236 Pounds of Class Vice President

by Jason Mulgrew

  What we did eat on a regular basis was what could best be described by one of my favorite adjectives, rib-stickin’. While my mom was a good cook, she was not known for the breadth of her offerings. Her meatloaf was astounding; a thick rivulet of cheese oozed through its middle. Her lasagna was very good, loaded with ricotta cheese and full of ground beef. Her chicken cutlet, which she could turn into chicken parm with some American cheese and Ragu spaghetti sauce, was out of this world. My dad didn’t cook so much, but when he did, he made what we called “hash and noodles”: a pound or two of ground beef cooked in a pan in its own juices, covered in spaghetti sauce and mixed with egg noodles. Hot dogs and baked beans was a meal that both dad and mom cooked often. These are not exactly light fare.

  We did not eat seafood, aside from the occasional tuna fish sandwich that found its way into our lunch bags. My mom once offered us microwavable fish sticks, trying to pass them off as chicken fingers, but my brother and I, fat fucks that we were, knew what a goddamn chicken finger tasted like and saw right through her ruse. The Great Fish Stick Switch nearly caused a fissure in the home, and to this day, we still do not talk about it.

  My mom’s specialty was her desserts. My favorite was her Hawaiian wedding cake: two layers of yellow cake with vanilla pudding and pineapple chunks between them and Cool Whip frosting with coconut sprinkles on top. Her pumpkin roll was always a big hit: moist, spongy pumpkin cake with a cream cheese middle and powdered sugar. But her most famous dessert was her chocolate chip cake: chocolate chip cookies reinvented in cake form with a top layer dusted with sugar, brown sugar, and cinnamon.

  So, no veggies and no seafood, but plenty of heavy meals and sweets. This was strike two. Strike three was that I grew up in Philadelphia.

  My beloved hometown consistently ranks among the most obese cities in America in those studies that sometimes appear on CNN.com and subsequently get forwarded to me by my non-Philly friends with comments like “you must be so proud!!!” or “Philly: fat chops central!!!” Yes, our residents aren’t known for their fitness, as are the people of Washington D.C. or San Francisco or other fit cities that I can’t think of right now. But there’s a reason for this: our local foods are so much better than theirs.

  And so I present to you a brief overview of the foods that made me fat. These were staples of my diet growing up. Though I could have made healthier choices, I have no regrets. This stuff is delicious.

  The Cheesesteak

  When you think of Philadelphia and its foods, you think first and foremost of the cheesesteak. (Well, you should—I’m not exactly sure what’s going on in your head.) Sometimes stereotypes are true. For example, studies have shown that four out of five black people are really good singers. The stereotype of the cheesesteak-loving Philadelphian is also true. I cannot understate the ubiquity of the cheesesteak in my life. If a week went by in which I didn’t have a cheesesteak, it was because I’d spent seven days unconscious.

  But while the cheesesteak is the food most often associated with Philadelphia, it is also the most often misunderstood and bastardized. To start, there are only four components to a Philly cheesesteak:

  Bread

  Meat

  Cheese

  Fried (grilled) onions, which are optional, but encouraged

  That’s it. If you see an “authentic Philly cheesesteak” as the special at your local Friday’s or Chili’s with these four ingredients plus peppers or mushrooms or whatever else, please ask to speak to the head chef. When he greets you, say hello, then rear back and punch him directly in his mouth. While he’s probably just following orders from corporate headquarters and the “authentic” Philly cheesesteak is not his creation, great injustice calls for great reaction.

  Opinions vary about which ingredient is the most important for the cheesesteak. Some will say that the bread must come from a famous Philadelphia bakery to be considered a true Philly cheesesteak (and so you have cheesesteak places in New York or Washington claiming their true authenticity because they have rolls shipped from Philly every morning). In my opinion, the texture of the roll is more important than the name of the bakery from which it comes. In this case, a proper cheesesteak requires a roll that is not hard or flaky or seeded, but rather one whose texture is soft and is slightly chewy. That it is slightly chewy is key. You need a roll with the density to withstand the grease of the beef and the cheese and the onions, but not so dense that it overpowers the other ingredients or tires out your jaw.

