Friday, May 18, 2007

Why Can't Chicago get a Philly Cheesesteak Right???

THe ANNOTICO Report

 

How difficult is it to make a Philly Cheesesteake RIGHT???? It's just steak, onions, cheese and slap it onto bread.

 

Of course , you have to use the thinnest of minute steak, chopped up real fine on the grill, a healthy dose of grilled onions, two slices of provolone cheese on a long roll.

 

But the deepest secrets are in the bread and the wrap.  

 

An Amoroso roll -- crusty outside with soft guts perfect for sopping up extra juices. It's not unlike a chunk of good Gonnella bread.

 

Swaddling the sandwich in two layers of paper-lined foil wrap -- sometimes seen here around an Italian beef -- incubates it just so, letting the assortment of flavors melt into each other. NO  Styrofoam carryout box !!!!!

 

And DON'T  be adding mayonnaise, lettuce, tomato,any salad greens, green or red peppers, mushrooms, marinara sauce, or god forbid I need not mention ......ketchup.!!!!!!!

 

And even changing cheeses, like when John Kerry tried to order a "Philly" with Swiss cheese on the campaign trail, Philly laughed.

The origins of the "Philly" goes that in 1930, Pat Olivieri (of Pat's King of Steaks, one of the disputed "best cheesesteaks" in Philadelphia) was running a hot dog stand. One day he cooked chopped meat on his hot dog grill, dressed it with onions and filled a hot dog roll. A passing cabbie insisted on eating one himself. Legend has the cabbie saying, "Hey... forget 'bout those hot dogs, you should sell these." The sandwich spread all over the city. Philadelphia somehow seized ownership of the cheesesteak, and branded it.

 

When it comes to replicating Philly exports, relocated reporter learns there's no tastes like home

Daily Southtown, Chicago

Sun-Times  News Group

By Lauren FitzPatrick

May 17, 2007

Mayonnaise is to a Philadelphia Cheesesteak what ketchup means to a Chicago hot dog.

Fighting words.

 

The search for an authentic Philly Cheesesteak sent our writer around the Southland looking for a taste of hime.

Yet, on my quest as a native Philadelphian in search of a cheesesteak in my adopted homeland, mayonnaise somehow became a regular offering, joining lettuce and tomato.

Here's the deal, Southland. A cheesesteak is cheese and chopped-up, paper-thin grilled minute steak on a long roll. Period. Anything extra changes the order -- and even the name. Want onions? Try asking for a "cheesesteak with (or "wit' " per the common vernacular). Mushrooms change the order to a "mushroom steak with cheese." Marinana sauce turns it into a "pizza steak."

But across the Southland, a cheesesteak or Philly steak came with standard onions, red or green peppers, mushrooms in addition to provolone cheese.

And while each sandwich spot got something right -- the bread or the meat, the texture or the taste -- nobody nailed it.

So much for that glorious taste of home.

A Philadelphia story

My mother taught me at a young age that the right bread made the cheesesteak.

In Philadelphia, that means an Amoroso roll -- crusty outside with soft guts perfect for sopping up extra juices. It's not unlike a chunk of good Gonnella bread. Swaddling the sandwich in two layers of paper-lined foil wrap -- sometimes seen here around an Italian beef -- incubates it just so, letting the assortment of flavors melt into each other. The sensation, though not the taste is not unlike a great cheeseburger where bits of ketchup, cold pickle, warm meat fill the mouth in a single marvelous taste.

I still have my own hometown joint, Barry's, on my speed dial, in case I find myself starving in my childhood neighborhood, Roxborough, an outlying community of Philadelphia not unlike Mount Greenwood, what with its agricultural magnet school and an inordinately high percentage of police and public school teachers living there.

Barry -- whose phone number spells out 487-FAST -- whips together a gem of a sandwich in two sizes, and triple wraps anything I tell him is coming with me on an airplane. His steak is whisper-thin, coated in cheese and grilled onions. Sometimes I ask for extra sauce.

The Philly Steak ekes onto menus everywhere, from neighborhood joints on Philadelphia's corners to the outreaches of Saudi Arabia, where I saw it served on a hot dog bun. I wondered what it is about this particular sandwich that has enamored the planet, what kind of marketing has secured it a spot at most diners, TGI Friday's and other places it doesn't belong. I mean, anyone could sell a version of chopped beef on bread with flavorful accouterments -- the proof is in the round form known as the hamburger.

