Junk Food Sublime: The Philadelphia Cheesesteak
by Jack Curtin

It was an almost perfect July night all too many years ago. My suburban neighbor and I put our just-turning-teen sons in the car and headed down to Veteran's Stadium for a twi-night doubleheader between Philadelphia and Chicago that would determine who would be leading the National League at the All Star Game break. Like I said, a long time ago. The Phillies swept the Cubs to take over first place in the league and so, to celebrate, and because we were starving after having eschewed what passes for food at the ballpark, we set out for South Philadelphia and a Rite of Passage.

So it was that, standing in line on a crowded sidewalk at 1 a.m. under a full moon, between a guy in an expensive business suit and a cabbie who hadn't bathed in a week, watching women in evening dresses and fat guys in shorts and sleeveless t-shirts dripping cheese on themselves and not caring a whit, the kids' eyes widened and they truly began to understand. We had already given them the magic words, "cheese wit'," that would gain them access to the food of the gods when they reached the counter window.

The place was the magical triangle where Ninth Street, Wharton Street and East Passyunk Avenue meet, the heart of South Philadelphia and the home of the legendary Pat's King of Steaks (1237 East Passyunk Avenue). Here the Philadelphia cheesesteak was born somewhere around 1930. The story has it that the owner, tired of eating hoagies -- another Philly classic, often called a hero or sub(marine) sandwich out in the hinterlands -- or other sandwiches he made daily for workers the local shipyards, sliced up some steak one afternoon, threw it on the grill and into a hoagie roll with some tomato gravy (the word "sauce" is foreign to South Philadelphia) and had it for lunch. The succulent aromas rising from the grill daily from there on out did not escape the attention of customers, who soon decided they too wanted "one like that." It was an unlikely coronation, but a coronation it was. The king was born.

Ah, but a king's castle is ever subject to marauders. Forsooth, right across the street is the land of Geno's Steaks (1219 South Ninth Street), Pat's fiercest and oldest competitor. Geno's is very much a mirror image of Pat's, albeit better lit and seemingly cleaner and brighter. This is not necessarily an advantage, as a certain down-home sleaziness is part of the cheesesteak mystique. The nice thing about this juxtaposition is that the proponents of one shop or the other can glare at one another across the historic Philadelphia street, blinking only when a car goes by. The even nicer thing is that the truly adventurous, offering their allegiance to neither sovereign, can sample the wares of either, or both, places as spirit and appetite warrant.

It used to be that a trip to Ninth and Passyunk was all that was necessary to allow you to make the pronouncement that you had partaken of this finest of Philadelphia's marvelous cuisine, but a new challenger has arisen in recent years, Jim's Steaks (Fourth & South Streets), benefiting not only from the quality of its sandwiches but also its more mainstream locale (the old hippies who made South Street Philadelphia version of the Village in the '60s must be turning over on their bongs at that designation). The popularity of Jim's is attested to by the fact that it has spawned three successful branches, in Northeast Philadelphia (Bustleton Avenue) West Philadelphia (63rd & Callowhill Streets) and Delaware County (Springfield).

Those of you who have experienced a "Philly Cheesesteak" in some foreign region such as Iowa or Atlanta or distant California (where the item in question no doubt was something along the lines of milk-fed, free range beef, goat cheese and avocado in a tortilla wrap) may be wondering what all the fuss is about. Herewith the explanation, with the caveat that the cheesesteak is at once simple and complex, its essence not readily captured with mere words.

The thing is, the steak itself is in many ways the least important ingredient in the entire sandwich. The key ingredient in a cheesesteak (or hoagie, for that matter) is the bread, good South Philadelphia rolls, crusty on the outside and nicely chewy inside. The very same sandwich, served on one of those air-filled soft rolls they try to pass off in "authentic" steak shops in other parts of the country, will simply lack the magic. Amoroso's Bakery is the best-known supplier of steak and hoagie rolls, but there are several bakeries in South Philly who make equally fine rolls. Many connoisseurs order their sandwiches "inside out," which means most of the interior of the roll is removed. Whether this is some misguided bit of dietary thinking isn't clear. You need that good soft interior to soak up the grease, after all.