  Others say the meat is the most important. Philadelphia itself is divided as to the presentation of the meat, which is usually rib eye or perhaps top round. The two camps are (what we will call) slabs and shredded. Some places offer their beef in three or four whole pieces, thinly cut and layered on the roll. Others will present it chopped or shredded, piled on the roll. There are benefits to each, but I am firmly in the shredded camp. With the slab style there is a need to tear each bite from the sandwich, whereas the shredded beef style allows for nice, simple bites (and quicker consumption).

  There are three—and only three—types of cheese found on a real Philly cheesesteak: Cheez Whiz, provolone, or American. That’s it. No Swiss or pepper jack or blue or anything else. Just Whiz, provolone, or American. John Kerry, during a visit to Philadelphia during his presidential campaign in 2004, caused quite a stir when he ordered his Philly cheesesteak with Swiss cheese. Swiss! Nothing says “I have no common touch” like ordering goddamn Swiss cheese on a cheesesteak. I bet if you ask him privately after he’s had a few drinks why he lost the election, he’ll point to that cheesesteak blunder.

  I prefer the cheeses in the order in which I listed them. I understand that Cheez Whiz is neither technically nor legally actual cheese, but it is delicious nonetheless. Instead of viewing it as a “cheese product,” I like to think of Cheez Whiz as advanced cheese. The good people at Kraft took a natural product and made it artificial, but just as good (if not better) than the real thing. Is that so wrong? For example, natural breasts are wonderful. So are fake breasts. We can argue all day about this (and I have the time to do so).

  Provolone is a strong number two, and one that I do not shy away from. I never get American; this is the default cheese when getting a cheesesteak (or “steak and cheese”) outside of Philadelphia. I choose Cheez Whiz and provolone not only because I prefer them, but because I have to take advantage of their limited availability.

  The cheese and onions determine how the cheesesteak is ordered. “Wit’ ” and “wit’out” mean with or without onions. Add the type of cheese before this, and you have the basic construct for ordering a cheesesteak like a real Philadelphian: “Whiz wit’ ” or “provolone wit’out,” for example (I’m a “Whiz wit’ ” man).

  Finally, where is the best cheesesteak in Philly found? You may know of two competing cheesesteak places, Pat’s and Geno’s, who have a decades-old rivalry and sit cattycorner from each other in the heart of South Philly. On one side of the street you have Geno’s, brightly lit with neon. On the other, you have Pat’s, about as no-frills as you can get.

  But as a native Philadelphian who grew up less than a mile from Pat’s and Geno’s, I can tell you that Pat’s and Geno’s are only good if a) you are a tourist and want to get your picture taken at a famous Philadelphia cheesesteak place or b) it is 3:30 in the morning and you are bombed and would eat your own hand if it was covered with Cheez Whiz (both shops are open 24/7).

  When I’m in Philly, I’ll patronize any number of local neighborhood cheesesteak joints that blow the best cheesesteak places in New York City, Chicago, and Los Angeles out of the water. But if you’re asking my advice and you want to eat at one of the famous places (read: one likely to have been featured on the Food or Travel Channel), I would recommend Jim’s on South Street or Tony Luke’s in South Philly, just a few blocks away from where I grew up. Both those places will treat you right. Promise.

  Congratulations! You can now converse about cheesesteaks like a real Philadelphian.


  The Soft Pretzel

  Though less popular than the cheesesteak, the soft pretzel is almost as dear to Philadelphians. According to Wikipedia, the average Philadelphian consumes twelve times as many pretzels as the national average.* Even if you figure that Philadelphians are two or three times fatter than the national average, that’s still a lot more pretzels than everyone else.

  The Philly soft pretzel has a different shape than your traditional soft pretzel. Unlike the more familiar bowed German-style soft pretzel, it is shaped like a very narrow 8, or an H with a closed top and bottom. The pretzel itself is lightly salted, dense, doughy, and chewy. It is also rather versatile. While mustard is the topping of choice, I’ve had my fair share of pizza pretzels for lunch. The warm sauce and the melted cheese on top of the soft pretzel is so magnificent that after eating one, you might ask yourself why it hasn’t taken over the world.

