There is no longer a need to scarf down the putrid burger at McDonalds. Not since Fat Phil began his Last Stand. Chicago simply has no more use for the 24-hour dinners and the freeze-dried burgers necessitating an entire bottle of ketchup to recreate something known as taste. Not since that tip gong first rung on Chicago Avenue. There is no conceivable excuse to stop at another light night food stand with food whose quality barely surpasses the cast away wrappers on the side of the street. Not since this blessed intersection with Oakley Boulevard enjoyed the renaissance of fast food delivered by the big man with the big white beard.