My favorite hot dog joint in Chicago was Harry’s Hot Dogs. I didn’t get a picture and I think it was on the corner of Randolph and La Salle in the Loop. Harry is 93 and the walls are covered with newspapers' testimonials to his place. The atmosphere was remarkably similar to the old “Cheeseburger, Cheeseburger, Pepsi, Pepsi” skit on SNL. Julio and I walked in and Harry himself directed us to a line, knowing intuitively the sandwich we sought. There were separate lines for cheeseburgers and hot dogs or Italian sausage.
Julio joked with one of the cheeseburger guys in Spanish. Our Vienna Beef hot dogs were plated in those familiar red plastic baskets, the old chicken in a basket variety that you hardly see anymore. From the framed clippings on the wall, I learned that Harry has been selling hot dogs since 1936, with brief times out for a fire or two.
The cooks wipe sweat from their foreheads as the watchful eyes behind Harry’s glasses observe - nothing escapes him, though I did not hear him utter a word. Harry might have lost a step or two, maybe an entire staircase, but he’s still there from opening to closing every day. The hot dogs came through the garden, but once again it was pickles (slices this time) not cukes. The sign on the adjustable menu says “Under 1,000,000 served.” Wish I could find out more about Harry on the web, but he’s still under the Google radar. I want to go back there.
All the Chicago hot dogs I ate had a light dusting of poppy seeds on the bun, a detail I hadn’t remembered from descriptions I’d read.
RDU was closed for a while as our flight was scheduled to land. We went into a holding pattern, then began to divert to Greensboro. Halfway there, RDU re-opened. We landed a little after 11pm.
2:05:09 AM 
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