A Tale of Two Phillies

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 Brown was 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.

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.

The big dining area is decorated with the requisite Eagles and Flyers pennants (an apparent Philadelphia City Council requirement for all ex-pat cheesesteak-and-hoagie joints), a framed photo of the Rocky statue standing in front of the Philadelphia art museum and, at either end of the wall opposite the kitchen, pictures of Pat’s King of Steaks (the archetypal cheesesteak joint founded by Olivieri) and the J&H Restaurant. In a place some 2,000 miles removed from the fertile urban blacktop from whence sprang the first cheesesteak joints, which have since seen their offspring go forth and multiply across the land, those photos are like a lifeline connecting the kitchen back to the coast, proof of the cheesesteak’s noble lineage, and they are displayed as proudly as snaps of dead relatives hung over the mantle.

Famous Philly was founded by a Philadelphia native known as Fat Jack, and current owner Jim Jackman, a New Yorker, still relies on Fat Jack’s quote/unquote authentic recipes. Jim takes his cheesesteaks very seriously. He uses good, tender meat, specially marinated in a secret oil (which tastes like 60/40 salad oil, perfect for sam’ich-makin’) and cooked fresh for every order; provolone melted down into an excellent goo that helps the entire sandwich maintain its structural integrity; and rolls from Trompeau Bakery that are the best I’ve tasted since coming to Denver. Even so, this cheesesteak doesn’t measure up.

Why not? The onions. My first bite of Famous Philly’s Philly was like biting into an onion sandwich. This kitchen takes huge whacks of onion — slices as wide as two fingers and over an inch long — then sprinkles them with a paprika spice mix before frying them on the grill. The onions come out soft, yes, and are properly cooked (if not totally caramelized), but the result is overpowering.

I’ve spent much time in the Philly-cheesesteak mother country (my wife is a native of Philadelphia, and a visit to the in-laws always includes going out for cheesesteaks and a bag of soft pretzels for the flight home), and I like my cheesesteaks with either long, stringy fried onions, or tiny, diced and caramelized bits. Is my complaint with Famous Philly’s version merely a matter of taste? Perhaps, but my suggestion to you, gentle reader, is that if you have any intention of kissing anyone in the next ten years or so, order a sandwich here light on the onions. You’ll thank me later.

Since man — tragically — cannot live on cheesesteaks alone, I also tried the hoagies. And this is where Famous Philly really shines. Those perfect rolls are dense enough to drink down about a gallon of oil without getting squishy or leaking all over your shirt — the ideal showcase for real Italian Genoa salami slathered in mayo, for thin-sliced honey ham and lean, chewy corned beef. They’re strong enough to hold giant portions of turkey, corned beef, roast beef and beef salami, American cheese and shredded green leaf lettuce (the makings for the Colorado Hoagie) without collapsing in on themselves like deli-meat supernovas. And most important, each roll is capable of holding three big meatballs, a large ladle of Famous Philly’s spicy red sauce and a few slices of provolone — and then survive a half-hour car trip in an oil-soaked paper bag without turning to paste. It’s a rather remarkable feat.

Although Famous Philly’s cheesesteak is nothing to write home about, it won my heart with its hoagies. And it gets bonus points for carrying genuine Pennsylvania Dutch birch beer in its coolers.

But then, so does Taste of Philly, where those bright-yellow cans of birch beer are tucked in the upright cooler right alongside all the Cokes and bottled water. And it one-ups Famous Philly in the nativer-than-thou department by also offering a limited selection of Tasty Kakes for sale at the counter — which is very important for those Pennsylvanians genetically incapable of eating anything for breakfast besides black coffee and butterscotch crimpets.

This little six-seater take-out place on Colorado Boulevard was founded eight years ago by a guy from Pennsylvania (Yeadon, actually), but it’s now owned by folks from South Jersey. It’s decorated in that same East Coast-refugee style, with a bunch of Philadelphia paraphernalia tacked up on the limited wall space, including a large picture of…you guessed it, Rocky Balboa. But most important, Taste of Philly’s Philly really delivered the taste of a real Philadelphia cheesesteak. The roll was a little stiffer, with a crust that gave the whole sandwich some heft. The meat was tender, chopped rough, cooked perfectly on a hot grill and seasoned with only a little black pepper. The provolone was melted all through the meat. The onions were thin, stringy and fried. All in all, this sandwich was perfect in every way. A memorable sandwich. The kind that people would drive across time zones for.

So it didn’t really matter, then, that Taste of Philly’s hoagies fell flat. The Italian was light, the ham hoagie not as stuffed or densely flavored as it could have been. Taste of Philly’s sandwich guys don’t pour on as much oil — or oil that tastes as good — as they do at Famous Philly, so the thicker bread can be dry. And Taste of Philly uses shredded iceberg lettuce, not green leaf, and uses a lot of it, which only makes the portions of everything else seem smaller.

While no cheesesteak or hoagie made in Denver on a Denver roll by Denver cooks will ever compare to the originals, these local attempts were valiant and the results surprisingly tasty. Arguments of personal taste (how big do you like your onions?), Murphy Brown fantasies and all claims of authenticity aside, when you get right down to it, there are only so many things anyone can do to a sandwich. Created (again, arguably) by John Montague, Fourth Earl of Sandwich, during a marathon card game in 1762 so that he wouldn’t have to put his cards down to eat, and since taken to every culinary extreme imaginable, history has proven that sandwiches are good, that they’re versatile, that any sandwich is better than no sandwich, and that when put together properly, the sandwich is one of mankind’s great inventions.

Though maybe not one worth seventy-five bucks — unless someone else is picking up the tab.