Like many Chicagoans, I’ll order a deep dish pizza or hot dog “dragged through the garden” once in a blue moon. The heartiness and acid-reflux-inducing nature of these dishes means a slice of Malnati’s or Red Hots order is reserved for special occasions, mostly as a culinary showcase for out-of-towners.
It wasn’t until recently that I came to this realization when a West Coast friend, finally conceding to the sirenic calls of summertime Chicago, asked as we sat in the booth of Pequod's Pizza on a busy Saturday night, “If Chicagoans rarely eat deep dish pizza, why do you guys talk about it so much?”
As I attempted to draw comparisons to a New York City bagel or Los Angeles breakfast burrito, which local residents actually do consume on the regular, my friend was left without an answer and I was left to ask myself: Is this all just a show? What is my role in this public, disingenuous spectacle?
Naturally, I turned to Guy DeBord’s Society of the Spectacle for clarity. The 1967 book from the French theorist critiques development of mass media as an instrument of class struggle—does my tacit compliance in the constructed folklore of, say, a hot dog count in DeBord’s lens? More than I could have ever imagined.
“The spectacle is not a collection of images; it is a social relation between people that is mediated by images,” DeBord writes. “The spectacle presents itself simultaneously as society itself, as a part of society, and as a means of unification.”
Okay, great, got it, makes sense, yeah. The fixation on these long-held culinary traditions are just a manifestation of food culture, creating an in-group essentialism of what it means to be a Chicagoan and, therefore, a part of a community. But is that necessarily a good thing for the future of culinary invention?
The mythology of the beloved dog, whether as genuine admiration or a play into the cultural spectacle, has, dare I say, blurred the lines of quality. As the spotlight turned to Chicago this past August for the Democratic National Convention, I was admittedly nauseated by the influx of memes and quips surrounding the Chicago-style hot dog, Italian beef and deep dish—with no discourse about newer and increasingly popular dishes.
What culinary innovations could have spawned from the Chicago dog? For nearly 100 years, the staple has remained relatively unaltered from its original iteration. Could one argue this just speaks to the strength of a classic recipe, birthed from the loins of the working class? Or have countless, possibly revolutionary versions of the Chicago dog been rejected simply because the relish wasn’t green enough? The answer to both questions could be “yes.”
As the city approaches the centennial celebration of this beloved sausage and eight decades of its pan pizza, perhaps it's time to usher in a new era of Chicago food icons that actually reflect a modern palate. Term limits are a good thing, right?
With that intention, a world of possibilities opens up: Paper-thin tavern-style pizza, the uniquely-Chicago jibarito sandwich, overlooked Chicago-style rib tips, Italco’s pizza puff, Harold’s mild sauce or El Milagro tortillas all come to mind. Not only would these contenders be a fresh face, but arguably embody the same kind of innovation that is so captivating about the current Mount Rushmore of Chicago food (i.e. the history of the “Depression Sandwich”).
The crown jewel of Chicago’s cuisine should be one enjoyed outside the crippling shadow of performance, special occasions and tourism—it should be adored routinely and without pretension.