  Man is no closer to God than when he eats a warm soft pretzel fresh out of the oven. If you have this opportunity, take it and do not look back.

  The Hoagie

  I’ve eaten a lot of hoagies, subs, and heroes in my life, so I have a lot of empirical evidence for this one. I say the following with confidence: there is nothing major that differentiates what Philadelphians call the “hoagie” from what others call a “sub” or a “hero.” It’s a sandwich, usually with lunchmeat, cheese, fixin’s, and maybe some oil or vinegar or mayo, on a long roll. (However, I would venture to guess that Philadelphia has more men nicknamed “Hoagie” than any other major city. So we have that going for us.)

  There is one minor difference, however. Hoagies contain only lunchmeat. So, for example, there is no meatball hoagie or chicken salad hoagie, whereas a meatball sub or a chicken salad hero is common. You can get an Italian hoagie or a turkey hoagie or a ham-and-cheese hoagie, but the main ingredient must remain in the lunchmeat family.

  Unlike the cheesesteak, with its simple list of ingredients, the hoagie is all over the place; with various meats, cheeses, fixin’s, condiments, and types of rolls, the sky is the limit. And as long as you ask for a hoagie when you order it in Philly, we’re cool.

  Water Ice

  Unlike the hoagie, there are distinctions between what Philadelphians call “wudder ice” and what the rest of the world calls Italian ices or snow cones. Italian ices are much more granular than water ice, while a snow cone is larger chips of ice with syrup poured over them. Water ice is much smoother in consistency, and juicier than either Italian ices or snow cones. Like Italian ices, the flavors in water ice are blended while being frozen. The result? A refreshing summer treat that is chock-full of sugar. Add some soft serve ice cream for what is known as a gelati. If this doesn’t put you on the right track to diabetes, nothing will.

  Creamed Chipped Beef

  Creamed chipped beef (or CCB) is not unique to Philadelphia. It is known throughout the Mid-Atlantic region and gained notoriety in World War II, when it was served en masse to GIs and known as “shit on a shingle.” It is generally considered a breakfast food and is served on top of white toast, English muffins, or biscuits. You may be familiar with its more popular hick cousin, biscuits ’n’ gravy, which is generally available below the Mason-Dixon line every two or three miles.

  True, creamed chipped beef has a bit of a damaged reputation—it’s hard to overcome a nickname like “shit on a shingle.” But its four main ingredients are milk, butter, corn starch, and thin shreds of a dried, salted beef that is something like bologna but even lower quality. I ask you, friends: what is wrong with any of those ingredients? The milk and butter make up most of the mixture, and corn starch stiffens it to create an almost gelatinous texture. And there’s little pieces of salty beef sprinkled throughout. Sure, the beef is not high-quality and by itself might taste really bad; it’s sold in some supermarkets in jars and smells kinda like cat food. But you could cover shards of glass in a milk-butter– corn starch combination and I’d eat the shit out of them.

  Food of kings it is not. But CCB is, after the cheesesteak, my favorite homemade food. My dad has never been a big fan. Every week while growing up his family had a “shit on a shingle” night when he and his brothers and sisters would take their pieces of toast and plates and line up to be served by my grandmother, cafeteria-style. But I have no such childhood memories, and eat CCB every chance I get (which is not very often). Over the years, CCB has become increasingly difficult to find, as chain restaurants that you might expect to serve such an artery-clogging, tasteless, and cheap-to-make breakfast food are taking it off their menus.

  Is it a food worth traveling for? No. But if you are not from the Mid-Atlantic area and see it on a menu, give it a try. I promise it’ll taste much better than “shit on a shingle” sounds.

  Scrapple

  You know how Native Americans would use each part of the buffalo so as not to waste anything? Not only would they eat all of it, but they’d use the skin for clothing, the hair for rope, the hooves for glue, and the horns for cups or prosthetic noses or whatever? Well, if you read the ingredient list of scrapple, you’d think it was invented by Native Americans. Or maybe by a really savvy pork executive.