Grease is another essential ingredient. In a good steak shop, the grill has been going for hours (at Pat's and Geno's, they go for 24 hours a day, every day of the year) and a nice coat of the stuff builds up from the steak and onions which fry there. Pat's and Jim's steaks tend to be a bit moister (okay, greasier) than do Geno's in my experience. The steak is thin sliced pieces and is not, to be kind, usually the finest cut of beef. Get over it. What throws a lot of first-timers is the cheese. In the most classic version of the sandwich it is Cheez-Whiz. Yep, that stuff in a jar. It is acceptable these days to substitute some other cheese, provolone being the favorite, but Cheez-Whiz is the historical topping. Try it. You'll be amazed how well it works in this context.

At Ninth & Passyunk, you order your sandwich at a walk-up window in a sort of shorthand code. "Cheese wit'," the magic words we gave our kids that long ago night, means "cheesesteak with fried onions;" "cheese wit'out" the opposite. Cheese will be Cheez-Whiz unless you say different. You want it the way the original Pat made his, you order a "pizza steak." No cheese at all? Just a "steak." Next to the order window at Pat's and Geno's is a shelf with catsup, mustard, cherry peppers and a wicked hot sauce, among other things. Add what you want to your sandwich, which is wrapped in paper, no plate. Now the trick is to eat it, standing up on the sidewalk being the traditional pose, bending this way and that in an effort to avoid dripping anything on your clothes. You won't succeed.

Exciting stuff, eh? So what do you, new kid in town, do when you decide you just have to have a real Philadelphia cheesesteak before returning to the security of blander, safer meals? Well, you may not get there in the wee small hours to enjoy the full ambiance, but one or more of those three well-known spots is likely to be relatively convenient to most itineraries, often in conjunction with a visit to either the Italian Market or South Street, two popular tourist destinations. Better yet, while purists will tell you it just isn't so, there are literally hundreds of delis and mom & pop steak and hoagie shops all around the city and environs that can turn out a fine sandwich. The fact is, anyone with the good sense to use proper South Philadelphia rolls, a willingness to sweat over a hot grill and a complete absence of grease-phobia is halfway there before he even starts.

Here are four alternative locations, two in the city and two in the suburbs, which have substantial followings. I can vouch for three of them personally. Tony Luke's (39 Oregon Avenue) is one of the great "sammitch" shops in the city, and word has it that their cheesesteak is on a par with the extraordinary roast pork sandwich (with broccoli rabe or provolone and hot peppers) for which I make the trip to this refurbished truck stop. Dalessandro's Steaks (Henry Avenue & Wendover Street) in the Roxborough section of the city is known for the size of its sandwiches and quality definitely matched quantity when I used to live around the corner and down the street in the days of my callow youth. Another really good spot that was my neighborhood steak house for a while back then is John's Pizza, on Lancaster Avenue (Route 30) in Frazier, out there in the far western 'burbs after the Main Line ends and before Exton begins.

I've never been to Leo's (1403 Chester Pike, Folcroft), but it had such a rabid following when I did an Internet search recently that it has to be mentioned. It's at the 420 exit off I-95 just south of the airport, so not out of the question for air travelers with a rental car.

Which cheesesteak is the very best, you ask? I may appear to have avoided that question, but the answer is quite simple. The most recent one. Discover that for yourself whenever you're fortunate enough to be in Philadelphia. Go. Eat. Forget cholesterol and calories just once. Chances are you'll then dream about that one glorious sandwich for the rest of your days, but that's a small price to pay.

There is another price of sorts. It's only fair to warn you that one of the shared characteristics of many of these purveyors of the most sublime of junk foods, especially among the Big Three, is a certain surliness on the part of counter staff, an unwillingness to suffer fools gladly, or silently. Deal with it. "Atty-tood" is a fundamental part of the Philadelphia experience. You got a problem with that?