Below The Fold

It was a 10-hour day, and my traveling companion had some shmoozing to do after work, so I was on my own tonight.
Whenever people heard I was coming out here for the last several weeks, all I heard from them was, “Make sure you have a Philly Cheesesteak!” It’s some sort of rite of passage; some kind of euphemistic stamp for an Interstate passport, if one existed. If I owned a steamer trunk, I would only have received my Philadelphia sticker if I had the Cheesesteak.
So, for all of you, yes, I have now eaten an authentic Philadelphia Cheesesteak.
I did my due diligence. Since Pat’s is now a nationwide chain, and we have them in Denver, and my co-workers were so completely disappointed on their last trip to Philly when they made the trek to Geno’s, I opted for one of the city’s self-proclaimed Best, Jim’s..
I made my way down to South Street around 7 pm tonight. A cross between Austin’s 6th St. and Times Square
(pre-Guiliani), South Street has a curious collection of shops, delis and bars. Jim’s is one of those, and the guys behind the counter were friendly and chatty.
“Whatchoo want, big man?” The guy on the grill asked me.
“Whatever you do, dawg,” I replied, very proud of my street-wise command of the local vernacular.
“Ah’ight, ‘den” he shot back.”
I moved down the line and the next guy asked me what I wanted to drink. My buddy Dale, a bit of a beer-o-phile, told me to try the Yuengling, America’s oldest and continually family-run brewery. I asked the guy if Jim’s had them.
“Of Course!” he said, looking at me like I had just asked if he had lost his virginity yet.
“They told me Jim’s was the place to go when I came out here,” I said, dropping the hint that I was a bumbling tourist and that he should forgive my ignorance. He asked where I was from, and I said, Denver.
“You a Broncos fan?”
Apparently, Philadelphia is a football town.
Now, that’s a bit of an understatement. Philadelphia is a football town like the Vatican is a Catholic berg. Witness the comments I heard on the news after the Eagles dumped a huge lead over the G’men last weekend (Manning to Burress is apparently the new Manning to Wayne. Not Harrison yet, but definitely Wayne):
“I feel like my heart is in my ankles, man. My fucking ankles.” (I added the profanity, but it was really there. Just not actually spoken).
“I just wanna shoot myself in the head.”
“I feel like dyin’ man. Dyin.”
“My stomach hurts, it was so bad.”
And this is in week TWO.
Anyway, I said, yes, I am a Broncos fan. And he said, “Yo, man, Champ was the best trade ever, you know? Portis was a chump. A Chump for a champ.”
I replied, “Well, you shipped off T.O. and got Donte Stallworth in return. And McNabb’s making him look like a champ. And no one knew it yet. Score one for Reid.”
I got the Yuengling for free.
So, I washed down my beef, cheese, mushroom and onion sandwich with America’s oldest and continually family-owned and operated brew, and I gotta say: way too much hype, man. The beer’s okay (a little stouter than Coors. About as flavorful), and the sandwich was nothing to write home about.
Indeed, I think the whole thing about the Philly Cheeseteak is the fact that the sandwich was invented in Philly, so you have to eat one here. But The thought that it’s somehow so much better here? That’s like suggesting the best burger in the world is in Hamburg. Or the best buffalo wings in the world are in Buffalo.
And everyone knows NOTHING is the “best” if it’s in Buffalo.