The story goes that in 1930, Pat Olivieri (of Pat's King of Steaks, one of the disputed "best cheesesteaks" in Philadelphia) was running a hot dog stand at the base of the Italian Market in South Philadelphia. One day he cooked chopped meat on his hot dog grill, dressed it with onions and filled a hot dog roll. A passing cabbie asked about the sandwich and insisted on eating one himself. Legend has the cabbie saying, "Hey... forget 'bout those hot dogs, you should sell these."

The sandwich spread all over the city. Philadelphia somehow seized ownership of the cheesesteak, and branded it. And when the likes of John Kerry tried to order one with Swiss cheese on the campaign trail, we as a city laughed outright.

Our kind of cheesesteak, Chicago has

With Barry's on my mind from a recent visit with my family, I ran around the Southland looking for a great cheesesteak. Turned up four places that pushed something they called a Philly Steak, not bothering with the big sit-downs like Applebees. Here's the skinny:

Mall food's for suckers in a hurry. But two Southland mall joints so heavily advertised themselves as "Straight outta South Philly," where most of Philadelphia's Italian Americans started out and still live, that I took their bait.

So in last place, Steak Escape at Ford City. Promising a recipe straight outta South Philly, the Escape failed to deliver. They got the beef right, chopping it up into small bits as they grilled it, and the provolone cheese was fine, but the roll was too bready. Skimpy onions, mushrooms and roasted red peppers (standards on their standard cheesesteak) left me wanting more flavor. A Styrofoam carryout box squandered any chance for magical flavor mixing on the way home. And at $7.49, an astronomical number for such a sandwich, I'm not going back.

Third place goes to Great Steak and Potato, in Orland Square Mall's food court. Meat entirely too chunky. Same Styrofoam problem. Also, they asked if I wanted mayonnaise, a giant faux pas. And $6.99 is still way too expensive.

I guess second place goes to a relatively new joint on 159th Street in Tinley Park called Steak N Bake. This joint errs in prefixing everything it serves with "Philly," as if there were such a thing as a Philly potato, a Philly salad or a Reuben Philly. Huh? It's a shame because the service couldn't have been faster or friendlier, and the place is a cheery purple and yellow. But when talking steaks, they too tried to gussy 'em up with mayo and salad greens and green peppers. The grilled mushrooms and onions were pretty tasty, and the large sandwich Steak Philly -- at $5.99 -- was a pretty decent value.

That leaves first place for Chicago Cheese Steak, 7759 S. Cicero Ave., in Chicago. To be fair, Chicago Cheese Steak doesn't pretend to be from Philadelphia, and is trying to do its own thing, offering lettuce, tomato and mayo (which I politely rejected), along with provolone, onions, mushrooms and green peppers. They even wrapped the sandwich in wax paper for the ride home, a tiny yet essential detail that allowed the magic to happen. This sandwich tasted amazing. Period. Its lone flaw was the texture of the meat, cut thickly like an Italian beef instead of a Philly steak. The price was right though at $4.99.

Four steaks later, my advice overall to everyone in the Southland who ever dreamed of grilling a little taste of heaven here is: Don't bother.

You'll likely succeed in making a tasty sandwich. After all, it's hard to screw up steak, onions, cheese and slap it onto bread. And if you use the thinnest of minute steak, chopped up on the grill, a healthy dose of grilled onions, two slices of provolone cheese -- or Cheese Whiz as my special gentleman friend prefers when he visits my family with me -- chances are you'll make a really tasty steak sandwich.

But the probability of capturing Barry's magic is slim to none. Dial (215) 487-FAST and get on a plane if a glorious steak sandwich is what you crave.

Meanwhile, eat a Chicago hot dog with everything on it, or a fabulous Italian beef sandwich or neighborhood pizza, and sleep well knowing you've enjoyed the best this neck of the world has to offer.

Isn't that what gives each place its soul?

Steak joints reviewed

1. Chicago Cheese Steak, 7759 S. Cicero Ave., Chicago (773) 585-0312.

2. Steak N Bake, 7537 W. 159th St., Tinley Park (708) 444-8400.

3. Great Steak and Potato, Orland Square Mall food court, 288 Orland Square, Orland Park (708) 460-0558.

4. Steak Escape, Ford City Mall food court, 7601 S. Cicero Ave., Chicago (773) 767-8660.

 

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