There is a man on the Northside named Sam, Sam owns Flub A Dub Chub, Flub A Dub Chub is a hot dog shop and this hot dog shop is one-half block from my apartment. For the last four and a half months I have passed by Flub A Dub Chub almost daily, never stopping but always smiling and nodding to the proprietor when he was outside, eventually saying hello, which led to the inevitable stop in at Flub A Dub Chub last night.
I am a hot dog eater, everybody eats hot dogs and one of my pet peeves is people who say they only eat hot dogs if they’re at a baseball game, as if they’re claiming to be repulsed by the idea of a hot dog and proclaiming false snobbery at stooping to eat the cheap meat in a bun. To this…I CALL BULLSHIT! Granted a ballpark is one of the best places to eat a hot dog, but you can’t beat a street vendor in New York City, a backyard BBQ or a weekend camping in the mountains. But I digress, back to Sam.
So last night as I was walking past Flub A Dub Chub on my way home, it started to rain and the tummy started to growl and I decided, “Why not?” So I stopped in at Flub A Dub Chub, where I met Sam. Sam proceeded to introduce me to his two sons, Greg and Bryan, told me about the history of Flub A Dub Chub (relatively new business), described the artwork in the place (a friend who illustrates children’s books), discussed golf (apparently pretty good) and eventually took my order (it’s about time). I ordered the chili/cheese works, which incidentally, came with fries, to which started a discussion with Sam on the finer points of fry sauce. (Utah peeps totally get this)
This little interlude made me smile all the way home because Sam is the kind of person you meet all over Chicago. They will talk your ear off if you let them and if you’re like me you’ll never forget them. I can honestly say I like Sam, but if he’s the one responsible for me putting on the 10 pounds I’ve lost since moving here...I’m going to hurt Sam.