When I became a Chicagoan, I put away some New York things, but I will never, ever put pickle spears or celery salt or violent green relish on my hot dog. I don’t care if it is the local religion. You eat your hot dog your way, I’ll eat mine my way (with mustard and sauerkraut).
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On the other hand, I recently ate a hot dog made from a rattlesnake. I predict that eating at Hot Doug’s–the self-proclaimed “sausage superstore” that served me the snakedog–will help tear down the hot dog walls that divide us as a nation. Bangers, brats, frankfurters, Andouille, redhots, Thuringers–they’re all just sausages–or “encased meats,” as he insists on calling them–to Doug Sohn. Spreading hot dog liberty rather than encouraging tyranny seems to be his calling.
Having inadvertently left his frankfurter following out in the cold last year due to a fire, Sohn, a 43-year-old Kendall College Culinary Arts grad, has been back in business since Jan. 4. During a recent lunch hour, however, some of his fans were still pretty chilly: The line to order–mostly men, several of whom looked like they’d wandered across the street from Midway Games, Inc., makers of Mortal Kombat–stretched out the door and into the snow. And everyone looked happy.
None of us–a table of New York, Boston and Washington, D.C., expats–had visited the original place, but I hear it looked a lot like the new one does: yellow and red walls decorated with Elvis memorabilia, jokey hot dog appurtenances, signed celebrity photos, and a serious sausage menu posted at the entry. In addition to such specials as Game of the Week (this week it was the rattler, but rabbit, kangaroo, and boar have also been available), Hot Doug’s offers about a dozen varieties beyond the typical Vienna beef or Polish dog, often named for celebrities: the Jennifer Garner, a spicy wiener that was once named the Britney Spears but is now named for the “mighty hot” actress with better muscle definition; and the Shawon Dunston (chicken sausage).
We became instant acolytes. Sohn, who looks like Peter Sellers during the Pink Panther years, works the counter himself, alone, using an efficiency system involving index cards cut into quarters. It works. For a man passionately focused on one particular food item, Sohn, we decided, is the antithesis of Seinfeld’s Soup Nazi, and much cooler than the kinds of food meanies who laugh at, say, all barbecue outside of Memphis.
In spite of the huge line, he was wry, gentle, encouraging of our questions about cooking methods, or the assorted gourmet condiments, or the “salad,” as my Washingtonian tablemate Margaret referred to Chicago toppings. And the words “on the side” did not bother him, either, said Margaret, who asked to have her hallowed pickle spear served that way.
“You’re not Burger King,” she told Sohn admiringly, although, actually, I think she meant to say he is. “That’s true. Thank you for that,” he responded.
The rattlesnake dog merely amused us (it came with blue cheese and “sauce mostarde” and had a pronounced smoky flavor but not much else of interest), but our table particularly liked the spicy andouille, Madonna (“mighty, mighty, mighty hot!”); the Paul Kelly, a beer-soaked brat named for the Chicago comic; the Elvis (Polish sausage, which my friend Jessica ordered with mustard and sauerkraut); and the corn dog.
“If we came back, I would just order two of these,” my friend Chris said of the latter, which was indeed the finest example of the oft-maligned, cornbread-covered link I have ever tasted. The cornbread was almost like cake on the inside, with a golden veneer worthy of the finest imitation gold jewelry.. And the same can be said of Hot Doug’s fries, the fresh cut, skin-on kind; on Fridays and Saturdays, they fry them in duck fat. Which means one thing: I’ll be going back on one of those days.
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Hot Doug’s is at 3324 N. California Ave; 773-279-9550. Open 10:30 a.m.-4 p.m. Mondays through Saturdays. Encased meats from $1.50 to $3.50; fries $1.25 to $3.50.