Chicago

A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.

Dear Travel Journal,

Chicago is a muscular city. Skyscrapers, stockyards, meatpacking, railroads, retailing, racketeering. Restaurants.

The restaurants here are murdering me, mouthful by mouthful. If you happen to read my obituary or hear of my untimely demise, tell the authorities to doublecheck the alibis for Billy Goat Tavern, Superdawg, Lou Mitchell’s.

In my body’s never-ending turf war between flesh and food, waistline and willpower, restaurant gangsters are running a citywide criminal conspiracy. The mobsters in chefs’ uniforms profiteer by exploiting my foodaholic addictions. They push calories and carbs, cholesterol and middle-aged circumference.

For breakfast, I drop into Lou Mitchell’s diner for comfort food and steamy coffee in a bottomless cup. Jumbo omelettes, waffles and pancakes, egg dishes in iron skillets. Thick slices of toasted Greek bread, homemade marmalade, hand cut hash browns—and, yes, milk shakes. Before I am even given a menu, my waiter shoves complimentary donut holes and Milk Duds at me.

Abutting the Chicago River, there’s a cavernous maze of double-decker streets. Traditional auto and pedestrian traffic moves back and forth at ground level. Trucks and nonstop traffic operate below ground.

Around noontime, on a subterranean level I find Billy Goat Tavern. Shut off from the sun by the cement street above, it is illuminated with honky-tonk neon signage. Inside, the walls are plastered with tributes to Chicago Tribune journalists—the writers who turned a hamburger dive into a beloved clubhouse for columnists.

Pushing open the door, I step into a legendary Saturday Night Live comedy TV sketch. I order a greasy “cheezborger” on a toasted Kaiser roll. Single patty, double patty, tripe patty or a double-double. No lettuce or tomatoes. Sliced kosher dill pickles. “Cheeps, no fries. Coke, no Pepsi.”

After dark, I head to Superdawg, Chicago’s only surviving drive-in. By night, the 1950s, neon-lit architecture brings to mind the movie American Graffiti.

Two twelve-foot-high hot dogs with human arms and legs soar above the roof line. The hot dog torsos have human faces with bright red lightbulb eyes. The female mascot wears a blue skirt. The male is in leopard-print.

From the comfort of my parked car, I shout my order into an intercom and wait for the carhop to walk out to the parking lot to hang a metal tray laden with food on my car window. My stomach is growling. I fully expect the people in the next car over to ask me to quiet down.

The iconic Chicago Red Hot is “dragged through the garden.” Drop chopped onions, juicy tomato wedges, a kosher pickle spear, a couple of spicy peppers, yellow mustard, bright green relish and a dash of celery salt on top of an all-beef frankfurter wrapped inside a steamed poppy seed bun.

The red hot was popularized during the Great Depression when “a meal in a bun” sold for just a nickel. Today, Chicago has more neighborhood hot dog joints than all McDonald’s, Burger Kings and Wendy’s combined.

My stomach is heavy. Heavy with food. Heavy with agitation from losing control of my appetites. I can feel my arteries hardening.

Chicago is a great city, but I’m questioning if I’m safe here.

Click here for more short stories set in Illinois.