So does Philly, a working-class town; its famous cheesesteak is a proletarian delight. Paris does, too, its stylishness embodied on each of its carefully sauced plates.

Hmmm, I think, I like this theory. But I make a note to go back to it, because right now we’re pulling up to the curb in front of a hot dog joint on Clark Street, not far from Wrigley Field. Hence, the name of the neighborhood: Wrigleyville.
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We emerge onto the stifling hot summertime Chicago sidewalk. Everybody looks at us with the same question in their eyes: “Why are those two getting out of a cop car?” I feel part criminal, part stoolie, part VIP.

As we start toward the restaurant, the officer calls to us.

“Hey,” she hails. “No ketchup. Chicago dogs don’t have ketchup.”

As I open the eatery’s front door, I glance up the street at the cop car vanishing into the distance, like something out of a fairy tale.

Some cities are more serious about their food than others. Chicago is one of those cities.

And that’s no theory. That’s a fact.