Chicago, Saturday, April 3, 2010

Woke up to a lazy Saturday morning in Hyde Park, Chicago--enclave of middle class African-Americans and U of Chicago-affiliated white intellectuals, as College Friend Jimmy so succinctly put it.

Et a piece of matzoh (Yay, Passover! Lamb's blood on the lintel!) for breakfast, and then, several hours later, found myself seated inside Hot Doug's, five dog combos arrayed before me, along with diet coke and two large servings of duck fat fries.





I'll spare the details of the line that shivered down the block, enduring what was probably an unseasonably warm Chicago spring day (try again, sun). Suffice it to say, the hour and a half (more?) delay was ample motivation to break Pesach, so we managed to consume a lion's share of the following:

1. Chicago-style Dog: char-grilled and "dragged through the garden" (mustard, onion, the toxic-green relish, a dill pickle spear, tomato, peppers, and celery salt) on a poppy-seed bun
2. The Atomic Bomb: Damn Spicy Pork Sausage with Spicy Mango Mayonnaise and Coolea Cheese
3. Cherry Pork Sausage with Pomegranate Creme Fraiche and Snow White Cheese
4. The Salma Hayek: andouille with brown mustard, onions, and a pickle

And, the one and only:

5. Foie Gras and Sauternes Duck Sausage with Truffle Aioli, Foie Gras Mousse and Fleur de Sel



There are three principal rivalries between New York, my hometown, and Chicago: the early nineties Knicks v Bulls, the foldable, flour-dusted, heat-lamp New York slice versus the deep dish, and the New York dog (debatable, but frequently: mustard, ketchup, sauerkraut, and if you went to public school and ate free lunch, baked beans) and the Chicago-style dog.

While my loyalties are firmly in the NY camp for b-ball and pizza, I think we've got to concede a loss with regards to "encased meat." The Chicago dog is brighter, more complex in both flavor and texture, the sweet relish against the preponderance of salt, the liquid give of fresh tomatoes against the snap of the dog and the crisp pickle, and then the little flourish, that extra "fuck you" of the poppy-seed bun.

The foie dog, though, was a revelation. An illustrative detail: having saved my last bite for the foie dog, I absentmindedly picked up one of the fries (less spectacular than I expected), and ate it. Horrors! I'd been intent on savoring the residue of foie gras and duck sausage! Frantically, I dabbed the parchment paper that had previously held the foie dog for some last specks of liver so I could prolong the taste. That's true love, right there.

I can't be more specific than this, as the foie gras dog must be experienced to be understood. Let it serve that this foie dog should be marked as one apart, a god among dogs, a leader of dogs, a Christ-dog risen again, having rolled back the stone barring the entrance of his tomb, a dog ascending unto Dog...

There's a tiny, lilac-point Siamese kitty purring frantically for my attention, so that's all for the evening.



(The Atomic was the only one I'd pass on should I ever get a chance. There's "spicy to enhance flavor" and then there's "spicy just for pure spite," and I think the mango mayonnaise was the latter.)

(Can you list the 10 Plagues of Egypt?)