By Cliff Potts, CSO, and Editor-in-Chief of WPS News
Baybay City, Leyte, Philippines — July 8, 2026 — 07:05 a.m. ET
There’s a certain kind of Chicago story people expect you to tell.
It usually starts at the lakefront in July. The skyline is glowing. The air is warm. Music is playing somewhere in the distance. And right in the middle of it all is the Taste of Chicago—food, crowds, energy, the city on display.
That’s the story people want.
It’s not the story I lived.
I grew up with Chicago when it still believed in putting on a show for itself. Back when ChicagoFest tried to turn the lakefront into something bigger than the neighborhoods that fed it. It worked for a while. It felt like the city was announcing itself, saying, “Look what we can do.”
Then that faded, and what replaced it was something more practical. The Taste of Chicago. Less spectacle, more sampling. Less performance, more presentation.
Same idea, though. Bring people downtown. Show them what Chicago tastes like.
That’s where I checked out.
Not because it was bad. Not because it didn’t matter.
Because I didn’t need it.
And just so we’re clear on where I’m coming from—I grew up in Chicago on Laramie and Long. I went to Beaubien Elementary School. B-E-A-U-B-I-E-N. I’m a member in good standing of the Prosser Rowdies, P-R-O-S-S-E-R, Class of ’77. I’m rock, I’m stone, I’m Chicago to the bone.
If I wanted Greek food, I didn’t go downtown. I headed over toward Foster and Milwaukee and hit King’s—King’s 2. As far back as 2011, it was still there. I wasn’t living in the neighborhood then, but I knew the place hadn’t gone anywhere. I got a gyro that didn’t come in a sample tray and didn’t require standing in line behind a thousand people.
If I wanted a cheeseburger, I didn’t want a curated bite handed to me on a paper plate. I wanted a greasy, unapologetic burger off a flat-top grill that had been seasoned by years of use.
If I wanted Italian beef, I didn’t want a “taste.” I wanted the whole thing. Dipped. Messy. The kind of sandwich that fights back and wins.
Italian sausage? Same deal. Peppers, onions, no shortcuts.
Baklava? You don’t get that from a festival booth. You get it from a place that’s been making it longer than the festival has existed.
That was Chicago to me.
Not a sampler. Not a highlight reel.
The real thing, about five blocks away.
The part people don’t like to admit is that the Taste of Chicago isn’t really for the people who live there. It’s for the people who don’t. It’s for visitors, for newcomers, for anyone who wants the city packaged into something manageable.
And again, there’s nothing wrong with that.
But if you lived there, if you knew the neighborhoods, if you knew where to go, the whole thing felt unnecessary.
Then there’s the part nobody romanticizes properly: the weather.
Chicago in July is not a postcard. It’s heat and humidity that sits on you like a wet coat. It’s crowds that don’t move and lines that don’t end. It’s the lake breeze trying to help and sometimes just making everything stick.
You don’t glide through the Taste of Chicago.
You push through it.
And at some point, you ask yourself why.
For me, the answer was simple. I didn’t go.
Not once.
Not because I couldn’t. Because I didn’t need to.
I skipped the lines, the heat, the noise, and in exchange I got better food, real portions, and a place to sit down and actually enjoy it.
Chicago doesn’t live at the lakefront during a festival. It lives on the corners. In the diners. In the small places that don’t need a banner or a stage to prove they belong.
That’s the Chicago I knew.
And it was always closer than downtown.
This essay is written by Cliff Potts, Editor-in-Chief of WPS News. WPS News has been active in one form or another on the internet since 2009; for more information, visit https://cliffpotts.org
If this work helps you understand what’s happening, help me keep it going: https://www.patreon.com/cw/WPSNews
theo0023 from Tampa Bay , USA, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons
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