In the past, whenever
Spaniards mocked American food as being all hamburgers and hotdogs, I took them to Cornucopia, a rambling old apartment-turned-restaurant.
Chicago hot dogs are phenomenal—a dog snuggling in a poppy seed bun. Yellow mustard, some bizarre neon green relish, dill pickle, tomato, chopped onions, sport peppers, and a dash of celery salt.
Sometimes I'm struck by an existential fear for the future of Cantonese haute cuisine. But really, I sometimes worry about this food, at least in America.
