There was a time in South Philadelphia before cheesesteaks, when the hoagie was the sandwich of choice and we argued with New York over its origins. New Yorkers in their often pretentious way called their’s a "hero."
I am even old enough to remember a South Philadelphia when the wiener was top dog. My Dad and I often bonded over a juicy all-beef frank and a Champ Cherry soda at Levis. Dad also introduced me to the hamburgers at Dewey’s on Market Street. We liked our burgers unadorned except for some fried onions and the necessary vanilla malted milk to wash it down.
It is not the purpose of this column to trace the historic origins of the cheesesteak. I will leave that for others. But my first memories of the cheesesteak begin in my late teens. In those days, there was no controversy over who had the best — there was only Pat’s. The cheesesteaks tasted best late on a Friday night. At some point they replaced pizza and Chinese food as the snack of choice. You ate while sitting in some old jalopy a friend owned or you just stood around outside and tried to stop the juice from trickling on your clothing. The simpler and greasier the better.
The cheesesteak was, at its inception, the model of simplicity. The beef was wafer thin and chopped in pieces on the grill so it cooked more quickly. In point of fact, Cheez Whiz was not the cheese of choice on a steak sandwich. Our cheesesteaks were uncorrupted by the chemicals of the modern food industry. Kraft was a name to be scorned. I am uncertain as to when someone first introduced the orange goo on cheesesteaks, but I view it as synonymous with the loss of innocence.
Interestingly, the cheesesteak was still a local phenomenon unknown outside our area. When my cousin moved to Nashville for business reasons, cheesesteaks were unfamiliar in that region. His wife tried to purchase minute steak from her Nashville butcher so she could at least make him one at home. The butcher had never heard of using razor thin cuts of steak for sandwiches, but he was intrigued and began to stock it for my cousin. I am here to tell you he should get primary credit for introducing the cheesesteak in the South. It was on its way to international fame.
The downfall of the cheesesteak began like all great American tragedies: Tony restaurants in town began to feel obligated to offer their expensive versions. At one, they used fancy cuts of beef, added foie gras and charged $100 for this gilded version. For a mere $18.50 you can taste the Four Seasons attempt, minus the foie gras. The cheesesteak was no longer the choice of the working class. It became just another silly item whose only claim to fame was its extravagance, something to laugh at and write-off on your expense account.
Across the country, the cheesesteak fell victim to its own success. Every fast food chain had its version. A fast-food cheesesteak is to a genuine Philadelphia cheesesteak what Jose Mesa is to pitching. Pity the poor cheesesteak, it had become an American clich�.
It is ironic while Philadelphia has become the haute cuisine capital of the United States (as good as New York and less expensive), out-of-town media dummies continue to think our menus begin and end with the meaty sandwich. Some of our misguided fans have taken to wearing cheesesteak hats to football games. (Please have the good grace to stay out of camera range.) Leave the cheese hats for the fans who are unfortunate enough to live in Green Bay.
Sadly, the cheesesteak has become so impressed with its self-importance it has descended into the political arena. The purveyors of the common cheesesteak have become self-styled pundits. Presidential candidates now feel compelled to eat a Philly cheesesteak when they come to town and worship at the high altar of guys whose talent is making steak sandwiches, not immigration policy.
There was poor John Kerry in the last election. He made the faux pas of ordering his with Swiss. We recoiled in horror. It made all the national wire services. So we didn’t elect Kerry; we elected the guy with whom we would rather have a beer and a cheesesteak. How did that work out?
Recently Rudy Giuliani came to town and one of his campaign people must have gotten the bright idea he could shed the "sanctuary city" charge leveled against him by Mitt Romney by posing with Joe Vento and eating a cheesesteak. Vento is intent on having everyone speak the Queen’s English when ordering one of his sandwiches — something that would seem to rank just below outlawing gay marriage in the importance of things that affect our personal lives. Rudy wrapped his arms around Vento and beat four other Republican candidates to the punch.
So it is that the once unassuming cheesesteak is now the grandiose symbol of politicians. I liked cheesesteaks better when they were served without all that baloney.
