Day 3 Chicago–The Morning

Day three dawned with a mission–eat at Hot Doug’s.

boys, grab your hot dog blasters

Why, you ask? Because Hot Doug’s serves duck fat fries and world class hot dogs. So much so, in fact, that we spent almost three hours in line at Hot Doug’s waiting to get in. The line snaked all the way around the building.

Now, leading up to that, we had gone to Argo and had tea for breakfast. We figured a light breakfast would be good, because we were going to Hot Doug’s early so we wouldn’t have to wait in as long a line (HA!). Afterwards, we ran the four or so miles to the restaurant to pre-exercise off all of the glorious calories we’d be jamming down our gullets in a very short time. Mistaaaaaaaake. First of all, it was very warm outside. We were all sweating like hogs by the midpoint, and our shirts bore evidence in the form of large wet spots. We passed a McDonalds, so I asked if we could go inside and dry off before we got to Hot Doug’s. In the bathroom of the McDonalds, I took off my shirt (I was totally wearing a cute sports bra underneath) and dried it underneath the hand dryer. Then Jabba the McDonalds Eater came in and gave me this disgusted look. Yeah hi, lady. You can give me all the dirty looks you want, but the reality is that I’m cleaning up after exercising in the McDonalds and you’re EATING in the McDonalds. Who should be more ashamed. Exaaaaaactly. She went to the bathroom, threw me another look, and ran out of the bathroom WITHOUT WASHING HER HANDS. Gross.

We finished the run, took some obnoxious tourist photos along the way,

fy dolla, sailah boi!

and found the aforementioned line had already built. There was an ice cream truck outside, to which I succumbed after about an hour of waiting in the heat. The girl in front of us also got an ice cream cone, but she was like the effing bee whisperer, and would let these wasps hover right next to her hand, sharing her ice cream, and I was trying not to break out in paroxysms of horror. I HATE bees. HATE. How the hell can anyone just let them flit around their hands and faces without doing the crazy-person dance and running away?? I pawned my cherry slush off on Erik, lest bees discover I, too, was holding sweet stickiness.

the very end of the line…little did we know how far we had to go

Here’s the second reason running was a mistake: after waiting for that long, all of us were absolutely tapped out of blood sugar. The cherry slush did almost nothing, and as you know, not eating after any length of serious exertion leads to headaches and slap-happy and then cranky. I felt like ass. I’m sure they did too.

After about a jillion hours of waiting, we finally got in the front door, only to see a sign that said “cash only.” Fuck. Who carries cash?? Not any of us, that’s for damned sure. So Erik sprinted (literally) about a mile to the nearest ATM and then sprinted back barely in time to order. He was clutching a wad of cash and his achilles tendon. Poor little bastard. Running isn’t kind to him.

The men, happily inside at last

So, the order: I had a Chicago style dog, which comes festooned with neon green “sport” peppers, onions, tomatoes, mustard, and a whole spear of pickle laying along the length of the dog. I also had a ribeye sausage with chimuchurri, a big ol’ basket of duck fat fries, and a Doc Brown’s cherry soda. Erik and Chris each got a Selma Hayak (known for being a very, very hot sausage, but is actually a normal-heat andouille), a ribeye sausage, and a basket of fries apiece. Oh, and Erik had a celery soda, which was weird. Celery is a worthless vegetable, and an only marginally-less-worthless soda, but Erik liked it.

My Chicago dog was very, very good. The hot dog itself was the best hot dog I’ve ever had, so I don’t know if it was made out of something other than the typical meat detritus, or if it was just well executed, or if it was because they deep fried it or what. I loved it. And the pickle spear alongside the dog in the bun? C’est awesome.

The ribeye dog was good, but not as spectacular as you’d think.
The chimi was a little less flavorful than I’m used to, and the sausage needed a bit more fat, but overall very good. The boys liked theirs, and I ate much of mine.

The Selma Hayek was not that spicy, but very garlicky and flavorful, much like Selma Hayek herself. I tried a bite, and the guys demolished theirs after Chris promised he wasn’t anthropomorphizing his hot dog and thinking of Selma Hayek.

The fries were good, but honestly? Not what I expected. I thought I’d be just blown away by the duck-ness of them, but they were just good fries. Freshly cut, fairly crispy…I didn’t taste duck, so I dipped them in ketchup. Sue me.

Seconds away from actually vomiting from hunger, this picture was taken (by a Japanese tourist) in a frantic rush to begin eating

We had to take a bus home, since Erik’s tendons were all nonfunctional and broke-ass. Po’ Erik. We grabbed another bubble tea, then headed home to relax for an hour, then get ready for Alinea…and I’m totally going to post the pictures tomorrow. Chris has a fever of 102.5, and it’s taken me 6 hours to write this much, stopping periodically to take his temperature, force him to drink fluids, wander into the kitchen to eat plain chocolate chips because I’m bored and there aren’t any formal meals because he’s so sick…I’m not going to accomplish a 22 course meal in any kind of reasonable time limit until he’s at least not actively being sick.

3 thoughts on “Day 3 Chicago–The Morning”

  1. Dogs make me sick. Every time. I have always maintained that there is no such thing as a "gourmet" hot dog (cuz really, it's still just a nasty hot dog), but you have proven me wrong….I still wouldn't eat one though.

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