She Wrote, He Wrote

So, I was dragged (somewhat reluctantly) to the U Lucky Dawg hot dog stand on the 4th of July with Greg, his Uncle Ron and cousin Mandy.

I say “dragged” because, as American as it might be, getting hot dogs on the 4th of July isn’t my idea of perfection. I would have much preferred to take a picnic basket to the lake to watch fireworks. (We did go to the lake that night to watch fireworks, but by then all we had with us was some bottles of water, a king-sized bag of almond M&Ms and several moderate cases of indigestion.)

What I would have liked to take with us in a picnic basket had we not gone to U Lucky Dawg:

* A wedge of Humbolt Fog
* Crackers
* Olives
* Possibly some aged salami
* Marcona almonds in olive oil & sea salt
* Loaf of crusty French bread
* Strawberries
* Chocolate
* A bottle or two of Rosé

In place of the above, I sat outside at a picnic table on a fairly noisy stretch of Western and ate a charred chili-cheese hot dog.

Now, I may sound snobby with my bourgeois picnic basket up there, but I ate that hot dog as though I’d been waiting for it all day. I hadn’t had a hot dog in a long time, since I only have one maybe every couple of years, and I can’t actually remember the last time I had one before this chili cheese dog. But suddenly there we were in line in front of the counter, all of us gazing up at the menu board, and Greg and Ron were set on ordering the famous Chicago-style dog, which I’m sure Greg will explain the components of in his post. I had already decided against ordering it, and was trying to decide on what exactly I would order, when I flashed on a childhood memory.

When I was a kid growing up in Sandy Springs, a suburb of Atlanta, my Dad used to take me to a hot dog place called G.D. Ritzy’s, which has since all but disappeared (although a comeback is rumored), and we always ordered the chili-cheese dog with shoestring fries and chocolate milkshakes. And it was like this thing that my Dad and I did together — one of those things that becomes forever encompassed by a little bubble of nostalgia, making it so that every time you are ever forced to order a hot dog you always go for the chili-cheese, no matter that you are 30 years old and no longer eat hot dogs and it’s the 4th of July and you just hosted a vegetarian yoga brunch on your deck.

And so I ate the chili-cheese hot dog and it was just okay, all dripping with that processed nacho cheese sauce and swimming in some kind of bland chili. In fact, I ate it so fast that Greg was still reveling in his Chicago-style dog when I was done, so I asked for a bite and immediately realized that I’d fallen into a terrible nacho cheese-flavored trap of nostalgia and should’ve just listened to my fiance when he suggested I get the Chicago-style. And then I think it was Ron who suggested we order another round. Seven minutes later found me still sitting on a picnic bench on a noisy stretch of Western on the 4th of July now splitting a Chicago-style hot dog with Mandy, my stomach already beginning to churn, as it would continue to do so for the next eight or so hours.

All in all, I’m glad we went, if even just for the memory of going to G.D. Ritzy’s with my Dad (and perhaps for the reminder that I shouldn’t eat hot dogs for another few years). Next year we’re doing the 4th bourgeois-picnic-style, and if anyone insists on hot dogs I’ll make some pigs-n-blankets with a nice grainy mustard.

U Lucky Dawg
6821 N Western Ave, Chicago
773.274.3652