Intersection: California and Roscoe
Rating: 5/5
January 10th, 2010:
I am on the 77, headed west on Belmont. There is no easy way to get to Hot Doug’s. I have already logged around 15-20 minutes on the red line and now I’ve moved to the bus. I miss my ’99 Accord; White Lightning.
An extremely attractive woman gets on the bus a few stops from where I got on. This is a usual occurrence. Chicago, like all major metropolitan areas, has attractive women[1]. She searches for a seat. There are empty seats but on the CTA one usually looks for a seat that doesn’t have anyone next to it. Apparently, this girl is tired, because she sits right next to me. I do not miss White Lightning anymore. I immediately turn my attention out the window. I feel like Orpheus at the moment. As soon as I direct any of my gaze toward her general area she will vanish forever or turn into a whirlwind of sand like the bad guy in The Mummy. She is too perfect to be sitting next to me on the CTA.
Eventually, the bus drops me off at the corner of Belmont and California[2]. My trip is still not done. After another few blocks of walking I am finally at my Mecca, Hot Doug’s Sausage Superstore and Encased Meat Emporium. I am not the only one that decided to make this pilgrimage today. The line outside lives up to the legend of Hot Doug’s. This is my first time eating at Hot Doug’s but this will be the second time I’ve stood in the line. I once tried to eat here last May but forgot to bring cash. It was the most heartbreaking food moment in my life[3]. Now, I have returned, with a wallet full of cash, enough warm clothing to bear the line and a mission. I will finally eat here.
15 minutes in line is all it takes for me to realize that I have not brought enough warm clothing to bear the line. I am already feeling the bitter Chicago wind in my core. The Loyola students in front of me brought two hand warmers and have been pressing them against various parts of their body. It is a sight that makes the spread of swine flu make a little more sense.
30 minutes in line and I am full shivers. My gloves aren’t doing shit and my jeans are proving thinner than originally thought. I am near the door though. I am finally standing on the corner of Roscoe and California. This is the first milestone in the line. I can smell meats grilling and, more importantly, I can smell duck fat fries. I’m pretty sure that making people Stand in this cold and smell the warm, salty treats inside is banned by the Geneva Convention but Hot Doug’s apparently has as much regard for that as it did for the Foie Gras Ban.
At around 35 minutes I finally make it into the first doorway, milestone number 2. I am warm and pressed up against the Loyola students with the hand warmer. I can now smell duck fat fries and, the worst torture of all, I can see people eating perfectly cooked hot dogs and eating the beautiful dark golden shoestring beauties that I’ve been craving[4].
At 55 minutes I am in the second doorway, milestone number three. This is a good spot because I can snag a copy of The Onion and try and pass the time reading the faux-news. But I cannot focus on any of the words. I am starving and I am so close. Luckily, it is only another 5 minutes before I am inside the actual restaurant. This is the final milestone of the line. The bright red and yellow color scheme welcome me in it’s open arms. The walls covered in hot dog memorabilia. I am home.
The group in front of me orders and I find myself face to face with Hot Doug Sohn himself. He is a big, bespectacled man, completely devoid of pretention. His smile alone is enough to warm me from the cold wait. I find myself stumbling over my order of a Foie Gras Dog, an order of Duck Fat Fries and a drink. He takes my order, old-school, on a pad. I pay, get my drink and take a seat at the counter, facing the line. The line never gets any shorter or longer. It is always the same length. It moves but people keep adding on to the end.
It is only a few minutes before a tray is placed in front of me containing what may be the best looking lunch I have ever seen. A Sauternes-infused duck sausage covered in truffle mustard, foie gras mousse and sea salt. At one point the epitome of culinary defiance. Next to it, a pile of French fries, fried in the nectar of the gods, pure rendered duck fat.
So far I have taken a train, a bus and walked to wait in a line for over an hour in the cold. So, when this beautiful meal is placed in front of me, I am still skeptical. I am certain that I am going to be let down. I then take a bite of the beautiful, gourmet sausage in front of me. All of the flavors blend perfectly. The duck fat fries taste like normal French fries but their texture is like nothing I have ever eaten before. Crispy on the outside and creamy soft on the inside. I am experiencing a level of decadence that is usually reserved for the likes of Caligula or Nero or some other late empire ruler. It is on a level with bathing the beautiful woman from the bus in caramel and licking it off every inch of her. It is one of the few times in my life where a meal has given me full, strong, powerful erection. This is why people wait in this line for hours in the cold. This is why Doug Sohn can get away with only working 10:30-4, while being closed on Sunday and taking off every discernable holiday. This is why the health inspector didn’t care about Doug’s defiance of the Foie Gras Ban. This is heaven on earth. This is Sparta. This is Hot Doug’s.
I sit for about as long as I waited in line and then waddled out, stuffed to the brim with good food. After a bus trip, a train trip and a little walking, I am back in my dorm and pass out for the most earned food coma ever.
[1] My recent dry spell has left me painfully aware of this.
[2] At one point passing a children’s yoga studio. What will those crazy yuppies think of next?
[3] Third most heartbreaking overall and also winner of most heartbreaking moment not involving a girl.
[4] Again we are in violation of the Geneva Convention.
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