Super Dawg, Dawg

These are not Plaster Hotdog people, they are Mr. Proper and Pilot Pulp

    This is how it begins.  Late one night we had a craving for something mad awesome to throw on top of the beers that were already marinating in our stomachs. I had heard of this sweet hotdog place, that when Pilot Pulp was all, "I've heard of that place also and it sounds bad to the bone."  I might be paraphrasing there, but whatever, from there we jumped into the car and drove.  After some self doubt, self hate, and some serious, "we have to be going the wrong way we saw it.

    Looming large on the horizon were those lovely links pictured above.  We had done it, mostly by accident, but we still had done it. We ate the best hotdogs in Chicago.  They were as sweet as the Hercules Hotdawgs humungous hunky biceps being depicted on all the swag that Super Dawg hocks.  Fatty hotdog, all the Chicago stuff (onions, neon green relish, hot peppers, diced tomatoes, and a whole pickle), surrounded by french fries that are so sweet I hate to associate them with the French at all. 

   
     Weeks later we decided that we need to find the best of certain types of food in the city, then three times a  month, eat at these places that provided this food, then tell every person that would venture onto our website about it.  A few rules do apply.  One, these have to be places that don't take reservations, that way we know that they will let us in. Two, these are cheap eats because being spies (or being not spies) dosen't pay jack diddly.  Third, we are open to suggestions about what items are the best so tell us what to eat.  Fourth, we are not spies, maybe.  And that's it.

     I shall end by saying, get ready, because this is going to be so badass that we may all go blind from witnessing it, then again maybe we won't.  We just don't know.