Memories In Gustation-Hot Doug's (Chicago, IL)

Resplendence

The end of 2013 and beginning of 2014 was marked by some extreme financial stress. The perfect storm of the holidays, car repairs and extreme energy bills that were prolonged by relentless polar vortex left my wife and I in a pretty steep hole. Tired of playing the part of pent up curmudgeons, we agreed that when our tax return came, we'd split what was left after catching up and do whatever the hell we wanted with our respective halves. My wife, being of practical mind and body, decided to revamp our decrepit living room. I on the other hand opted for an all out culinary splurge in the great city of Chicago.

We drove to Chicago in the still frigid middle of March and met up with our friends with whom we made plans to spend our first night in town with. The whole day was an absolute blast. Starting with lunch at Cafe Spiagga and ending with a 4 AM bar who's name has been vaporized from my memory. Now, i'm a quaint little man from Wisconsin and am not used to quite the level of ravaging that was doled out to me by the dank dive I remember walking in to but have no recollection of leaving. The next day, brain exploding and stomach in knots, we cautiously ate some brunch and prepared for what was next.

My wife and I wanted to have one night of romance amidst our cyclone of dining and drinking. We got a nice room in MileNorth hotel in downtown Chicago where we rested up, got dressed and took a cab to Taxim for dinner. Taxim, a romantic but not at all stuffy upscale Greek restaurant, is a bit of a hidden gem. Our initial plan was to go to Taxim, hit a few bars, get a fancy drink at The Violet Hour and wrap our evening up with tacos at Big Star.  What actually happened was a traumatic alchemy involving a combination of a whole roasted sea bass, a bottle of wine, too much ouzo and a body that hadn't fully detoxed from the 4 AM bar. By the time we were done with our meal at Taxim we were in such a state of psychosis that literally our only choice was to go to our hotel room and pass out.

This sets the scene for our meal at Hot Doug's. We woke up in about as bad a state as you can imagine, checked out of our room and grabbed our car. The delightful combo of uninhibited binging and Chicago's insane parking prices left our heads, stomachs and checking accounts in mutual anguish. Frankly, all I wanted to do was put on some music, remain silent and drive home. Suffice to say that "eating a bunch of hotdogs" doesn't exactly live in harmony with the rest of those thoughts, but with rumors that Hot Doug's would soon be announcing their impending closing, we absolutely had to make a stop.

Getting off the freeway and making our way to Hot Doug's felt like a fucking death march. It took almost 45 minutes to make it essentially a half a mile thanks to construction and the thickest and most hostile chunk of traffic I've ever been in. My cynicism started to make me angry with myself. "How could a hotdog place really be this special? Could this even possibly be worth it? What kind of sick human being likes hotdogs as much as I do?" My mind raced with thoughts self-hatred and vows of future temperance. Fortunately for me, my adoration for hotdogs won out,

Pulling up to Hot Doug's when we did must have been the result of some divine inspiration. The hotdog god's awarded us for our determination with a gift of an uncharacteristically short line. The famous line around the block synonymous with Hot Doug's was pruned to a line of maybe five other people. Being rookies to the establishment, my wife and I naively showed up with only credit card in hand. Owner Doug Sohn himself was manning the front and informed us it was cash only. Before we could turn around to leave he told us to order and eat and pay him back "whenever", which was astounding. Popularity aside I can't imagine the profit margins for hotdogs (especially ones as specialized as Hot Doug's) could be that huge; and having never met us before there was no implicit reason to trust that we'd make good on paying him back.

The dogs came out quickly and deliciously. As evidenced in the picture above, we went a little overboard. We ordered a mountain of fries, I had three hotdog's and my usually less voracious wife had two. We both had the indispensable Chicago dog, which I maintain is the greatest combination of flavors humanity has ever created. As far as the specialty dogs go my wife had the Bo Derek sausage made with andouille and given it's name on account of being "very, very hot".  I went with a gin and tonic dog which was blended with juniper berries (interesting tasting but not necessarily delicious) and a Paul Kelly, which I lament to say was better than any bratwurst I've had in Milwaukee.

This isn't about the food I ate though, it's about cutting through the predictable hype that surrounds kitschy food and finding out what was so special about the now-shuttered Hot Doug's. To be honest, it's difficult to pinpoint the amorphous emotion that Sohn's humble establishment brought out for me. Being as forthright as I can be, it wasn't the food. That's not talking shit, I did eat probably the best hotdog of my life within the confines of 3342 N. California; but the best hotdog of my life doesn't necessitate this level of analysis, at least not for me. I think what made Hot Doug's a memorable experience for me was the feeling I got that this restaurant pre-dated kitsch and absolutely owned that fact. It's hard to imagine that Doug Sohn envisioned the kind of fame he had coming his way when he first opened his restaurant, and it didn't seem to phase his ethic at all once it showed up on his doorstep. I only made it through his door once, but my experience filled all of my most optimistic expectations. Familiar but not boring, special but not complicated, accommodating but not in your face. Good food, done right. And like a great television show, Doug made sure to end his vision before it got stale. Hot Doug's closed it's doors on October 3rd, 2014. Sohn simply stated that "it was time to do something else".

It might seem a little silly to eulogize a restaurant, and it might seem arrogant to try and encapsulate what that restaurant meant in my solitary experience; but from what I gleaned from the hour or so I spent in that restaurant, that's exactly what Doug wanted. I enjoyed myself thoroughly, I had good service, and I had an actually memorable hotdog. Simple as that. That platitude I tacked on up there, "good food, done right", is a basic thought that's executed all too rarely. When it is, magic happens, and people wait in lines for hours to experience. Our impatient and entitled generation doesn't wait in lines for kitsch or irony, but it will wait for something special. I'm grateful I got to experience that specialness, even if it was just one time.

