Like Waiting in Line for Hot Doug's

http://www.vipspatel.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/10/inline.jpg

“What you really need to do is go to Hot Doug’s.”

That’s the sentence that was rattling around in my head during the two hours I spent waiting in line to eat a hot dog. Albeit, a very intriguing hot dog; one made with the component parts of high end restaurants and molecular gastropubs. But a hot dog all the same.

A line like this could only happen in Chicago, a city that appreciates its sausages. And no sausage is more popular here than the hot dog. Tiny mom-and-pop hot dog shacks dapple the Chicago streets in much the same way that nameless pizza joints do in New York City.

These aren’t the kinds of soaking-in-hot-water or eternally-rolling-in-the-display-case dogs with which East Coasters are primarily familiar. These are good-quality, grilled-to-order plump Polish sausages served on toasted poppy seed buns and weighed down with a piles of condiments like sport peppers, chopped onions, diced tomatoes, dill pickle spears and neon green relish (but never ever ketchup). These are the kinds of hot dogs that you would pine for after leaving town.

“Hot Doug’s is different,” my Chicago expatriate friends would tell me. “Trust me. Just go there.”

Five years I spent in Chicago, and only today was I visiting Hot Doug’s, on the eve of its permanent closure after 13 years. Owner Doug Sohn never gave a compelling reason for shutting down his business, one of the city’s most beloved cultural landmarks. His only explanation to the Chicago Tribune was: “It’s just time.”

To celebrate the end, Sohn and local food celebrity Rob Levitt, founder of the Butcher & Larder meatery, created something special: a pork bratwurst larded with truffles and mushrooms, thyme and lemon zest. Sohn took that brat, placed it on a bun and covered it with a fresh herb mustard, crispy chicharrones and a foie gras salt.

This was this hot dog that finally got me there.

When I arrived at the corner of California and Roscoe Street at around 3 pm, the first thing I noticed, before even seeing the large sign bearing the joint’s name, was a line of people snaking out of the shop, around the corner and back to nearly the alleyway behind the building. That’s how I knew I was there.

45 minutes later, the guy standing beside me leaned over and questioned whether the line had ever actually moved. It had. But only feet. After the better part of an hour, we’d progressed approximately one body length and were now standing next to the business’ back yard, where a pair of statuary pigs–their bodies segmented with dotted lines into cuts of pork like a meat chart–grazed behind a wrought iron fence.

I knew why I was waiting in this interminable line, but I could not for the life of me fathom why my neighbor was. Living the lifestyle of a freelance writer, unshaven in old corduroys and sneakers, I looked like the kind of person who might be able to dedicate a few hours on a weekday to getting some fancypants junk food, but this thirtysomething guy was well-groomed, in dress shoes and pressed jeans, the kind casual wear that probably cost more than my wedding/job interview suit. I was dying to know why he would put himself through this ordeal.

Turns out, he’s a city native who bounced around the country for school and work (finance and technology) and has since landed in Boston. He introduced himself as Alix Karlan and told me, “Whenever I’m in Chicago, I like to get a hot dog. I saw that he was closing, and I didn’t have anything pressing.” He stated it nonchalantly, as though anyone might understand why a successful businessperson with a bus schedule would be willing to throw away an afternoon for a hot dog.

Nancy Ott–a lifelong Californian who was shivering in a coat and scarf, while her Chicago friends, Mayumi Gassmann and Jacob Doubenmier, stood comfortably in t-shirts–seemed resigned to the wait. “Any place that you would stand in line for an hour or two, and it’s not a sports game, has got to be good,” she mused.

By the time we were inside the main door, the five of us were all chatting like new acquaintances at a cocktail party. As we approached the counter, where Doug Sohn himself stood taking orders, we gazed collectively up at the menu on the wall and excitedly quizzed each other about which of the many varieties of hot dog we would be getting. I opted for the Elvis (a standard Polish Sausage), the Bruno Tattaglia (an Italian sausage) and, of course, the Celebrity Sausage for which I came: the Rob Levitt.

My order was handed to me in a paper bag, but I couldn’t bear the thought of waiting any longer to find out what was up with these hot dogs. Before exchanging heartfelt goodbyes with the people with whom I’d spent the afternoon, I positioned myself over a counter, pulled the Levitt from its paper wrapping and took one big bite.

It was… interesting. I spent the entire walk home reckoning with what I had just tasted. It had none of the gelatinous quality we usually associate with frankfurters. This gave easily between my teeth, like a pâté. And between the mushrooms and the truffles, it was also bursting with umami, but besides that its flavors were subtle. Not muted, but subtle. Enticingly so.

Over the weekend, a friend reminded me that Hot Doug’s closed its doors for good this past Friday. People had apparently camped out overnight in order to get one last hot dog. They ended up closing the line at 6:30 am in order to get everybody fed by evening. The last customers were served at 6:45 pm. Assuming those people got in line just before the cut-off, it means they waited 12 hours to order. That’s some new iPhone-level consumerism right there.

Was it worth it? How good does a piece of food have to taste to justify dedicating one of your finite number of days on this earth to its procurement? While this question might seem obvious, I think it might also be moot.

If I’m being entirely honest, I don’t really remember what those hot dogs tasted like. I can read my notes for details and recall telling myself that they were goddamn good. But their actual taste is a fleeting sense memory. However, I can recall a conversation among a group of people in front of me in line, who were dissecting the plot to Fargo, in intimate detail. I can recall the look of surprised gratitude on Alix’s face when our neighbors offered to hold his place while he went off looking for cash. I remember the welling level of excitement in our group as we made it past the front doors and could finally start studying the menu. My wife–who had waited at home for me to bring back some really excellent, though ultimately forgettable dinner–has none of that.

After reminding me of Hot Doug’s closing, my friend asked, “So, did you g’ever get to go to Hot Dous?”

I was surprisingly satisfied to be able to say that I had.

Health News, health tips, Like Waiting in Line for Hot Doug'sHealth
Like Waiting in Line for Hot Doug's