Some places in The City That Believes are remote, not because of distance, but because of location, location, location. Every time we bounce over the wagon-rutted path between the scary SuperMax jail and the scary regular jail/intake facility, we spot the sign for the Dog House and we think: Makes me want a hot dog real bad. But in a good way, you know? So we finally figured out how to cut over from Madison in front of the SuperMax, across more ruts, half-buried train tracks, and cobblestones, execute a real quick--not even a car length--illegal right turn down a one-way street--'cuz we're only goin' one way--and we're right there in the parking lot of the House.
The first time we hit it, we hit it hard, rolling into the spartan stand-up dining area (maybe to make all the correctional officer types frequenting it a little more at home?) knocking down a Kosher hot dog with mustard, relish, and ketchup; a Polish hot dog; and regular-hot-dog hot dog avec chili sauce, all prepared and served by our cordial, genial hosts Maria Christ, Willie Blanding, Danette "Weenie" Jones, and owner Paul Christ. And we were transported to Dog Heaven. The chili dog was nestled snugly in a fluffy bun and doused with a liberal helping of the thin, meat-based topping (no beans), but you can get yours any way you want. Perfect. The Polish dog was split down the middle for maximum grilling efficiency; it was equally delish, and provided us with that slightly disturbing yet satisfying carnivorous sensation of puncturing skin to get to the subtly spiced yet undeniably kielbasalike interior. Rowf!
You can probably find a better, more legal way to the Dog House, but we'll chance skirting the law for now, even if it means a little time for us in the lockup. At least we'll be within walking distance when we bust out.