Chicago, that's my kind of sandwich.

This time tomorrow, I’ll be in Chicago. Most my winter visits there are spent under five layers of wool, trying to figure out if the lack of feeling in my toes results from either hypothermia or circulation cut off from excessive layering. The Windy City just doesn’t offer much in January, EXCEPT for one thing.

Italian beef sandwiches.

Years before I visited Chicago, my boyfriend would tell me how “real” Chicago Italian beefs are the best food on earth. I dismissed him entirely; I grew up in Philly, how dare any Midwesterner tell ME about good sandwiches? I’m not even much of a meat eater anymore: my idea of good eatin’ is cheese topped with cheese dipped in ranch. But oh my gosh, the boy was right, so right that I had to go and marry him. Italian beefs would make an atheist believe in God. And I shall eat my body weight in them this weekend.