'No Ketchup' Celebrates Chicago-Style Obsession With Hot Dogs

CHICAGO — Dennis Foley found a cure for writer's block: 60 hot dogs in 50 days.

"I was working on a novel … got through the first chapter and, boom, it was going nowhere. So, I went out for hot dogs," Foley told me.

Over a couple of months, the Beverly lawyer — who also is a former electrician, school teacher and a foodie best known for his masterful book on the best spots to grab a quick lunch, "The Streets and San Man's Guide to Chicago Eats" — powered through a new book, "No Ketchup: Chicago's Top 50 Hot Dogs and the Stories Behind Them."

Foley wrote that his wife upped the benefit amount on his life insurance policy as he embarked on epic quest to find the highest-quality encased meat sandwiches that the city (and collar counties) could muster.

Chicago hot dog scholars have chronicled much of our city's long history and affinity for non-foot-long dogs beginning with Vienna Beef's claim that the world first fell in love with steamed wieners thanks to Austrian-Hungarian immigrants Emil Reichel and Sam Ladany, who first served their families' frankfurter recipe at the 1893 Columbian Exposition.

They'll tell you that a now-defunct joint called Fluky's lays claim to inventing an early version of the Chicago-style dog — a 5-cent "Depression Sandwich," as it was known — considered the forefather of our city's namesake hot dog served on a poppy-seed bun topped with mustard, relish, onions, tomatoes, a pickle spear, sports peppers and celery salt. (The Magnificent Seven, Foley calls them.)

Really, Foley was on the hunt for more than the tastiest artery-clogging dogs. He set out to collect origin tales that inspired so many people to make a living slinging the most Chicago of Chicago delicacies — the Chicago-Style Dog.

"Hot dogs have been blogged about, written about and ranked, but there isn't much out there about the people, these mom-and-pop owners who run the dog stands," Foley said. "I wanted to put the reviews together and have fun with them. But I also wanted to tell Chicago stories about these people. And that's what this book is: Chicago stories."

So for about two months, Foley trekked across Chicagoland hot dog stands ordering one Chicago Dog and a second without relish, "just to break things up," he said. He ate them in his car, where he quietly judged them — a ranking of three to four mustard bottles. (If you prefer a hot dog that doesn't muster up a three-bottle rating, "No Ketchup," isn't for you.)

When a hot dog brought joy to Foley's palate, he walked back in the stand to ask for a sit-down with the stand purveyor.

Foley tells the accident-induced founding story of four-mustard-bottle Fat Tommy's in Mt. Greenwood. Owner Dan Cooley started selling hot dogs from a cart with his buddy Tom Braekey at Kennedy Park because he couldn't go back to work after breaking both thumbs in a Wisconsin skiing accident in his 20s.

It was a trucking strike at the Nabisco plant that inspired John Pawlikowki, the namesake owner of Fat Johnnie's at 72nd and Western, to start hawking dogs from a cart at 69th and Damen in 1968. Pawlikowki went on to shake up the hot dog world with the "Mighty Dog," a David Berg "Thummy" — that's how Foley describes a dog as big as your thumb — dropped inside a tamale covered with chili, cheese and all the Magnificent Seven ingredients.

"This is a meal that can carry you through an eight-hour day. Trust me," Foley writes.

Despite the Chicago-style dog snobbery suggested in the title, Foley says he's not the "ketchup police."

"I don't like ketchup on a hot dog. That's me. But I wondered why Chicagoans are such big sticklers on no ketchup. So, I went to Hot Dog University at Vienna Beef," Foley said.

"Those guys over there say if you put all those seven ingredients on there — the mustard, the onion the relish, the pickle, the tomato, the sport peppers and dust it up with that celery salt — and put ketchup on it, there's too much acidity and overpowering because it's too sweet. There're already tomatoes on there for that type flavor. And that makes sense to me."

If you order a dog with "ketchup and onions," Foley says he's got no beef with you — unless, of course, your favorite hot dog isn't all-beef.

On Page 2, just to let you know where he stands, Foley unapologetically tells the reader, "Above and beyond all else — I'm an all-beef-or-nothing hot dog guy."

"No Ketchup" is a celebration of Chicago hot dogs that doesn't devolve into an argument over which stand is best. The book, like the Chicago-style dog it celebrates, is flavorful and perfectly disorganized, and reads like you're listening to a buddy rant while drinking Budweisers in a garage with alley view.

Foley meanders from his favorite neighborhood haunts to the Michelin-rated Duck Inn and the Korean-Polish fusion joint, Kimski, both located in the Bridgeport neighborhood, rated among Foley's favorite "specialty" dogs.

There's even a few pages dedicated to a playful debate on his favorite hot dog stand mascots, tips for non-hot dog destinations "around the corner" from Foley's favorite stands, and two pages of coupons that'll save you 14 bucks if you're inspired to make your own Chicago hot dog pilgrimage.

Use up all the coupons and "No Ketchup" ($13.95 from McBride & Roche Press) and the book pays for itself.