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I’ve always lumped Chicago-style hot dogs—the ones with tomatoes and pickles and a pile of vegetables—in with other overrated American regional classics, such as Pittsburgh’s Primanti Brothers sandwich, Philly cheesesteaks, Frito pies (Texas), runzas (Nebraska), fried ravioli (St. Louis), Buffalo’s beef on weck, and (I promise I didn’t lose a pet in the depths of Lake Michigan) deep-dish pizza. But recently, I started to question my dismissive attitude. Maybe it was the constant chirping in my ear from friends and colleagues that the Chicago dog is actually quite good or maybe it was the general softening of dogmatism that’s come with my late 30s, but on a recent trip to the Windy City, I decided to give it a shot. I asked a trusted friend and local food writer for a recommendation, and, y’all, after that single meal (two dogs, naturally), I’m a convert. Not only do I now appreciate the Chicago dog; I’m ready to proclaim, in front of God and the whole internet, that there’s only one wiener worth devouring this summer—and that’s the one born, bred, and vegetally bedecked along the Magnificent Mile.

Previously, I had agreed with the cliched sentiment But it’s a salad on a hot dog! That’s because, under the banner of the CD, I’ve always been served a worrying combination of limp pickles, lifeless relish, and lackluster tomatoes on a poppy-seed-less bun, entirely omitting celery salt (apparently a crucial component!). In short, this was maybe not the best representation of the form. I should also note that the only time I had heretofore experienced Chicago-style hot dogs was outside Chicago: For example, at the Portillo’s in Buena Park, California, I found the chain’s Chicago-style hot dog to be an extreme disappointment—a mushy bun piled with tasteless veg, wet, insipid, and ghastly. I took this poorly executed imitation to heart, but I now know that good Chicago dogs outside the city are a rarity (more on that later).

Plus, the hot dog universe is already so vast and exhilarating. Why mess with a messy iteration when you could have … a good one? Having lived in Los Angeles for seven years, I was tapped into Tijuana danger dogs, Venezuelan hot dogs topped with a pile of potato sticks, and Chilean completos with avocado and salsa. Hell, even time spent in Appalachia endeared me to the deep-cut gas station slaw dogs of West Virginia. So excuse me and everyone else if we’re not jacked about weepy tomatoes on top of a hot dog—have you heard you can get chili and liquid cheese on top of your beef franks??? Kick rocks with your pickle spear, Chi-town!

Jamie Loftus Read More

But like I said, deep down I knew I was probably missing something. A while back, trusted Detroit restaurateur Samy Eid raved to me about a Chicago-style hot dog during a jaunt to the city, citing it as his favorite hot dog. Strong words from somebody raised in the house of Coney Island chili dogs. So I messaged my friend and peer Dennis Lee, a food writer who put together a guide to Chicago’s best hot dogs and authors one of the most entertaining newsletters you’ll ever read (Food Is Stupid).

I straight-up asked Lee, “What’s the place to convert a Chicago-style hot dog skeptic?” His suggestion: the Wiener’s Circle, a Chicago institution famous for its dogs and, perhaps more notably, its crude charm, sass, and insults. Visit the website, and the first words you’ll see are What the f*ck do you want? Well, OK, then.

Lee’s recommendation threw me for a loop. He, the guy whom Bon Appétit had trusted to write the guide to Chicago-style hot dogs, wanted me to go to a touristy restaurant known for roasting its customers? I detest the novelty surrounding “mean” restaurants. Forced insults are gimmicky and almost always portend horrible food; worse, the people hurling the barbs usually aren’t very funny.

But this is not the case at the Wiener’s Circle. The staff is mean and good at it. When I went to pay for my two hot dogs, I pulled out cash—because, frankly, the Wiener’s Circle looks like a place that’s cash only. The woman saw my $20 bill and said, “Honey, we don’t take cash. Get your shit together and get a credit card.” Incredible.

As far as I know, Chicago isn’t known for being a mean city. The Midwest is a pleasant place, but the immediate “What are you, broke, loser?” comment totally disarmed me. Now, quite clear on the tenor of the joint and appropriately braced for attack, I confidently ordered according to Lee’s text message, which read as follows:

I’m a huge fan of Wiener’s Circle for the standard version – but also the charred. It’s like a perfect hot dog. It’s best if you eat it there (there’s stools/counters inside) because if the dog gets wrapped it gets steamed and the bun gets mushy.

