The most iconic baseball food is the hot dog. Double down on that in Chicago where there is literally a style of hot dog known to the city. The hot dog is the captain of the stadiums, the fields, the sports casual moments here in Chicago, and honestly across the nation. But if you frequent Wrigley Field, any good Chicagoan knows to grab a hot dog preentry. Not to save money. Not to save time to watch the game. But to get a decent dog, dressed to the nines as any good Chicago dog must be. Wrigley’s hot dogs are iconically bad for being in a landmark field, with a landmark team, in the middle of a city known for good wieners.
When I go to games, I opt for an Al’s pit stop because it is hands down the best hot dog in town. Second place is Wrigleyville Dogs. I know it isn’t cool to love Al’s. It’s not trendy or chefy. It doesn’t have inventive combos. It is classic options and classic toppings and they never do you wrong by skimping on the sport peppers.
The last time I had a hot dog at Wrigley, which was a decade ago because fool me once, the bun was stale, the hotdog was floppy and cold, and the condiments were lacking. A hot dog is a hot dog. It's tubular mystery meat no matter what the package says. Filled with cancer, fat, salt and probably ear lobes for all we know. But it is universally tasty in its awfulness. The bun and toppings are the crucial point. I want that barely bread squish of the poppy seed bun, where it is not quite soggy from the steam, but teetering on too soft and made of more preservatives and fillers than wheat. The self-service toppings at Wrigley are the biggest point of concern for me. There’s something very off-putting about communal relish. I need the tomato slice even though it's the worst part. I need the big spear of dill pickle and the relish and the onion and the celery salt and the mustard and the sport peppers or else you lose the entire experience. And that right there is it, the experience. Baseball is not a day of baseball and beer and wearing all the logos at once if you can’t do it completely.
Yes, we want the money to go to the players, because yes, we want another series win. But I promise if word gets out that you can not only go to the game but get the best wiener in town there too, no matter how far marked up or how bad the team is doing that given season, that dog will sell. I might even eat two since baseball is a long haul game and those empty calories can be multiplied after drinking enough Nutrl.
I should leave the game covered gleefully in mustard stains, and I should have the smell of processed bits and pieces and onion and garlic and gluteny buns wafting excessively from my pores, I should know that lodged deep in my gut like an anchored ship amongst a rough sea of turbulent swill is one of the best hot dogs I’ve ever had while watching the best game ever invented for a Friday afternoon. Long live the lazy man's sport. And long live the field-eaten weiner.
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