A frank discussion

Ranch dressing may be having its global discovery moment. Fine. Welcome the world to buttermilk and seasonings.

But the Chicago dog has been winning converts for years in places where people have never heard of Wrigley Field.

I once asked my Indian cousin to name his favorite American food. He did not pause to consider hamburgers, barbecue or pizza, our food trinity.

“The Chicago dog,” he said.

At Frankie’s Dawg House off Perkins Road, it’s the top order. There are other dogs on the menu, and they may be delicious. But many feel newer, as if the ingredients came first and somebody in the back had to name the thing later.

A Chicago dog is different. It is a whole meal: beef frank, poppy seed bun, mustard, neon-green relish, onions, tomato, pickle, celery salt and, most important, sport peppers. They bring the crunch, bite and acid that make the whole thing work. Without them, it’s just a hot dog wearing a salad.

Just as important is what’s missing.

No ketchup.

Clint Eastwood settled this years ago in a Dirty Harry movie, growling at a cop who had committed a felony: loading up hot dogs with Heinz.

“Nobody, I mean nobody, puts ketchup on a hot dog.”

This is a good week to honor the hot dog, that most democratic of American meals. Get yours at Frankie’s Dawg House, where the Chicago dog tastes right, and the restaurant looks like it was assembled by hand with whatever materials were within reach.

Which feels fitting. The Chicago dog has always looked like somebody made a meal out of everything good nearby, then had the good sense to share it with others.