Food Porn: The cheesesteak episode

Truly, the King of Steaks, prepared “Whiz-wit.”

Every now and again, in life, we have stories about food. Sometimes, that story is: “Hey, I had really great pancakes today!” Or, “This was the worst restaurant I’ve visited all year…harrumph!” But some food stories are so personally legendary, so epic, that they live on, immortal, in ones mind and life, ready to be shared via oral tradition (or, here, via Internet), like scholars gathered around a fire listening to Homer wax rhapsodic about “rosy-fingered dawn.”

Okay, I’m not Homer. I know that. That said, I do happen to have several rather epic food stories, collected from years of gastronomical adventures around the country and the world. This one, friends, is probably my favorite.

I was eighteen years old and in my last semester of high-school, getting ready to graduate and move on to the collegiate life. I couldn’t wait. My parents thought it would be a nice idea to visit my older brother at his university, George Washington U. in D.C., for a long weekend to get a little taste of what college might have in store for me. I’d share his small room in a Sigma Nu fraternity house, and we’d explore the campus and the city. Colin would lead me, with all his newfound college sagacity, through the corridors and social perils of university life.

I’ll say this: It was both a disaster and an ultimate victory.

You see, the thing is, Sigma Nu, as a college fraternal organization, believes very strongly in their no-hazing (ever) policy. This policy, as the high school brother of a brother, did not, it seemed, apply to me. Colin and his brothers took unabashed glee at forcing me to finish round after round at a bar called “The Black Rooster,” until I compelled myself into a rancid bathroom stall in order to, shall I say “reboot my system.” This was the disaster. But, being all of eighteen, while it might have been unpleasant, it wasn’t keeping me from continuing the party. So we beat on, boats against the current, yadda yadda yadda.

At around 1:30 a.m., one of Colin’s more sinister brothers, a guy I’ll call “Blake,” asked if I was hungry. “Hell yeah!” I replied, mostly because I was inebriated and I’d already lost my dinner a few hours earlier. “Awesome,” he said, and then bellowed triumphantly, “WE’RE GOING TO PATS!!!” Everyone cheered. “Where’s Pat’s?” I asked Blake, and he said, “Philadelphia.” And so I laughed. Good one, Blake. You really had me for a second there.

Forty-five minutes later, we’re in a crappy hatchback on the Interstate, supplied with only a half-case of Busch beer and a mostly full bottle of peppermint schnapps (none for the driver, a hippy-ish guy they called “Muddy”), merrily making our way into the night. Because I thought we were just headed back to the fraternity house, I asked for clarification. “Wait,” I said, “where are we going again?” At which moment everyone in the car triumphantly cried “WE’RE GOING TO PAT’S!!!” “And,” I had to ask, “Where is Pat’s again?” “PHILADELPHIA, WOOHOO!!! PAT’S!!! YEAH!!!”

The reason that these geniuses were driving from Washington D.C. to Philadelphia at two in the damned morning, was to visit a famous American institution — Pat’s, King of Steaks — for their signature Philly cheesesteak sandwich. There is some debate over whether the steaks are better at Pat’s or its sworn rival across the street, Gino’s, but for these guys, it was Pat’s or nothing. Apparently, they’d been making this pilgrimage, a kind of “cheesesteak hajj” — regularly for some years. And here we were, half in the bucket, launching headlong into the night on a take-no-prisoners mission for a Pat’s cheesesteak. There was little I could do to protest, but, given the devilish glee in which these boys discussed their favorite sandwich, I didn’t really want to.

We arrived at Pat’s at 4:30 a.m. The stand was all but empty, though still open (a 24/7 policy is very convenient when you decide to drive two and a half hours in the middle of the night for a cheesesteak). “Okay,” one of my brother’s friends told me as we waited in line, “this is what you want. Repeat after me: Steak, wiz, wit.” I repeated the Pat’s mantra, “steak, wiz, wit.” Not that I knew what it meant at the time, but “whiz-wit” is Philly code for a cheesesteak topped with griddled onions and a generous slathering of Cheez Whiz.

At that moment, exhausted and famished just before the sun rose over the East Coast, I had one of the best sandwiches of my life. The fluffy, flaky bread (reminiscent, even, of NOLA French bread), the juicy, salty steak, the pungent onions, and that glorious, artificial goo that is Cheez Wiz all combined into a singular experience.

Nothing in life is like a roast beef po-boy at R&O. And nothing in life is like a muffaletta from Cochon Butcher. And nothing in life, I learned early that morning in the City of Brotherly Love, is like a cheesesteak at Pat’s.

Heading back home to D.C., groggy and filled with greasy steak and cheese and onions and bread, we had the fortune to get stuck in the morning rush hour traffic on the Beltway. “Jesus,” someone remarked. “Look at all these suckers. I bet not one of them — NOT ONE! — had Pat’s last night.” And when we finally made it back to the house at around 8 a.m., ready for some serious down time, Blake made sure to accomplish one final task. One of their brothers was known in the house for his deep and unabiding love for Pat’s, though sadly, we couldn’t find him before we took off the previous evening. So Blake made sure to put a branded, empty, Pat’s soda cup right in front of his room. When that guy opened up his door to see that we’d been to Pat’s and he hadn’t, what issued forth was no less than a geyser of vitriolic profanity that would make even the saltiest sailor blush, not to mention a spectacle of wrestling between the two that eventually resulted in them being torn apart before they started breaking things (or each other).

And the great thing was, I knew just how that poor soul felt, because I had taken part in a treasured food moment, a ritual of bonding and dining and camaraderie that I realized was unique unto the world.

These days, there are no shortage of cheesesteaks in this country, and even in New Orleans. Liberty Cheesesteaks makes a fine Whiz-wit indeed. But nothing will ever compare with that time when, as a teenager, I galloped out into the evening on a mission to find the King of Steaks, fortified by youth and booze and food fervor.

And I’m sure nothing ever will.