Fail-adelphia

For a history nerd there are few American cities more thrilling than Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.  Since that's where the United States was born, it's about as historical as this country gets.  On every corner there's another old building with another plaque explaining that Henry Whoever lived there in Whatever Year and was important to the birth of the nation for Whichever Reason.  It's amazing.

Also amazing: Philly Cheesesteaks.   Not as amazing: Philadelphians' sudden transformation into a Stalin/Mao lovechild if you dare to disrespect the cheesesteak by attempting a special order. 

On the corner of E Passyunk & S 9th are Philadelphia's two oldest cheesesteak stands: Pat's King of Steaks and Geno's Steaks.  Each uses a different cut of steak with different seasonings, each specializes in a different cheese (provolone or whiz?), each claims to be the best in the city (and claims a number of loyal customers) and each will look at you like you've suddenly donned a PETA sandwich board if you ask for your cheesesteak without bread.

I was diagnosed with a gluten intolerance in August of 2009, after seven months of flu-like symptoms.  At home I've adjusted pretty well to the new diet, but finding food on the go is definitely a challenge, and there are some regional specialties that I really miss--fish & chips (although I hear there's a place in Portland that has GF fish & chips.  Stay tuned.), and Philly cheesesteaks.  Having gone to college outside of Pittsburgh I often spent vacations on the east side of the state, and I was very much looking forward to re-experiencing a "real" cheesesteak and introducing them to Matthew.

There we are, on the corner of E Passyunk & S 9th, enjoying a fabulous day with some of my best college buddies, sure that taking the steak and the cheese and throwing it in a cup instead of a hoagie roll is not going to be a problem.  Apparently, we had underestimated how much the need to maintain the purity of the cheesesteak would trump our ready $10, because both places cold-heartedly denied my friend and I the teeny adjustment that would have allowed us to join our friends in experiencing the only interesting thing in Philadelphia that's less than 100 years old.  Not only were we denied, we were barked a crushing "NO!" while both Pat and Geno ignored our crestfallen faces and turned their attention to more worthy customers.  So while the rest of our group sat in a nearby park, blissfully chowing down on the cheesesteaks, comparing Pat's to Geno's, provolone to whiz, we mournfully stabbed at our less-than-exciting enchiladas and tamales from the taco stand next door.  Epic fail, City of Brotherly Love.  Epic fail.

Fortunately, the Philadelphia food scene was able to redeem itself when we visited Amada that evening, Iron Chef Jose Garces' tapas restaurant.  I must admit, I'm a bit of a Food Network whore.  Tell me that a restaurant was started by a chef I've seen on TV and I will eagerly empty my savings account to eat there.  And Amada did not disappoint (although if Matt hadn't had two cheesesteaks that afternoon we may have had to dip into our savings!  Never go to a tapas place on a totally empty stomach.  You will spend $200.  Guaranteed.)  They even had a gluten free menu!  With every bite of their perfectly cured meats love was restored.