"If I can go that distance, you see, and that bell rings and I'm still standin', I'm gonna know for the first time in my life, see, that I weren't just another bum from the neighborhood." -Rocky

Recently, I did a lot of thinking about the cultural and geographical importance of food. Where we live, who we live with and around, and what we eat help define who we are. Obviously, this takes place on a grandiose scale and manifests itself in a whole host of really awful chain restaurants and brings to light some broad ethnocentric questions (What does "Qdoba" mean in Spanish? What does the P.F. in P.F. Chang's stand for? Does everyone in Australia wear khaki?)

But it takes place on a much smaller, regional scale right here in our own backyards. What sociologists refer to as "urban neighborhoods" have defined human behavior since early civilization. In these areas, residents seek to socialize youth, maintain social control, and, more often than not, share common values, traditions, and culture, such as music, religion, and cuisine.

Philadelphia, especially, is a city made up of neighborhoods. Second only to "Eagles fan" and "Phillies fan," Philadelphians often define themselves in the context of their geographical location. "Northern Liberties," and "Fishtown," denote a much different (and often smellier) demographic than "Rittenhouse" or "Queen's Village."

I have recently myself become a "South Philadelphian," and along with a two bedroom home, walk-in closet, and basement washer and dryer unit, also adopted the cultural context, and plenty of hackneyed "Yo Adrienne" jokes which came along with my new neighborhood. I find this endearing, and have decided to fully embrace it.

How, you may ask?

Step One: Pimp my 2'x2' concrete backyard.

Well, not really "pimp" it, but at least let everyone know that I am a die-hard Eagles fan (I'm not), I bleed green (I don't) and that I would sell my kidney on the black market to sit on the 50 yard line and dump my beer on a Cowboys fan right before I beat the crap out of him in front of his kid. Or his grandkid.  

Step Two: Hit up the CVS on 10th and Passyunk and round out your collection of "Horses Thundering Across The Ocean" paraphernalia with this blanket, designed to be, what I suspect, is an exact replica of something off the set of Rocky III. It is honestly, the best $2.50 we have ever spent





This week on MTV's Cribs...



The last step was going to be a bit trickier.  

See, this is the view of Cheesesteak Vegas from our house:

Seriously. Walk out our front door and inhale and you, too, can experience the sweet smell of fried onions and tourists in the morning. Last week, we walked outside and the line at Pat's wrapped around the entire building twice. Twice! Because who comes to Philadelphia and doesn't eat a cheesesteak? And yet here I was, masquerading as a South Philadelphian, never having had one.

Honestly, I never really got too stuck on it before. I didn't really think I was missing out. In college, my roommates used to get drunk and bring back Larry's cheesesteaks at 3:00 AM, and it never really smelled like something that I wished was gluten free. The cheese wiz was all congealed and a gross orange color that even I would be questioning of, and the meat was always a curious shade of gross. I mean, with all do respect to everyone who gets wasted and craves greasy mystery meat deviously nestled in a day old bun- I'm sure the grill drippings do wonders at slowing down your Blood Alcohol level, but I just didn't feel...well, jealous.

But when you see and smell something every single day, you tend to become a bit curious. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't curious enough to take the plunge and commit glut-icide just to eat mass produced meat crap (Revelation: I think I may actually be evolving into someone with a pseudo-adult palate), but when Paesano's ran a cheesesteak special, I had to order one.

Their sandwich, the "Gizmobocuz" officially puts all of the other cheesesteaks (yes, none of which I have actually eaten, but have certainly smelled and seen smashed on my sidewalk, so I feel comfortable making a blanket declaration here) to shame. I mean, Holy. Shit. It is a rib eye cheesesteak with bits of chopped salami mixed in, slathered in garlic mayo and cheddar herb spread, warm roasted tomatoes, sauteed onions, and broccoli rabe. If that isn't enough to have you salivating over your keyboard, it is all glued together by warm, gooey, delicious melted provolone. And, it's all on a gluten free bun.

