The Wieners Circus
The bravest will laugh self-consciously upon being called “bitch” by the woman at the cash register, order a “fucking chardog,” and then retreat, an heroic conqueror, to the half-giggling fanfare of her flip cronies.
Amused? Bewildered? Offended? Bloated, and missing all the money from your wallet? If you fit all these descriptions, then it is Saturday, well into the witching hour, and you have just stumbled out of Chicago’s most infamous hotdog joint. I recommend that you down another drink and try not to think too hard about what just happened.
Depending on whom you ask, an eatery at which it’s possible to avail oneself of Chicago-style hot dogs and cheesy fries while ogling several sets of mammary glands is either proof that there is a benevolent god or new motivation to abandon society for the life of a scornful shut-in. Judging by the proliferation of bar-crawlers spilling out of The Wieners Circle, many of Lincoln Park’s late-night lushes avow it’s the former.
The talk may be cheap, but the cost of being called “motherfucker” every three seconds is not.
Situated obtrusively on North Clark, between Drummond Place and Wrightwood, the very appearance of The Wieners Circle is nearly as offensive as its late-night staff. Heralded by an overlarge neon sign depicting a “chardog with the works,” the dive houses just enough space for an A.T.M. (The Circle is cash-only), a few bar stools tracing the perimeter, and a boisterous late-night patronage. Fortunately, there are picnic tables outside, so you do not, while swallowing your hot dog, have to hear the cook recount from what orifice she extracted it.
As word-of-mouth and YouTube attest, The Wieners Circle is a Chicago institution. Yet its celebrity stems not from its fare of Chicago-style hotdogs, cheeseburgers, and cheddar fries but from the vulgar, hostile exchanges between the staff and their inebriated patrons. Tipping here is compulsory, so be prepared to pay a few dollars more than is sensible. The talk may be cheap, but the cost of being called “motherfucker” every three seconds is not.
Then tell us about it!
Fifteen years ago, so the story goes, one of the owners was only able to get an intoxicated customer’s attention by calling him an asshole. Ever since that moment, R-E-S-P-E-C-T fades along with the weekend daylight. Yet the current state of verbal affairs is far from utilitarian: Talking shit is standard operating procedure. For every belligerent, twenty-five-year-old male sporting overpriced jeans and a thousand-yard stare, there is a group of women in stilettos and couture still savoring the taste of their fifth Cosmopolitan. The bravest will laugh self-consciously upon being called “bitch” by the woman at the cash register, order a “fucking chardog,” and then retreat, an heroic conqueror, to the half-giggling fanfare of her flip cronies. She has passed the test and matched wits with the sassy Black sister from the South Side. What moxie! What bravado! And, most of all, what a great story to tell the next day. (The problem is, of course, that the recipients of this tale will all have gone through the same motions many times over while bored, and under the influence, on North Clark.)
Your humble author learned two facts about this ritual when he participated in it this weekend (and when two hotdogs, priced three dollars apiece, magically returned only twelve dollars out of a twenty). The first is that he should have chugged more beer while darting north on the Red Line, and the second is that it is rather awkward to bandy insults while trying to convey exactly how one wants to clog one’s arteries. “I’ll have two chardogs with everything, please…. Oh, and go fuck yourself.” The cook’s seasoned replies tended to be significantly more eloquent and creative: “Fuck you, you Doogie Howser motherfucker!” While enjoying the surprisingly tasty frankfurters in the corner, I had an excellent view of one intoxicated customer after another clumsily sparring with the staff, inevitably concluding that he was a superlative wit. The crowd laughed; I raised an eyebrow.
Finally, I mustered up enough courage to order the infamous “Chocolate Shake.” As I tossed twenty dollars into the tip jar, the entire restaurant and I were treated to the appropriately named, but not remotely refreshing, unofficial menu item. If you have ever fantasized about how fantastic it would be to see two topless women in the kitchen, avoid The Wieners Circle. The four naked bouncing breasts across the counter, paired with their owners’ sneers and the crowd’s eruption, were over-priced by about twenty-five dollars. But, hey, it would make a good story tomorrow, right?
A request to speak to the manager only compounded the absurdity of the endeavor, as I found myself in Roberta “Poochie” Jackson’s parked car, chatting with her on her break. Thirty seconds earlier, she was asking me what “the fuck” I wanted; but the minute I crawled into the passenger seat, she dropped the entire act. Poochie explained, quite politely, that she had been working at The Wieners Circle for eleven years and, sometimes, the tension between the all-Black staff and the mostly-White clientele boiled over (“Collard greens are not on the menu, asshole”). Yet the abuse, she claims, hesitating, is “all in good fun.” After assuring me that I don’t actually look like Doogie Howser, she catapulted into a war story about a group from Los Angeles who ordered two-hundred dollars’ worth of “Chocolate Shakes” and, later, recalled how the owners handpicked her for the night shift because of her “great attitude.” All the while, I attempted to eradicate the recent, and certainly not fading, memory of her angry topless jestering.
Wishing Poochie a good night (whatever that might mean to The Wieners Circle), I exited her vehicle and escaped down the street before she could get back into character. As I passed by the restaurant one last time, I saw that the crowd had only grown as the neighborhood’s clubs were letting out. Now the line was snaking out the door: a boozed-soaked march to the anti-climactic moment when one is able to be rude to an impoverished stranger and avoid any possibility of physical confrontation with her. Passing the trendy bars where, for most, this desire comes to a head (though surely doesn’t originate), I momentarily considered an eremitic future. Yet after reflecting on the little neon island that serves up hotdogs and hate, that oasis of absurdity among the homogenous streets of Lincoln Park (Where else, of course?), I made a vow. I promised myself that tomorrow I would tell all my friends of my adventure, in the way in which I am doing now—and recommend, if they decide to see the place for themselves, that they go far drunker than I. It’s the only way you can shake it.
