hot dog version 5.1

We roamed the streets in a general south easterly direction. After disembarking the el train (packed & clammy like a handful of sardines in oil that had been sitting in the sun all day – and quite as pleasant smelling), our little posse struck out towards the Celebration on the Shore. This year, it boasted of 25+ boats, all personally owned by the richest CEOs and trust fund babies in the city (and surrounding suburban vicinity). The boats would be decorated in the traditional array of Christmas lights, gaudy enough to bring a tear to Clark Griswold’s eye. After the glittering parade passes, a $4M firework display will leap from the pier and into the air, exploding in a frenzy for Your Viewing Pleasure. And predictably there will be food. Lots of food.

My posse consisted of Medtronic Girl and her husband School Boy – famous in their hometown for their ability to voraciously eat their way across foreign cities. Other party members were B and myself – infamous for our mass consumption of processed goods. Together, our posse was on a quest to find a Chicago Hot Dog.

Our soul reason for jumping on an el at 10pm on a Saturday night, on a festival night, on an 85 degree night, was NOT, as we had previously claimed and still verbally expounded on, for the fireworks and gaudy boats. No. it was for the food. Food, glorious food!

Our trek began in high spirits – it was still early enough for a street vendor. But we could not find any. The streets were packed with people, but not a cart in sight. We tried the side streets, searching for one of those falafel/hot dog/funnel cake stores you only find in Chicago (if they exist elsewhere, please, don’t go unless you’re drunk). Unfazed, we headed towards grant park and the amassing crowd.

It has been my experience at these functions that street vendors form in gaggles, creating long lines of hungry humans that disrupt the flow of traffic. Perhaps it was due to the lateness of this event. Perhaps the heat wave was to blame. But when we arrived at our destination, not a whiff of food was to be inhaled.

Dejected, we gathered at a light pole on the bridge that crosses Lake Shore Drive. Boats tooted and people waved. Cheers rose and lights blinked. Coordinated music filtered around us through loudspeakers, headphones and boom boxes. Fireworks filled the air. But with each explosion, my stomach grumbled. With each cheer I bestowed on the gorgeous yet expensive display, I groaned a little inside. And I knew my compatriots were grumbling and groaning along with me.

It was a beautiful show. I have to say, it was mind boggling when the 5000 foot yacht arrived in disco splendor, spouting the beegees, adorned in disco balls and draped with scantily clad men and women in fake afros.

But the greatest of all was missing – the feeling of a stomach full of local fare.

Medtronic Girl’s hunger had been distracted by the fireworks and she couldn’t stop comparing them to her quaint hometown’s meager display each fourth of july. School Boy nodded along with her, but his lip was visibly trembling with frustration and hunger. B? well… I can she was in the same sad boat as me – crabby, tired, hungry and jaded.

Our faith was fading fast. The Chicago food scene had not let me down yet. And still, my optimism was challenged with each heavy step back to the el train and home. But then, a guy accosted me while we waited for a traffic light to change.

Creepy Middle-Aged Gang Banger: “hey, thems my colors! Why you wearin my colors?”

Me: “um, my bandana?”

CMAGB: “yeah! Mah colors!” laughs… mutters something unintelligible…

School Boy: “pink? Your colors are pink?”

CMAGB: “no, mothafucka! Dat!!” and he points to the paisley print on my pink bandana, which is a rough, generic swirl with a few dots strategically placed – nothing I had really taken notice of before.

School Boy: “you mean… your SHAPES?”

CMAGB: laughs… “mothafucka...” laughs more, “yeah!! Mah colors!! She’s wearin mah colors! What you lookin for? Trouble? In my hood, you get CUT…” mumbles…

Pause.

Me: “well, we’re actually looking for hot dogs.”

CMAGB: “mothafucka, they right THERE! Sheeeit… dumb asses”

We look to where he’s pointing. It’s a booth in Millenium Park. It’s one of those permanent stands, a titch overpriced b/c of the nearby tourist trap… but it was open.

Me: “huh… thanks”

CMAGB: “you gonna help a brotha out? I need a light. You got a light?” he shows us his “cigarette”.

School Boy: “no… we don’t smoke. Sorry. But thanks for the recommendation!”

CMAGB: “yeah… hell, mothafucka!...” laughs… mutters…. Turns around and accosts the people behind us.

The light changes, and we stay put. People push past us and kick our ankles. But in our sights, what we behold in our shining eyes is a hot dog stand. As if our souls had been sucked away to the great unknown, we shuffled forward and paid homage.

It is said that a true Chicago dog is as follows:

1 poppy seed bun
1 Hebrew National or Vienna Beef hot dog
Tomatoes (sliced in half moons)
Diced white onions
Sweet relish
Hot peppers
1 pickle spear
Mustard (NO KETCHUP)
Celery Salt

It is also said that a true Chicago dog lover is in heaven after shelling out $3 for one of these glorious creations to a street vendor.

Our posse licked our fingers clean, disposed of the napkins and tinfoil and sauntered back to the sardine can el train, a little fatter, a little wiser, and a little happier. Mission accomplished.