Restaurant Review: Tommy's Burgers. Provo, Utah

I first visited Chicago back in 1971 with Ringling Brothers Circus. The train was parked right next to the old Stock Yard pens. The lingering odors of carnage and manure were so stupendous that even the pigeons wore gas masks as they pecked away at the unspeakable detritus.

The two things I recall most vividly about Chicago are that it was where the clowns had their contracts renewed for another season -- or didn't. And eating my first full-blown, messy Chicago Dog.

There was no way of knowing if you were going to be renewed for another season on the road. No one in management ever gave any hint or clue -- mostly because they had no idea either. The contracts were handed out by old man Feld himself, and he never indicated to anyone who would stay and who would be cut loose. Some of the First of Mays swaggered around, trying to buck themselves up with their own pathetic braggadocio:

"Sure I'll get another contract! Didn't you see the way the crowd's been eating up my dishwasher routine? But I'm holdin' out for more money, and if Feld don't cough it up he can go *#@* himself!"

Dougie Ashton, an Australian clown who demanded we refer to him as a comedian and not as a clown, strutted around Clown Alley singing "Chicago, Chicago, that old contract town . . . " He was secure, because he had a five year contract with Feld. The rest of us lowly mortals only had a one year contract.

Me, I didn't much care if I was offered a contract or not. I had just fallen in love, dated, and broken up with one of the showgirls -- all in three weeks; so I didn't give a hang about my career one way or the other. If they wanted me back, fine; if they didn't, fine -- I'd go to Mexico to study pantomime.

As it turned out, I was offered a contract but turned it down anyway. Mexico sounded more interesting.

And then the Chicago Dog. These lovely creations are the only way to properly consume a hot dog. Don't try to palm off your chili dog or kraut dog on me -- nossir, give me a Chicago Dog or give me death. Or a hamburger.

And that, dear and patient reader, brings me to today's restaurant, Tommy's Burgers, at 401 West 100 North. It's a stand alone building, not much bigger than my apartment. And close to my building, too. The old osteoarthritis is acting up today, so I didn't want to have to walk very far.

There's no place to eat inside, so you have to order to go. And it has no drive in window, so you have to go inside and stand around while they fry up your order. For make no mistake, this is strictly a frying operation.

I got a Chicago Dog, an order of onion rings, and a fountain drink. The Dog was all that a Windy City Pup should be: full of spicy, sweet, and sour bric-a-brac. Overflowing with it, actually.

I took it outside to eat on one of their bright red picnic tables. The weather here in Provo continues to hold mild and sunny, and the forecast calls for this pattern to continue well into next week. Seems kinda weird; that, and the Cubs winning the World Series and maybe Trump in the White House -- it all points to some kinda X Files thing going on . . .

The onion rings were crunchy on the outside and melting on the inside. But I got absolutely no flavor from them. And then, I always have the same problem with onion rings; I bite one in half and the whole onion string comes out, falling on my chin and giving me a little burn. Does that happen to anybody else but me, or am I the only buffoon who can't eat onion rings properly?

I give the place Three Burps -- the Dog was superb but the onion rings were disappointing. For the Dog, the rings, and a fountain drink I paid $9.28. This place works as long as the weather holds out; otherwise you have to walk in to place your order and then walk out again to your car. The place was packed when I was there at 1 p.m.