Frank cashes in on the cocktail movement, retro-Americana food trends, and locavore leanings, all while giving the Sixth Street besotted throngs something to chew on. Actually, the best way to enjoy Frank’s weenies is to be blitzed. The execution is too sloppy to be enjoyed by a more discerning brain; a shame, because the sausages are made in-house (or by local Hudson Sausage Co.), and there are a lot of fun flavor combinations. But a “Jackalope” sausage of antelope and rabbit is barely detected under its thick blanket of sweet huckleberry compote, and the grilled cole slaw that completely covers a “Texalina” has no grill flavor. Although a basic Chicago dog has the authentic neon relish and good tomato/hot pepper presence, there’s neither celery salt nor snap. Poutine, Frank’s signature waffle fries in salty brown gravy with cheese curds, is overbearing after three bites. Seriously, be drunk for this.

Cocktails are of the sweet variety, and the use of bacon is more gimmicky than successful, creating either a fat skin on top (gross) or becoming an unappetizing garnish. A pointless, trendy PBR tap postures next to more deserving brews. Brunch is really the best thing here: great pancakes, oniony corned beef hash with flavorful brisket, expertly made espressos and Intelligentsia coffee, and a generous flood of indirect sunlight that makes those bacony Bloodys taste better.