Remember Murphy Brown? I used to watch it a lot, because it was a show about reporters, and since I wanted to be a reporter someday, I considered that research. I didn't know any actual journalists back then -- the closest I came was a high school journalism teacher who (I think) was really the track coach and who (I think) had never read a newspaper -- so Murphy Brownwas my connection to the world of newsrooms, deadlines, big stories and smart, successful people who always seemed to be saying smart, funny or thoughtful things at exactly the right moment.
Anna Newell
Pearl of sandwich: Jim Jackman goes hoagie wild at Famous Philly Cheesesteak.
Location Info
Details
Famous Philly Cheesesteak
890 South Monaco Parkway,
303-393-0055
Hours: 10
a.m.-9 p.m.
Monday-Saturday
11 a.m. - 7
p.m. Sundays
Philly
cheesesteak:
$4.19/$5.19
Colorado hoagie:
$4.59/$5.99
Ham hoagie:
$3.99/$4.99
Meatball hoagie:
$3.99/$5.19
Taste of Philly
2432 South Colorado Boulevard,
303-757-3944
Hours: 10:30
a.m. - 9:30 p.m.
Sunday-Thursday
10:30
a.m.-10 p.m.
Friday-Saturday
Philly
cheesesteak: $3.85/5.95
Ham
hoagie: $3.99/$6.25
Italian
hoagie: $3.99/$6.45
Closed Location
Related Content
More About
Weird thing is, I can remember watching the show every week, but not much about any specific episode. Except this: the scene in which Murphy (Candace Bergen) tried to convince her boss to cut her an expense check for a deli sandwich delivered by Fed Ex from New York to her hotel somewhere overseas while she was on a story. I recall thinking what a fantastic idea that was -- a delivery service that could send a Sardi's ham on rye halfway around the world to someone in dire need. I also recall thinking that someday I wanted a job where I could have those sorts of arguments with my boss. A job where, rather than yelling about whose turn it was to scrub out the grease traps or brick the flat grill, I could quibble over how vital it was to have someone thousands of miles away make me a sandwich and then have it delivered to my door 24 hours later. And how important it was that someone else pay for it.
Well, both my wishes came true. In this age of the Internet and high-speed, worldwide package delivery, you can get just about any damn-fool thing you want dropped off just about anywhere you want it. And what this damn fool wanted was two authentic Philly cheesesteaks and a six-pack of black-cherry soda, packed up at Domenico's in Philadelphia, put on a night flight like a U.N. emergency-aid shipment and delivered right to my front door.
Seeing the Fed Ex man arrive was like catching a glimpse of Santa's big red ass going back up the chimney on Christmas morning. And after a quick re-heating in the oven (and forking over $75 for the privilege), a bite of that sandwich was like coming home.
The cheesesteak was, arguably, invented by hot-dog cart impresario Pat Olivieri, just outside the South Philly Italian Market in 1930. And the formula for creating a proper one hasn't changed much since. The construction of a Philly cheesesteak comprises exactly four elements: the meat (good sirloin or ribeye, chopped, not shaved, and preferably roughed up on the grill so that some of the little pieces get overcooked and crunchy while the bigger bits are left tender); the cheese (provolone or white American only if it's sliced, otherwise the Whiz variety, melted, because cheesesteaks are the only excuse for the existence of aerosol cheese); the onions (either chopped small or sliced long and thin, fried in oil on the flat grill, then folded into the meat); and the bread (Amaroso's rolls if you can get them, otherwise the best local substitute available). Any alteration in any of the four elements makes a huge difference. A Philly with brie rather than Whiz? Unforgivably pretentious. One made on sprouted wheat bread rather than a good, chewy white roll dense enough to soak up all that grease? Don't even think about it. There's nothing in the world more foul than some white-jacketed kook trying to gussy up a Philly cheesesteak with toasted baguette and shiitake mushrooms. That's like painting teeth into the Mona Lisa's ghostly smile to make her look happier.
Domenico's cheesesteak reminded me just what a masterpiece this sandwich can be, reminded me of the classic taste I'd be searching for when I started eating my way through Denver's cheesesteak offerings. My detractors can say many things about me -- that I'm a grubby, foul-mouthed, mean-spirited hack, a half-bright thug more suited to banging out lurid food porn than sullying the good reputations of food writers everywhere with my pointless discursions on food memories and poor command of the English language -- but one thing's for sure: I do my research.
With my tastebuds re-tuned to the flavors of Philadelphia, I headed out to my first stop: Famous Philly Cheesesteak. This decade-old spot at Monaco and Leetsdale does a killer lunch business, as people come from all over town to either sit and nibble at tables of the standard food-court variety or pick up a bag of sandwiches and run. Famous Philly has the sort of open kitchen that existed long before open kitchens became all the rage with chefs who wanted to be center stage every night. The gleaming stainless fixtures, blackened flat-tops and fryers lined up along the back wall are in full view of anyone in the room, and they send the smell of frying onions and the sound of sizzling meat out to madden the waiting throngs. Facing these are the lowboys and cold tables that run the length of the long counter where the customers wait, and between them -- in the long, narrow space that I imagine looks a little like the galley on a submarine -- is where the cooks do their work, where all the action happens.
