NEED TO KNOW
- Local Chicagoan Craig Mancuso endured another Memorial Day surrounded by ketchup-hating purists and mustard fascists.
- Craig secretly loves ketchup on his hot dogs but fears exile from the city, his family, and his bowling league.
- He has developed a complex system of covert condiment consumption involving cargo shorts, decoy relish, and decoy guilt.
A Man. A Dog. A Forbidden Love.
Chicago — Somewhere between the bean-shaped selfies and the cooler full of Old Style, local man Craig Mancuso, 43, faced his annual internal crisis: eat another dry, mustard-only hot dog like a proud Chicagoan, or sneak a squirt of ketchup and risk public execution by grilling fork.
“Memorial Day is supposed to be about freedom,” Craig whispered, staring longingly at a Heinz packet resting beside the baked beans. “But I live in fear.”
Craig, a lifelong resident of Chicago’s northwest side and a proud Sox fan (but not too proud), has secretly loved ketchup on hot dogs since age nine. That year, his uncle Sal caught him dousing a Vienna beef in bright red sin and reportedly said, “You wanna eat that in this family, you change your name and move to Indiana.”
The Ketchup Closet
Craig thought he could beat it. He tried everything: spicy mustard, sport peppers, celery salt meditation. Nothing worked. At this year’s picnic in Humboldt Park, he spent most of the afternoon applying relish in geometric patterns, trying to convince himself it was enough.
“I told myself the tomato slice was close enough,” he confessed while crushing a Lay’s bag with the weight of shame. “But it’s not the same. It’ll never be the same.”
Despite being surrounded by fellow grill-goers loudly denouncing ketchup as “an insult to tradition,” “a condiment for toddlers,” and “a war crime in a bun,” Craig carried one Heinz packet deep in the cargo pocket of his khaki shorts — just in case.
At approximately 2:47 p.m., witnesses reported seeing Craig disappear behind a tree with a single dog and a bottle of water. He returned moments later looking euphoric, but greasy. His shirt had a red dot the size of a nickel, which he claimed was “cherry sno-cone.”
The Unspoken Community
Experts estimate that nearly 14% of Chicagoans secretly enjoy ketchup on hot dogs but live in denial, shame, or Evanston. These citizens meet in underground ketchup support groups like “Red-40 Anonymous” and “Sauce, Don’t Tell.”
“They call it the K-Word,” said therapist Dr. Janine Fazzio. “Most clients whisper it. One guy burst into tears when I asked if he’d tried Sriracha.”
Craig, though still publicly in denial, says he’s considering taking a stand next year.
“Maybe I’ll come out… of the cooler,” he said, staring into the reflective foil of a grilled brat. “Or maybe I’ll just eat a salad.”
Quote of the Moment
In this city, you can murder someone and get a Sox jersey. Put ketchup on a hot dog, and they’ll push your car into the lake
Craig’s uncle Sal, holding a relish-coated weapon