Four Hours And Fifteen Minutes In A Different Dimension: My Dinner At Alinea

If you're reading Rough Chop it's for one of two reasons.

Reason One: You're a fellow food geek.  If that's the case, you've seen the taffy apple balloons and the majesty that is hot potato, cold potato.  You've seen the YouTube clips of Chef Achatz deftly constructing desserts for his guests on their table, moving and creating in equal parts rapidity and precision.  If you've been to Alinea then you know the emotions that separate online spectator from actual diner; if you haven't been then you probably are the walking embodiment of anticipation I was a week ago, just waiting for your chance to experience what really goes down at 1723 N. Halsted Street.  Either way you don't need anymore food porn, so I won't be delivering any.

Reason Two: You know me.  If that's the case I've probably already harangued you with details about my experience.  Some of you have lectured me on the "insanity" of investing so much time and money and energy in to a meal.  Some of you have indulged me with relative disinterest as I prattled on about all the twists and turns my epic meal took over the sixteen courses I had the pleasure of experiencing... thank you for your patience. Still others of you relished in the details and geeked out with me about the taffy apple balloons and majesty that is hot potato, cold potato; which are realistically the only two courses we've shared.

It could be a combination of the two reasons.  Either way, you don't need to see another article with a course-by-course assault of pictures laden with superlatives and whimsical praise.  Don't get me wrong, I am packed to the gills with an almost maniacal level of appreciation for everything Grant Achatz does.  The man is worth every accolade, ever Michelin star, every bit of lionization that he's received.  He is a genius who's restaurant gave me, unequivocally, the greatest meal of my life thus far. But I don't want to simply review Alinea from the perspective of a diner, because that wasn't what I was when I was eating there.  Alinea was much more than that.

I want to begin the review portion of this entry with a preface that contains one overarching sentiment that I want to be considered throughout the rest of the post: to each their own.  It feels a little funny to begin discussing a revolutionary and game changing restaurant with what could be considered a trite and played out platitude, but I think it's appropriate.  Alinea may not be for everyone, and I understand that.  It's certainly not my job, as a guy who lives in dual-income household with no kids, to outrightly oblige anyone to spend hundreds of dollars on a meal.  That being said, I do oblige absolutely everyone to consider what's at stake by categorically shunning experiences like this one out.

The solitary shared experience for all Alinea diners. The napkin.

Preface aside, the meaningful part of my review is essentially this: what I experienced at Alinea in a sensory sense was unprecedented up until the moment it happened, on almost every level.   There were so many tastes, smells, textures and ideas that I had never even approximated in my life that by the tenth course I felt literally stoned.  Try as you want to analyze the flavors as they happen, predict the next move by the kitchen or the waitstaff, guess in what capacity the next course will arrive or even come close to what it will taste like; you will run in to failure at an overwhelming capacity over and over again.  Alinea is not about analyzing, it is about experiencing the ride as it happens.  Even if words could do the meal justice (they can't), the ever-evolving nature of the establishment wouldn't allow it to be duplicated, so there is literally almost no point in reflecting my personal experience on to you, because it won't happen for either of us ever again.

Hence my urgent suggestion that you consider what you'd be missing if you never invested in an experience like this.  The willful forfeiture of non-replicable experience feels like a tragedy to me. Simply describing Alinea to another person is like describing a color they've never seen before, it's simply something that must be experienced in order to be understood. Perhaps affording yourself a meal like this seems ludicrous if you reduce the logic down to "it's just food", but that logic is dangerous.  That same train of thought would suggest that Beethoven or Miles Davis are just musicians, not giving any credence to the complexities and genius that set them apart from the pack.  It's that genius and those complexities that forge the enormous chasm between what simply consuming food and what Alinea is.  Again, it's not for me to tell you what you or anyone else should invest your money and time in; but if you are going to give yourself a fair assessment of what "worth it" is, attempt to consider everything that a restaurant like this is.

Owen and the Incredible Taffy Apple Balloon Montage

I leave you with a couple pieces of advice if you do decide to take the plunge and purchase tickets to the best meal of your life.

First: go with people you truly love, who you know will appreciate what's going on.  Of all the pictures I took that night, the one headlining this article is my favorite.  My wife smiling, a glass of chablis in one hand and chopsticks used to pluck gurnard lionfish off of a plank of a barrel that was used to age brandy, and later fish sauce.  One of the funnest parts of the night was watching her and my friends faces as they explored the uncharted frontier of flavor that I myself was enjoying for the first time ever.

Second: Don't overthink it.  Don't linger on anything too long. My specific menu took four hours and fifteen minutes to get through but that time flew by.  The menu is impeccably paced, and part of the fun of everything is letting yourself be surprised every now and then

Third: Don't consider the expense, at all.  Once you click "purchase" just let any financial tension drift away.  The ticket system is implemented to make the actual dining experience completely stress free.  As soon as you get to the door, just let the restaurant go to work.  Money comes and goes, once in a life time experiences are titled as such for a reason

Fourth: Reflecting the third thought-if you are a drinker, GET THE WINE PAIRINGS.  I can't stress enough how much an additional $150.00 investment enhanced my dinner.  Again, if you've already made the investment, I highly highly recommend going a little further.

So, that wraps up my thoughts on dining at Alinea.  I will concede that eating such an establishment may not be for anyone.  That being said, and assuming you have the means, if you've already decided that it's not for you, I implore you to take a step back, consider what you are choosing to miss out on. There are a whole lot of things happening in that unassuming building in Lincoln Park, I'm incredibly grateful to have been a part of them.