  BUTCHER

  (looking over a pile of pig detritus)

  Well, we made the bacon and the ham and the sausage, and we got the cuts for the ribs and the pulled pork and the roasts, but we still got all this shit left over.

  PORK EXECUTIVE

  (a beat, thinking)

  Fuck it—mash it all up, throw in some cornmeal and flour, put it in a loaf, and call it “scrapple.” I’m sure somebody’ll buy it.

  BUTCHER

  Done.

  So what is in scrapple, exactly? According to Wikipedia:

  [S]crapple is typically made of hog offal, such as the head, heart, liver, and other scraps, which are boiled with any bones attached (often the entire head), to make a broth. Once cooked, bones and fat are discarded, the meat is reserved, and (dry) cornmeal is boiled in the broth to make a mush. The meat, finely minced, is returned to the pot and seasonings, typically sage, thyme, savory, black pepper, and others, are added. The mush is formed into loaves and allowed to cool thoroughly until set.

  So . . . who’s hungry?

  But the thing is, it’s delicious. It took me a little while to get used to it, because the ingredients—pork hearts, pork livers, pork skin—are listed in all their glory right there on the package you’ll find in the grocery store. But grill it up all nice and crispy and put a little ketchup or mustard on it, and you’ll have yourself a divine breakfast meat. Just don’t think about it too much.

  Pork Roll

  Our second breakfast meat, pork roll, is very popular in the Philadelphia tristate area and is known by its brand name, Taylor Ham, in parts of northern New Jersey. Its closest relative is Canadian bacon—you know, the meat on the McDonald’s Egg McMuffin—but pork roll is saltier and has a slightly tougher texture.

  On summer days, when we were off from school, my dad would take my brother and me out to a late breakfast or early lunch. We wouldn’t go very far—only to the food truck on the pier he worked on. When I say “food truck,” it may conjure up images of hipsters dishing up lobster rolls or kimchi or Tex-Mex/Asian/French fusion out of brightly painted, specially designed automobiles. This was not the kind of food truck we ate at. First, I don’t even think it was a truck. It’s very likely that it was a small shack with a stove and a few tires out front. And there were no hip foods there. The word menu could have been replaced by “Foods that Will Substantially Cut into Your Life Span—And by the Way, We Do Not Have a License Here.”

  Each time we went, my dad and I would each get the slider—a pork roll, egg, and cheese sandwich—which we would coat with ketchup. Contrary to its name, this was not a small sandwich, but it was called a slider because it would slide right through you. It was best to consume this sandwich while wearing a diaper, if possible.

  Whenever I have a pork roll, egg, and cheese sandwich now, I can’t help but think
of that food truck on the pier on the Delaware River. Then I can’t help running straight to the bathroom. The magic lives on.

  Tastykake and Wawa

  Tastykake is a Philadelphia-area bakery similar to Hostess or Entenmann’s. Wawa is a Mid-Atlantic-based convenience store similar to 7-Eleven. I’ve lumped them together because they’re not really foods, per se. Both Tastykake and Wawa were a daily presence in my life. A Tastykake was a common breakfast in high school, while Wawa was a multiple-visits-per-week kinda place, for everything from groceries to quick sandwiches.

  There is not much to add, except that both Tastykake and Wawa are so far superior to their competitors that those competitors should be ashamed of themselves. Knowing only Entenmann’s or Hostess or 7-Eleven and then experiencing Tastykake or Wawa would be like being born and raised in an Amish community and then getting a summer job at the pool at the Hard Rock in Vegas. Nothing wrong with the Amish way of life, but you should know that there are many decadent (and delicious) things out there. My affection for them is so great that if I ever win the lottery, I will build a Wawa and a Tastykake factory into my home (right after the construction of the grotto filled with statues of the Spice Girls is finished). So I guess I’m saying that they have my full endorsement.

  So Let Me Introduce You to the One and Only Billy Shears