Wish you were here: Five regional chains that we demand come to Chicago

The best part of roadtripping and seeing this great big nation of ours isn't about soaking up "culture," amassing hilarious postcards, or even seeing innumerable museums. It's about stuffing your face and reaping the benefits of regional restaurants. (Really, on your deathbed, are you going to be glad you chose visiting Portland's Hat Museum over waiting in line to try doughnuts unique to the area?) While purists can scoff and chalk up the migration of these chains from one region to another as the watering-down of the culinary landscape of America, the rest of us can rejoice that sampling the wares from other areas just got easier: Detroit hot-dog chain Leo's Coney Island is opening the doors on its 41st outpost—and first out of Michigan—today on Southport. That in mind, The A.V. Club took stock of some other regional flavors we'd like to see spicing up Chicago in the near future.

MIDWEST

Leo's Coney Island (3455 N. Southport Ave., 773-281-5367)

Though virtually identical to what most consider a diner outside of Detroit, Coneys are distinguishable in that they serve diner food with an emphasis on Greek selections. That means pitas, gyros, and saganaki are listed on the menu alongside other standards like patty melts, mozzarella sticks, and tuna-salad sandwiches. The marriage between Detroit and Chicago is acknowledged via the in-store homage mashing up both cities' skylines, but what's still likely to cause some confusion is why restaurants from Michigan clip their names from another regional offering: Coney Island hot dogs. The dogs served at Leo's don't resemble those served under the same name in New York, though, and instead take after the ones traditionally served in Detroit—that means made with Koegel Meats out of Flint, beanless chili, and topped with lots of onions. These imported entrées can be downed with Michigan-specific beverages like Vernors sodas and chased with a Sanders hot-fudge sundae. But chances are, most Chicagoans are already sold on trying a new kind of hot dog.

EAST COAST

Papaya King (New York, New Jersey, and Maine)

Papaya King serves up some of the most amazing drunk food imaginable. Only Midwestern tourists like us are dazzled by the piña colada, coconut champagne, banana daiquiri, and other tropical drinks famously served alongside the inexpensive dogs. The dogs themselves are unassuming but special in their own way: Topped with sauerkraut, onions, and mustard or coleslaw and pickles, they're essentially edible halitosis. That's why you have those tropical flavors to wash them down with afterwards—and that's also why you should also arrive drunk in the first place.

Plausibility: The A.V. Club's calls to Papaya King's publicists went unreturned, but we're willing to bet the chances of the chain moving to flyover country are unlikely.  

Closest approximation: Much as it pains us to say this, the mix of tropical drinks and dirt-cheap hot dogs are unique to the area. Our diagnosis? Get a can of Hawaiian Punch and head into your favorite inexpensive hot-dog joint. 

SOUTH

Waffle House (25 states total)

Every time the Mason-Dixon Line is referred to as the “IHOP-Waffle House Line,” the 24-hour diner further solidifies its status as a cultural touchstone for copious servings of grease. A ubiquitous chain in the South, Waffle House's dingy, cramped confines often represent the only option late-night revelers have for porridge-like grits, buttermilk waffles, and pitch-perfect country songs about waffles on the jukebox. While the chain has plenty of detractors (when your restaurant has served 1.5 billion eggs since 1955, at least 20 million aren't going to agree with your stomach), there's an equal contingency of diehard fans, customers who can recite by heart the colloquial way of ordering hashbrowns—“covered” (with cheese), “smothered” (with onions), “capped” (with mushrooms), and “mothered” (with an extra heaping of love).

Plausibility: With more than 1,500 locations in 25 states (including two spots in Illinois, near St. Louis), it's not inconceivable for the Waffle House empire to stretch into Chicago. Could it lure away the legions of diehard Denny's fans, though?

Closest approximation: White Palace Grill (1159 S. Canal St., 312-939-7167) or Diner Grill (1635 W. Irving Park Rd., 773-248-2030) are the best bets. Both stay open 24 hours, and both appeal to the drunken adventurer stumbling across the city in search of an omelet to regurgitate in the morning.

WEST

In-N-Out Burger (California, Arizona, Nevada, and Utah) 

Since 1948, California-based In-N-Out Burger has built a rabid following on the simple premise of slinging out nothing more than freshly cooked burgers, fries, and shakes—that’s all it takes to be mentioned in a Coen brothers film! Of course, the fast-food joint can also attribute part of its popularity to a few lovable idiosyncrasies, like the X-shaped palm trees that mark the spot for many restaurants (an apparent homage to “the big W” in It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World) and a secret menu, which contains wondrous items like extra patties for burgers, Neapolitan shakes, or the option to top fries with enough cheese and hamburgers with enough "secret sauce" to debilitate a customer for days. Plus, with references to Bible verses printed in discreet positions on its utensils, one can ponder the possibilities of the afterlife while ingesting a four-patty cheeseburger that draws them closer to God.  

Plausibility: Very unlikely. While the chain has expanded outside its California base to three other states, an In-N-Out representative says the burger joint has no plans to expand much farther east.

Closest approximation: Paradise Pup (1724 S. River Rd., Des Plaines, 847-699-8590), which sees your thousand island dressing and cheese on a mound of fries and raises you bacon and sour cream. Paradise Pup’s mound of fries isn’t the only artery-clogging piece of bliss on the menu–the shakes, cheddar burgers, and Italian beef are almost as reputable to Chicagoans as In-N-Out is to Californians.

NORTHWEST

Voodoo Doughnuts (Portland, Ore.)

Waiting in line for a meal at Hot Doug's is nothing. Portlanders are willing to wait in line just as long for a snack at Voodoo Doughnuts, a bakery nestled sweetly between a nearby porno theater and a used-instrument shop. But Voodoo's wares are hardly just a snack. Astonishingly affordable, the pastries here border on Caligulan decadence. Witness provocative offerings like the Tex-Ass (a huge glazed doughnut the size of an ass) or the bacon maple bar, a $2.50 gateway drug into understanding why Homer Simpson dips his breakfast meats into syrup. Keeping in line with Portland's credo of keeping the town weird, the doughnut shop also does weddings, has had doughnut-on-penis-stacking contests, and used to serve Pepto-drizzled doughnuts and Nyquil-glazed ones until the FDA put a stop to that.

Plausibility: Despite unveiling a third location in Eugene in "at least a couple of months," Wedding Coordinator/Executive Wrangler Sara Lott says Voodoo isn't interested in franchising. Its chances of expanding over state lines are "pretty thin right now." But if Voodoo can inspire enough passion in its fans to move one of them to make a documentary about the doughnut shop, surely within our lifetime we'll see Voodoo inch its way closer to our gaping maws.

Closest approximation: Glazed Donuts (773-655-6027, glazedchicago@gmail.com), like Portland, is pretty weird. With no storefront, Kirsten Anderson's bakery's seasonally changing wares are instead available only via subscription or delivery, or at the handful of farmers' markets or restaurants it supplies to. That eccentricity aside, where else in town can you find unusual flavors like Voodoo's maple bacon or Earl Grey with lemon?