The bus doors close and the first thing that hits you is not the skyline but the smell—olive oil and bubbling cheese, a warm, greasy promise that the next three and a half hours will be measured in slices. You pull away from the one-way bustle near Millennium Park and the guide leans in with family lore, oven temps and the grudges between thin-crust purists and deep-dish loyalists. Streets blur into neighborhoods: a quick slice in the shadow of Grant Park, then a stop where the oven still spits coal flames, then a neighborhood joint where cheese caramelizes until it sings.