Red Hot Johnnie
If you like hot dogs and balk at the ‘never ketchup’ movement, keep reading. Don’t fret that Fat Johnnie’s Famous Red Hots is forty blocks from a Sox hat and forty Urlacher Billboards from a Cubs jersey, it’s well worth the gridlock.
74th and Western is known more for its closed down car dealerships than its culinary scene which means there’s parking. Lots of it. And ticketers? Just scalpers, that’s only if the White Sox are winning. So, you’re safe from June to September.
Don’t look out your Volvo for a rehabbed art deco building or even a refurbished gas station, this is a shack. And, it’s so dilapidated even a gentle breeze could have it fall to pieces.
Bring cash and make sure the glove compartment is stocked with a couple dozen napkins (if eating in your car). There are a few benches next door on which to lay your grease, but beware of splinters and braking CTA buses. Sold?
So without further adieu — the hot dog. It’s all beef of course, and cheap — just a couple bills and a handful of cup holder change. But, one glance at the menu, be prepared for a change of heart — the heart attack that is the “Mother in Law.” It’s recipe — tamale, chili, hot dog all under one bun — is as awkward as calling your wife’s mom by her first name. Except, eating it is much less polite.
After finding the meat, fork the tower of corn and bean lava that has spread across your red checked tray. Gasping for thirst, search for the hose hung aside the owners’ house next door. Kidding. Grab a suicide soda. A splash of everything from Cola to Orange to Root Beer will have you skip the diabetes and go straight for the kill.
Perhaps, more enticing than the cuisine is Fat Johnnie’s curators, John Pawlikowski and his late son, Teddy. I suppose watching bearded men bark orders behind a battered booth isn’t befit for ordering a Brussels sprout salad, but we’re talking meat. Hot dogs. And damn good ones.
While the Pawlikowski’s commute is only a matter of steps even a bad knee could limp, they serve every day except Sunday.
The late Anthony Bourdain, The Tribune, the trendy bloggers, all ascended upon this hut. But, so did St. Rita students, local businesswomen, loud Ditka looking dudes, and those just searching for cheap sidewalk salivating. There’s plenty fancier, just none as in the flesh as Fat Johnnie’s. Go make your mess and eat it too.
