It’s hard to drive by a town like Chicago and not stop by for at least a peek.  I could spend hours telling you about the really big buildings (apparently they’re quite famo(u)s), or about some President guy who was born there, or how windy it is; but frankly, I was only there for about an hour, so I’ll pick and choose my subject.  And I choose dawgs.

One of the great things about Chicago is its hotdogs. I love hotdogs. Chicago does them amazingly. The dog is steamed, placed in a poppyseed bun, and topped with mustard, a really green sweet relish, chopped onions, diced tomato, peppers, and a pickle spear. Garnish with celery salt. Bite. Savo(u)r. Chew slowly. Swallow when ready. Cry when dog is finished.

The place we went to is called Superdawg. It’s a drive-in hot dog stand opened in the 1940s, and their recipe hasn’t changed since then. Why should it?

A clearly uptight woman sporting the kind of jogging clothes one wears when one is not doing any jogging was vocally annoyed by the experience.  “It’s only a hot dog stand”, she said to her hapless companion while reading all of the accolades pinned to the waiting area wall.  Only a hot dog stand?  For shame, woman! They don’t call it Super for nothing.