Taste Sensation
Flying into Chicago gave me another opportunity to eat a Chicago-style hot dog, whose virtues I only discovered in the past year or two.
A Chicago-style hot dog sounds, and looks ridiculous: along with the dog, the bun must accommodate a wedge of dill pickle, two tomato wedges, and two or three of those powerful little bullet-shaped green peppers (usually pickled), relish, ketchup, mustard, onion, and celery salt. With all those odd lumps inside, they are difficult to eat neatly, and with all that vegetable matter piled on top, it might seem like the dog would be hard to find.
It isn’t. It’s a warm core of meaty-fatty goodness that can be found by temperature alone. But even if it were hard to find, that would hardly be the point. The Chicago-style hot dog isn’t about the hot dog; it’s really more of a vegetable roll, with the flavor coming from the pickle, and especially from those potent little peppers. The hot dog is there just to reassure your taste buds that you’re getting a dose of protein with all that piquancy, and it works. The whole thing fits together admirably, in flavor if not mechanically.
As a kid, suspicious of anything involving vegetables, I found the very idea of a Chicago-style dog offensive. I ate pickles, but only sharp dill pickles, and would prefer them outside the bun, thank you very much/. Onion and peppers were unwelcome flavors. I especially found the idea of the tomato wedges distasteful, both unwieldy and yucky. And sweet pickle relish, too? Blech! Besides, the only place you could get a Chicago-style was from Vienna Beef shacks, and nobody in his right mind would go with a vegetable-laden dog when a chili dog was available. Or, if you were of a mind to make a mess, drippy-rich Italian beef.
Both of those remain good to this day. But I grew up. After years of chili dogs, I’ve learned that most places don’t do a chili dog very well; they let the chili cook too long, or season it badly, or pour on too much, drowning the dog and guaranteeing drips on my shirt. And I learned to like the other ingredients, although I never thought to add any of them to a hot dog; that was still for a bit of mustard on a plain bun. Maybe a drop of ketchup, if I felt like living on the edge.
But the bus terminal attached to O’Hare doesn’t offer much selection: pizza or hot dog. Put off by the pizzas, baking slowly into rock beneath a heat lamp, I went with two hot dogs while waiting to make my connection. And as it happened, I was on a pepper kick, so I agreed to a few of those little peppers.
They were surprisingly good. It took me a year to return (I visit my parents twice yearly through O’Hare, and sometimes there’s time to stop for a dog, sometimes not), and when I did, I tried one with the works. I’m converted. Against all expectations, I find I really like Chicago-style dogs, with all the works.
Except that sweet relish. Blech!