Franks for the Memories

Denied at our first attempt to enter Chicago's holiest shrine of encased meats, our plucky pod of pilgrims (including spiritual advisors B.A. and Rev. Jack) finally made it to the Promised Stand yesterday: Hot Doug's. What other hot dog hut requires an entrance with two vestibules because of the constant line out the door? Where else can you order a "Saucisse de Toulouse with Blood Orange Mustard Cream and Fromage Chaume"? New Yorkers even thinking about challenging Chicago's frank supremacy are herewith invited to fuggetaboudit.

Sysm and I split an order of Bacon and Cheddar Elk Sausage and Roasted Apple and Cherry Pork Sausage.

I'm still smiling, and I have both hands on the keyboard, I swear.