stated Gail. Nevertheless, very few stories have appeared in print.

“I don’t even want to see you,” Flo said Monday morning, punctuating her statement with a disarming smile. “It’s really hard to give an interview,” said the woman who, if she wanted to, could probably have her picture on bottles of Flo’s hot sauce in supermarkets around the country.

Are Flo’s hot dogs the best in the area? “In the world, why limit it to that?” responded Gail, obviously very proud of the products she serves from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. weekdays except Wednesdays, and 11 a.m. to 5 p.m. on the weekends.

If Flo’s hot dogs are the best, and their reputation certainly precedes them, it is partly because of the special hot sauce, which is almost as famous as the woman who keeps its recipe a closely guarded secret.

Rumors that Heinz once offered to purchase the recipe are false, according to Gail, but attempts to procure the formula have resulted in bribery and laboratory analysis at the University of New Hampshire.

“You want the recipe, buy the place” is the response generally given to anyone who makes a curious inquiry about the secret recipe. “You ain’t going to find one little clue,” said Flo, adding that “nobody knows” where the original recipe came from.

“That’s always been here,” said Flo. Customers often try to guess and “tell us what’s in it, you know. People scrape it off their hot dogs and take it home,” said Flo, who noted that 75-80% of the customers request the sauce, with the most popular combination being hot sauce and mayonnaise.

“They blend together,” said Flo, adding that one condiment, onions, detracts from the unique flavor of the sauce. “I get so mad when they want onions. The onions take away from the flavor of the real hot sauce. We use 50 pounds of onions a week, Spanish onions,” said Flo, most of them in the sauce.

When chopping the onions out back, “I’ve got so I don’t cry, but I think they’ve ruined my eyes,” said Flo, wearing her glasses and ever-present hair net.

“I cry,” admitted Gail, who said people “use every excuse” to try to get the sauce’s recipe, but “it’s all secret. I even put hot sauce on a tuna fish sandwich one day,” said Gail, making a face that indicated she never tried it again.

“We use the best of everything, everything is a good name brand. We don’t skimp on anything,” said Flo, adding that since every batch of hot sauce is “measured right to the T, how can you go wrong?” Flo firmly believes “it would never taste the same,” if produced in large quantities.

Just as fiery as the sauce itself as the woman who made it famous. “She has a reputation of being very outspoken,” said Gail, translating, “she gets ugly quick.” The words ugly and miserable take on new definitions inside Flo’s, meaning something closer to feisty in a funny sort of way.

“When I’m out here” — Flo gestured behind the white counter that separates her, Gail and the hot dogs from the many regulars and continuous stream of new faces — “I’m the boss,”  she said sternly. “I was a very strict teacher” as well, stated Flo, who mused, “I probably went down as one of the ugliest school teachers there ever was.”

Ernie DeCelles, a salesman living in Portsmouth, NH, who visits Flo’s regularly is “one of the best customers and one of the meanest customers to me there ever was,” said Flo. DeCelles, who has been frequenting the establishment for “I guess about 40 years,” knew the original owner Bob Johnson and told Flo, “you’re not even miserable in comparison with him.”

“She’s probably got more friends than anybody in this town,” said DeCelles, who has earned the nickname the Ring Ding King from Flo for his standing dessert order of two Ring Ding chocolate-coated cakes.

When the six red octagonal stools are filled and people are standing against the wall waiting for hot dogs, order and organization are essential to keep the process flowing, and Flo rules with an iron fist.

Once, a hurried customer made the mistake of cutting through a line and making on out-of-order order at the counter. Flo took care of him. “I said, ‘Buddy boy’ I’m not even looking at you — back of the line.'”

“In this place,” she explained, “people take their turns. That door opens in and it opens out.  I’ve told them everything.”

Another time, a young boy told Flo he didn’t want any end buns. “I said, ‘Oh yeah, you’ll get just what I give you.’ From that day on he never mentioned ends to me,” she said.

“Flo has a pretty tough reputation to follow,” said Gail. “When I’m behind there, this is my domain. The customer’s never right in here,” she said, showing that some of Flo’s influence has rubbed off.

“We really get a lot of good people,” said Gail, including, “the same summer people year after year.” The business depends heavily on its regular customers, but those who have been coming since the early days “are slowly dying out,” according to Flo, who said the dogs are now most popular among the 19 to 30.

Customers have come from literally everywhere, as evidenced by a collection of business cards that fills several small boxes and lines a trim board above the counter from 50 states and from Europe. “We are pretty well-known, well established,” Flo said. “And she did it alone,” said Gail, adding, “She really built the business up. She had a really good way with the kids.

“She does most of the behind-the-scenes work now,” Gail said of Flo, who has lived in an apartment adjacent to the hot dog stand since she took over the business. “My bedroom is a storehouse,”  she joked.

Gail lives in a house “right out back” with husband John, a lobsterman and Simplex employee, and their children David, a York High School freshman, and Kim, a junior who is the third generation to serve hot dogs at Flo’s.

“It’s the ideal job for me,” said Gail, though “it doesn’t make enough to support a family.” Last Saturday was “just like the middle of the summer,” said Gail, adding, “weekends are good year round.

For many years, Flo ran the business, which is non-stop during peak hours, all by herself, stopping for meals only if there was a break in the action. “I probably drank more cold soup and cold tea than anyone in this town,” she recalled.

“Hot dogs used to be my favorite,” said Flo, but now “she only eats about one a week,” according to Gail, who said John still eats his share after growing up on them.

Flo’s, as Flo will readily admit, is “a landmark” that is not without folktales. The official record for hot dog consumption at a sitting (with hot sauce, of course) is 17. Well, almost. One Sunday night a husky customer wagered with someone that he could eat 17, half the capacity of the steaming pot. “He bit into that 17th one and he made a beeline off that stool and up into the woods and lost every one of them,” said Flo.

“I did have another guy eat 12 and he did wonderful. He ate them so slow.” Gail serve 13 to one customer last winter and the record for a single order was “50 on a Sunday afternoon,” Flo recalled.

“I’m very lucky,” said Flo, who seldom goes anywhere she is not recognized. “I’m doing pretty good right now, aren’t I?” she asked, reflecting back to when her hot dogs, now 80 cents each, were 15 cents.

“I’m not ashamed of my age or what I’ve done,” she said. “I don’t have white hair and I don’t color it either. I’ve lived these years.”

“They tell me I’ve mellowed,” she said, but “it hurts to be nice sometimes.” After all, as a magnetic button on the old yellow refrigerator proclaims, the area behind the counter will always be “Florence’s kitchen.”

“I’ve lived in a fog for so many years, I just keep right on,” said Flo, whose glasses steam up when she reaches into the steamer for a bun. Sometimes, while talking, she closes her eyes while leaning with her elbow on an oven pad atop the steamer.

Before disappearing from whence she came, behind a rack of potato chip bags that covers the door to her apartment, Flo stated matter-of-factly, “See I gab all the time,” then asked Gail, “why didn’t you shut me up?”