The Chicago dogs at the Wiener’s Circle are available both charred and steamed. The woman working the counter, who was now roasting me for being a SkyMiles member, suggested I eat my steamed hot dog while I waited for my charred one because I, and these were her exact words, “don’t look like a DP kind of guy.” Good Lord. But at the Wiener’s Circle, the cycle of abuse always comes full circle, and soon she softened on me. She buttered me up, asked where I was from, then suggested I add griddled onions to the char dog instead of the raw, diced ones.

The grilled onions were a wonderful suggestion, more formally caramelized than they are hastily griddled. They’re sweet and stringy; deep in flavor and precious like diamonds. Lee was also totally right: The charred dog is indeed magnificent, and a fun deviation for Chicagoans who want a more rugged, smoky, and fatty variation on the smooth original.

But the steamed classic is perhaps even more wonderful, certainly purer (if that sort of thing concerns you), and probably my favorite version. Vienna Beef hot dogs, which are the standard here, have a powerful snap when they’re subjected to the gentleness of indirect heat like steam, and I would say, knowing what I do now, that a snappy bite is crucial to a proper Chicago dog. According to my former editor at the Takeout, Chicagoan Marnie Shure, “Luckily, 99 percent of Chicago establishments are using Vienna Beef, which is the difference maker.” Vienna Beef dogs feature natural cases and whole cuts of beef, and the brand has remained iconic for a reason—the company has stayed mostly regional. It’s rare to see this excellent brand of hot dog anywhere but the Midwest.

Ben Seretan Read More

Now, where to start with the vegetables? I think they’re misunderstood by outsiders, including my former benighted self. In the case of both charred and steamed, I actually found myself adoring the stack of piquantly fresh veggies. The pickle spear provides crispy texture and briny kick; the tomatoes, a cool crunch; the neon green relish, a sugary tang; the sport peppers, their singularly sour heat; the white onions, some bite; and the mustard, a sharp, vinegary grip. It all inspires the hot dog, lifts it from the doldrums, and elevates it into something fresh and lovely and sensual. Then there’s the strange nuttiness of poppy seeds clinging to the hot dog bun and the salty, vegetal pop of celery salt, which is equally important. What a bizarre, extensive list of ingredients. But each one, properly sourced or prepared, is completely necessary to the Chicago-dog experience.

Shure gave me the lowdown on why it all works: “There are three pickled elements on a Chicago dog: the relish, the pickle spear, and the sport peppers. Far from being redundant, they establish a sweet-to-savory spectrum (relish being sweetest, sport peppers being most puckery) that ties the whole dog together. To my mind, there’s no way you could bring fresh tomato slices into the mix without the sport peppers there to balance them out.” It’s a lot of different things to get right, which is why so many people outside the city screw it up.

Now, I know that some of you might be worried about structural integrity. The amazing thing is, despite its many components, a genuine Chicago dog keeps itself together beautifully. Instinctually, as if through some divine knowledge bestowed upon me by my creator, I used my middle fingers to hold the tomatoes in place as I took each bite, preventing the ingredients from plopping over. The Chicago dog is far from a mess; it’s actually engineered flawlessly. It’s an ideal hot dog, not just in flavor but in its very physical construction—a perhaps apt feature for a city so rich in architectural marvels.

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It’s rare these days to change your mind about anything, even something as basic and trivial as a hot dog. My newfound fervor for the Chicago dog is far from an earth-shaking paradigm shift, sure, but it’s still nice to know I’m not completely stuck in my own biases and misconceptions. I currently live in chili country—Detroit—and I have to make a confession: I have no desire to eat a dodgy, soggy chili dog ever again. These are not flavors or components that a hot dog needs. A hot dog doesn’t need more meaty, savory things, like beef chili or the sweet umami of ketchup. No: A hot dog, my friends, is born in sin. An obscenity. A tube of mystery too good to be true. What a hot dog needs is to be raised up, to be saved by the virtue of vegetables and sanctified by the piquancy of pickling.

So God bless Chicago for divining this holy balance and treating it with such reverence. If you haven’t experienced it yet, this summer may be the perfect time to make a pilgrimage—for it’s only in the hallowed Second City that all dogs go to heaven.

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