Hot Dog Report: Wolfy's

 

    Over the years I've driven past Wolfy's, with its distinctive frank-on-a-fork sign, I don't know how many times. Dozens and dozens. While blasting down West Peterson Avenue, the major route between 94 and the North Side — exit Touhy, slide down Lincoln Avenue, left at Peterson. 
    I always cast the sign a wistful glance. But I never stop to eat because it's not lunchtime and I'm not hungry. Only Friday it was lunchtime — about 12:40 — and I was hungry. I'd had an 11 a.m. appointment on Sheridan Road, just south of Belmont. To watch a 109-year-old bake a pie, if you must know. That should be in the paper Wednesday. And while I could have made it home without collapsing at the wheel from hunger, I sensed an opportunity to fulfill a tacit civic responsibility. Hot dogs are part of the culture of Chicago, and a person of my station has an obligation to keep track of the major vendors. Wolfy's has been here since 1965, and while I have a dim memory of having eaten there sometime in the hazy past, it's been decades. I pulled into the parking lot.

     Waiting my turn — there was one guy ahead of me — I scanned the menu for anything out of the ordinary. Not really. Burgers. Italian beef. A rib-eye sandwich. My eye paused on the ice cream, in chocolate, vanilla and strawberry. But no. We were having guests over for dessert — my future daughter-in-law and her parents — and would be eating Graeter's along with fresh-baked brownies.
     I ordered a hot dog, mustard and relish. "Anything to drink?" the counterman said. "No," I replied, and I thought I sensed a trace of disappointment at such a minimal order. Though that could have been just guilt on my part. The customer behind me ordered two Polish. I had contemplated french fries. Before dessert at home, we would be going out to dinner at Kamehachi. Restraint was in order. I also considered a Green River — exotic. But I don't particularly like Green River, and being rare doesn't make something good. So one hot dog: $3.79, plus tax. Ordering one hot dog is so spartan, it's almost a kind of decadence. 

     I stepped aside and waited. The man already waiting was wearing a black t-shirt celebrating the 70th anniversary of Godzilla. A father and his two children sat eating at a table. The place was clean and well-lighted. My order came quickly. "A hot dog," the counterman said, handing over a crisp white bag.
     The hot dog was boiled — that must be why I so seldom stop by Wolfy's, I'm more a char-dog kind of guy. But hot and good, with that glorious Vienna Beef snap to the casing.  The bun was S. Rosen's, poppyseed, fresh. If you're wondering why I didn't order ketchup, despite vigorously defending the right to eat hot dog with ketchup, well, I haven't had an abortion either, but I believe the ability to decide to have one should not be constrained by religious asshats. Hot dog stand workers tend to be over-liberal with condiments — to ward off complaints, I suppose. Look at how much relish is on the frankfurter below. Ordering both mustard and ketchup would risk a drenched dog. As it happened, there were a few unopened packets of Red Gold ketchup on a piece of wax paper from the previous diner, and I opened one and applied a thin line of red to half the dog, for the ketchup experience.  Eating the dog took a minute, maybe. Then I was on my way home.