Chicagoans call hot dogs red hots. Frankfurter historians believe the red hot as we know it was first configured in 1929 by Abe “Fluky” Drexler at the erstwhile street bazaar on Maxwell Street. The Vienna Beef sausage company had been supplying sausages to vendors since the Columbian Exposition of 1893, but Drexler’s genius was to bun the sausage and top it with so many condiments that it seemed more like a meal than a snack.
On a Chicago red hot, mustard and relish are fundamental. Tomato slices are common, as are pickle spears, which are not shown.
Today, nearly 2000 vendors sell red hots in Chicagoland, and the question of who serves the best is a source of never-ending debate. The curious thing is that most of Chicago’s purveyors use the very same hot dog: Vienna brand all-beef. The differences are in how it is cooked, the variety and quality of the condiments, and the freshness of the bun. The hot dog itself is no slouch: long and fairly slim, dense-textured and with a garlic kick, packed tight in a natural casing. Most places steam it until taut enough that a first bite erupts with savory juices.
Other than New England, where the bun of choice is a split-top affair suitable for grilling crisp, and Tucson, where Mexican bolillo rolls are used to encase Sonoran hot dogs, Chicago boasts the nation’s highest bun consciousness. A Windy City red hot comes nestled in a steamy-soft, gentle-flavored pocket of fleecy bread, preferably one from Rosen’s bakery spangled with poppy seeds across its tan outsides. Although they run contrary to most bread-lovers’ passion for crustiness and character, they are far more than just a handy mitt to hold the meat. Their gentleness is an absolutely necessary soft-flavor environment that abets full appreciation of the spicy red hot and its condiments.
A vocal coterie of fans believe that anything beyond mustard, relish, and hot peppers is overkill . . . and untrue to the soul of a red hot, which is, they contend, Bauhaus-simple. Nevertheless, conventional wisdom asserts that it’s the constellation of condiments that elevate Chicago wieners to a higher plane. Indeed, no franks keep better bun company. Bright yellow mustard and radioactive-green piccalilli are the basics, but nearly every good red hot purveyor offers plenty more, so much more that the now dearly departed Gold Coast Dogs on State Street saw fit to display a technical drawing titled “Anatomy of a Gold Coast Hot Dog,” which precisely diagramed all the vital components: the all-beef dog, the poppy-seeded bun, yellow mustard, green relish, sport peppers, raw onions, two full slices of tomato, a bun-length pickle spear, and a dusting of celery salt. Throughout the city, when you ask for a dog with the works, only the sport peppers are considered optional, and don’t dare ask for ketchup. On a Chicago red hot, it is taboo, as much a heresy as mayo on a pastrami sandwich in New York.