There was a German restaurant Karen and I frequented in Tampa. The proprietor was a real card — he had his collection of bad puns ("Do you know what you call an unhappy German? A sour Kraut!"), and he liked to announce his politics frequently — but the food was awesome.
There was a particular bratwurst he had that was just out of this world, but he refused to divulge his source. "It's a secret," he would say, wagging his Teutonic finger at us. "I have them shipped here specially."
Shopping in Indy this past Friday, we came upon a German market which, lo and behold, had these very bratwursts.
Made in Illinois.