In which Crispy Beak and Hot-C, his intrepid partner in hot doggery, attempt to shed some light on the more dimly lit but extremely worthy hot dog joints the city has to offer, the out-of-the-way gems, the unexplored and unheralded single establishments, the garishly confident and sublime purveyors of encased meats that serve up a great Chicago dog. From single-room clapboard shacks to modest sto
refronts and paint-peeling glorified sheds and even decked-out street carts with potato chip trees, these are the bread and butter – (make that the mustard and celery salt) of our quest. They are too well-covered, and better left to the safety nets that yuppie reporters are drawn to. If you ever chanced the communal onion machine at Wrigley, or poured from a crusted bottle of mayonnaise at an
Elotes cart, you understand.
