Philadelphia Freedom

 

Philadelphia Freedom

Recently I received a message from a fellow Philadelphia university grad.  He knew my propensity for our past pabulum and my inability to obtain it here in NYC.  He pointed out a Philly Cheesesteak truck that travels about the city clogging unsuspecting arteries, Phil's Steaks.  I quickly found and friended them on Facebook.  Today a status alert arrived… my game was on the move and arriving to an angioplasty near me.  I set off to severe years from my already shortened existence.  Oh Cheesesteak, how I have missed thee.

It all began my freshman year.  Orientation at Drexel for this 17 year old consisted of many things that have long since been forgotten.  The one moment that will last forever was my introduction to the Philly Cheesesteak.

Drexel started classes later than almost every college.  It was late September, and I really was back at school.  I was assigned to the 6^th floor of the Calhoun dormitory.  While all floors were equal, this one was not.  Since this was an engineering educational establishment there were more Y chromosomes than X…and they filled the entire 6^th floor with them.   Later I would realize that the uniqueness of this floor would create a bond and tighter friendships since we were all in the same boat...the S.S. Sausage (but we did wind up having the best dorm sports teams).  These bonds began the first night when we met our Resident Assistant, Jerry.  Jerry was in his 3^rd year, but you would think he was Anthony J. Drexel himself.  An extremely popular guy, he was going to show us newbies the ropes.  After his dormly duties were done, he asked who from the group was from out of town.  Eleven guys raised their hand and I was among them.  He politely dismissed the rest.  He asked the remaining few if we ever had a Philly Cheesesteak…and we all responded with a negative.  This was about to change.  Our TRUE introduction to Philadelphia…and he had just the place.  Most of you may know Pat’s and Gino’s…but Jim’s, the Gem of South Street, was our destination.

South Street, not being anywhere near Drexel, required transportation.  We went down to one of the busier thoroughfares to hail a cab…all twelve of us.  It took a few tries before we could convince a cabbie to accommodate an unlawful amount of voyagers…but eventually we would succeed and off we went.  I tried to peer through the collection of elbows, heads and upside down feet to catch a glimpse of my new city…but to no avail.  Upon arrival we piled out like clowns from a circus car.  We stood in awe before the Mecca of Meat.  Jerry instructed us on the etiquette of ordering.  It began simply with “Cheese Steak”.  Then came your choice of cheese, “Provolone” or “American” or “Whiz”.  Whiz being short for cheese whiz…different than the squeeze bottle type, this canned golden globule was second cousin to “The Blob”.  The tail end of your order consisted of a single word “Wit” ... if you wanted onions.

When I entered, I can recall hearing angels sing…or The Hooters, either or.   One wall was adorned with famous photos of past partakers.  On another wall, plaques were posted proclaiming the record holders for most hourly Cheesesteaks consumed.  Jerry caught me eyeing the Guinness of Gluttony and nudged me “Walshy, you gonna break the record tonight”.  He found himself humorous since I was one of the youngest, shortest and thinnest (I WAS thin before I discovered Cheesesteaks) of this group.

I was in line and it almost my turn at the plate.  I suddenly noticed an offering I was not informed of…Pizza Sauce...I liked Pizza (and Pina Colada ices dammit!).  I thought pizza sauce would add a little NY familiarity.  I moved into the batters box and like Ralphie meeting Santa Claus, I couldn’t blow it now…I had one chance to get this right.  A loud “NEXT” and the grizzled grill guy stared me down.  Like Mike Schmidt himself I ordered “Pizza Steak Whiz Wit”…a pause and another loud “Next” to the guy in the on deck circle meant I hit it out of the park.  We gathered upstairs to gorge, since it was the only place that could handle the Dirty Dozen.  As I ate, the combination of grease, sauce, whiz and onions dripped down my face and hands.  I was hooked.

In the 30 years since, I have never ordered anything other than a “Pizza Steak Whiz Wit”...and today was no different.

When you get it right the first time, why change...