We are wandering around what we believe is the Chicago neighborhood
of Wrigleyville, searching for a classic Chicago-style hot dog.
Although you can find fine franks all over town, we're told that in
Wrigleyville, you can't swing a dead scrap heap of unidentifiable
meat parts without hitting a good hot dog joint.
"There's a hot dog place on every corner in Wrigleyville," one
Chicagoan tells us.
After walking for blocks and blocks and coming across many X-rated
shops but not a single hot dog restaurant, Jessica asks, "Do you
think we're in Wrigleyville?"
I spot a cop car parked at the corner. Jessica goes over, taps on
the window, and asks the female officer behind the wheel whether
we're in Wrigleyville and where we might find a hot dog.
Turns out we're in Boystown, not Wrigleyville. The cop gives
Jessica directions to Wrigleyville and to one hot dog place in
Jessica and I start heading in the opposite direction of where we
had been walking. After about six or seven blocks, the cop pulls up
beside us, rolls down the passenger-side window, and leans across.
"You're walking?" she asks, a note of incredulity in her voice.
"Yes," we say, vaguely wondering if we've broken some kind of
Her eyebrows knit slightly and her lips crease, commingling
personal concern and professional assessment.
"It's too far to walk," she says, "especially in this heat. Hop
Jessica and I look at each other. Are we in trouble?
"I'll take you," she says.
Amid a chorus of thank-yous, we slide into the back seat,
As the cop drives, she tips us to other restaurants.