PAT'S CHEESESTEAKS

Being in New York, one could be forgiven for falling into the trap that this is the centre of the universe, of buying into the myth that this is the only city that matters, that if you make it here you make it anywhere. There is a history founded on that belief and this is the place where people make their dreams come true according to the popular story that is often told. But it will also break you down, and one sees people resigned to the fate they did not think was theirs to have and to hold.

Perhaps this is also true of ‘America’ at large for people who are not from here, that it is the biggest market, that it is the best in show, that it really is synonymous with the world. Certain types of advertising and self-perception would support this, not least in sports where the national winners of the ice hockey, basketball and baseball are all anointed ‘World Champions’. But, the world resists, it always does, creating its own competitions and grading systems. Nevertheless, there is something about American exceptionalism that generates its own momentum.

I was thinking of America as K, C and I went on a day trip to Philadelphia, the birthplace of the Declaration of Independence and with that the birthplace, arguably, of ‘America’. Keen readers of this blog will know that I lived there some years ago and I was keen to visit and see how the city was doing. I lived there for a year in 2003 and 2004, and then for two more between 2006 and 2008, going to a fine school where I got an excellent education beyond anything I could imagine. I appreciated being in school there, which was, to my mind a wonderful challenge that I accepted heartily. But, I did have mixed feelings about the city. I lived in a charming neighbourhood that was dominated by working class, African American families who were friendly and inviting. But the city as a whole felt unshod, kind of tough and rough and grimy. And, in winter it broke me. How the city would stop when the snow fell, the feeling of always being cold inside my house, the way the buildings were crumbling, falling in on themselves, the abandoned cars, the body count that was reported like a weather report on the front page of the local paper, the toxic masculinity that was expressed at sports, the way the city always lived in New York’s shadow and gave people a chip on the shoulder. I say all this as a way to prove my affection, to demonstrate that I did love it there in the way that other people suggest – through criticism. It was the first city I really lived in. I grew up in the suburbs of Perth, spent time in Margaret River and South East Asia a lot, went on a grand tour of Europe after I left school, moved to Canberra as an undergraduate, but I had never really lived in a city. It helped give me an understanding of modernism in particular, but also the mindset that comes with being in an apartment, with taking the subway to work, with hustle and grit and grime and dirt.

There were a great many things to appreciate about Philadelphia – the eccentric legacy of Benjamin Franklin, the role of Quakers, the founding of America. While I was there, I also grew to love Philly cheesesteaks. I remember the first time I had one, and, was not impressed. This was what people had been talking about. This sloppy mess. But then, after trying it again, and again, I grew to love them. A cheesesteak is chopped up steak that resembles stringy mince served with onions on a hoagie roll with cheese. I prefer cheese whizz but some like American, some like provolone. The genius is in its simplicity and the execution is what matters. They make the grill hot then fry the steak cutting it up at a furious pace while it cooks, mix in the ready to serve onions, then they place cheese slices on top of it until they melt somewhat, then it is all placed in the white bread roll and squirted with ketchup to finish it off. It is the food of drunks. What I love about it is the mouth-feel and the salty, melty goodness. It is delicious.

But where does one find this piece of local pride and eating heaven. Like all good cities that have a customary food, this is hotly debated in Philadelphia. From a guard at the art museum (who, incidentally, was happy to inform us that she went to high school with Will Smith) the recommendation was Jim’s on South Street. From our Uber driver (who, incidentally, was happy to inform us that he went to high school with Rasheed Wallace), the recommendation was Geno’s. But, I myself prefer Pat’s. Pat’s is next to Geno’s in Italian Market and it seems like a slightly more low key kind of place. It is open 24 hours and after poke on Tuesday nights, I used to ride my bike there from West Philadelphia when the weather permitted it. Their cheesesteak was always what I wanted after a beer or two or eight. This time we went there on our way to the basketball game. That was the reason we had come to Philly. C’s team was visiting and it was a chance for him to see the best of the best in competition. But today, though we had it all planned, the snow came in and the city was struggling to cope. We were the only people eating cheesesteaks outside in the sub-zero cold. The meat was soft and pliable, the cheese melted, the bread the perfect chew. Still, I think I was eating more out of memory, more out of the feeling I used to get when I was younger here and still somewhat in awe of cities. K simply says 'it's good but I wouldn't travel for it'. When in Philly I guess, but if not, then don't bother. 

Afterwards, we made it to the game and C’s team won in triple overtime that renewed my faith in sport. We missed our bus back to New York because of it, only to find the last three seats on a  midnight Amtrak, arriving in the seedy underbelly that is New York's Penn Station at 2am, waiting for the subway uptown and a warm bed at home. Once K and I got there, I felt like another cheesesteak, but this time we settled for goat’s brie on English muffins with cornichons (or vegemite in her case), which some town would be wise to declare their local food and make a honeypot for travellers to fall into.

Pat's King of Steaks

1237 E Passyunk Ave, Philadelphia, PA 19147

Open 24 hours.

Photo: Chris Gurney