Wicker Park Dog is about to close for good, but you'd never know it. At 3am, an hour before the favorite late night snack shop of Chicago's hub for hipdom closes its doors for the last time, it's business as usual.
The staff is no less surly and sweat-stained than in happier days, the clientele no less eclectic. A couple of guys in Viking helmets (?!?) are ordering at the counter. A buck-toothed hulk, his open shirt displaying an appetizing thatch of chest hair, is exhorting his bleached-blonde companion to tell her boyfriend to fuck off. An enormous, pony-tailed drunk in a Nirvana T-shirt, leaning at a 45 degree angle on his best pal, stumbles in the North Avenue door, across the store, and out again onto Milwaukee without pause.
The ambience is intact, from a clock, proudly bearing the Greek flag to the TV blaring "I Love Lucy" (soon to segue into "The Beverly Hillbillies"). All the charmingly bizarre signs are still up: "No Hanging Out. Buy or Goodbye." "Choice of Ice Cream (or soup) With Sandwhich Purchase." And of course the "EMPLOYEES ONLY" warning, hung above the staircase that descends into menacing darkness below.
Only those with sharp eyes - and, as always, not many of the folks stumbling in for grease-laden fries well past the midnight hour are operating on all cylinders, perception-wise - notice the single sentimental token. "GOODBYE," spelled out in French fry bags, is taped to the shop's glass exterior.
Otherwise, you'd never know that the infamous hot dog stand is going out of business tonight. Except that they're out of hot dogs. And fries. And onion rings.
Two young women, both in official night-on-the-town regalia - tight tank tops of bright colors, tighter pants of chic black - have discovered that it's sayonara for the Dog, and attempt to commiserate with the chef. "Yeah," he says, not exactly overwhelmed with sentiment. "We lost our lease."
"Doesn't that suck?" says Party Girl A. "I know," agrees Party Girl B. "And he's, like, not even sad about it."
But in general, the circumcised menu is causing considerably more distress among the clientele than the place's impending disappearance. "Are you guys outta dogs? No! No! No!" hollers one particularly distraught would-be customer, heading back towards the door with his klatch of barhopping buds. "It's Wicker Dog! It's the last night! There's gotta be dogs. No fries? Holy Jesus! I'm out, man."
He pauses at the door frame, turns back to the guy at the register, and delivers a sentimental farewell from the hot dog faithful: "Hey, all the best, man."
copyright 1999 New City Communications, Inc.