One time I was in the City of Brotherly Love for work and had to stay in a fancy downtown hotel. Looking for a quick lunch, I asked at the desk for directions to a sandwich shop.
The clerk spits out some garbled phrases in that atrocious Philly accent, pointing down the street.
I find the joint. It’s one of those “famous” cheesesteak shops. They got news clippings taped to the window about how they are one of the “true” old school sandwich shops. It was touching how much this distinction mattered to them, like being the smartest kid on the short bus.
So I figure when in Rome, and order a classic cheesesteak. And I watch as the grill-jockey builds my sandwich, this famous delicacy, and reaches for a can of Cheez Wizz.
They did not have real cheese. Like the fellow didn’t cook up the meat then lay down a couple of slices of provolone, or even American cheese, in a civilized manner. This scrapple-chewing coxcomb busted out the Cheez Wizz.
Fuck Philly with Ben Franklin’s poxy flesh baguette.
The clerk spits out some garbled phrases in that atrocious Philly accent, pointing down the street.
I find the joint. It’s one of those “famous” cheesesteak shops. They got news clippings taped to the window about how they are one of the “true” old school sandwich shops. It was touching how much this distinction mattered to them, like being the smartest kid on the short bus.
So I figure when in Rome, and order a classic cheesesteak. And I watch as the grill-jockey builds my sandwich, this famous delicacy, and reaches for a can of Cheez Wizz.
They did not have real cheese. Like the fellow didn’t cook up the meat then lay down a couple of slices of provolone, or even American cheese, in a civilized manner. This scrapple-chewing coxcomb busted out the Cheez Wizz.
Fuck Philly with Ben Franklin’s poxy flesh baguette.
.
