Jimmy's Red Hots has been at the corner of Grand and Pulaski Streets since 1954.  The hot dogs are renowned.  The decor is not.  but we're not talking haute cuisine here, so the only thing that matters is a clean kitchen and a friendly staff.  There's no seating -- just a narrow passage allowing a few customers to stand and gaze out the window while they eat.  The menu can aptly be described as minimalist:  A polish sausage, a hot dog, a tamale, and twice-sizzled french fries.  Unlike most of its Chicago-style rivals, Jimmy's red hots can actually be seen and tasted.  They are not so overly-smothered with toppings that you need turn a bounty hunter loose to find the beef.  but take note: Jimmy's does not tolerate ketchup.  Not on the side, not in a bottle, not in a packet, not in a house, not with a mouse.  Ketchup is sacrilege.  As they say at Jimmy's Red Hots: Don't even think about it.

frank farrguia, the patriarch of this chicago institution, likes to say, "if you're not going to eat it yourself, then don't dare serve it."  frank is understandably proud of his red hots, but prefers to boast of his obstetric accomplishments.  he has twice delivered babies at the restaurant.  on one occasion, the customers came and went by stepping over a woman who was lying in the doorway, going through painful contractions.