I really think that the invention of the basic principal of food mathematics which states that bread+meat+cheese = happiness was a revolutionary concept which modernized the way that man enjoyed food. And I really think because that the first bite of cheesesteak I took, when soft, cheesy goodness and the tender, salty harmony of ham and beef hit my tongue sent electric waves bouncing around my cranium was a taste bud rebirth. I have been walking around this city blind to the beauty that is the cheesesteak. And now I can see.

The garlic mayo and herb spread elevate your basic cheese plus meat equation to a level thats quantum physic-like. It adds a lucious herbatiousness that lingers with every bite, taking the grilled ribbons of meat and skyrocketing them to the top of the flavor spectrum. And the onions, with their carmely, syrupy deliciousness, are as subtle and unassuming as fried onions can be- unobtrusive to the basic flavors of the meat but bursting with mouthwatering flavor that coats your mouth as you chew.

So this is what everyone has been talking about all this time.

Some people can't believe that I have lived in the Philadelphia area my whole life and had never had a cheesesteak until I was in my 20's. I, for one, am glad that my cheesesteak exposure has been closely monitered, as I now feel that I have expierenced a cheesesteak in it's purest form, and now would be a crime to consume anything less. I don't care how drunk I am. I can say "witout" (oh, come on...I had to) a doubt, that it's just not worth it.

Really. Stop reading and go to Paesano's before they change their special.

"Heart disease has changed my eating habits, but I still cook bacon for the smell" -George Carlin

When I was first diagnosed with Celiac, one of the things that I missed the most was the options. Not the food options, per se- more like the life options. I felt held hostage by the fact that my dining world now fell into two very black and white categories: cook at home or eat somewhere with grilled chicken, fish, or steak on the menu. And while that's nice and all, what if you don't want to eat somewhere with a grill menu? I mean, isn't that the culinary counterpart of Big Love? Sure, it may seem like you have options, but in actuality you are just gastronomically running train on a series of three dishes which, although they might be the protein equivalent of a blonde, brunette, and a redhead, at the end of the day, all taste the same.

One time, in college, a fellow scholar and intellectual drunk guy at a party asked me "Do you ever just like, get drunk and eat wheat?" Uh, I don't know, do you ever get drunk and drink drain cleaner? Being drunk doesn't make me eat something that kills me. But that doesn't mean I don't want to. What if it's late at night and I just wanted to go to a bar and have a drink and eat regular-ass bar food like every other person in the world? I missed the ease of such non-committal dining. I longed for a time when going out to eat didn't have to be such a pre-planned production. I wanted my own gluten-free version of Cheers- a place that required absolutely no commitment or pretense, yet was always there for you- warm, welcoming, and open until 1 AM.But everywhere I went had late-night bar menus consisting of chicken fingers, sandwiches, and all the deep fried, breaded love a glutenous drunk could ask for.

So when I moved to a street located directly across from the Pub On Passyunk East, I was not exactly hopeful. From the outside, it looked like a typical neighborhood hang out- the kind of place where twenty-somethings who are so painfully hip that they could not possibly be bothered with everyday, mainstream nuisances like showering go after a hard day's work at American Apparel to swap war stories about their chest tattoos and give each other hair styling advice.

The first time we went, it was just to get drinks. The bartender left a copy of the menu, and when Aaron excused himself to go to the bathroom, I picked it up and busied myself with it, trying desperately to distract from the fact that I was the only person there wearing actual pants. I perused the words mindlessly, reading but not really retaining anything. All of a sudden, the words jump out at me off the page. "All sandwiches available on gluten-free rolls and bread." Holy shit. Could this be it? Could this be my Cheers? You know, if Norm only drank PBR and Cliff had a half-sleeve and a plaid shirt.

But you know what, forget all that. Hipsters and all, the P.O.P.E. has become a regular hang-out for me. The staff is amazingly friendly and helpful They are open late. They are right across the street from my house. They have gluten-free food. And not just any gluten-free food. Gluten-free drunk bar food. They have a BLT for Christ sake.

The BLT is quite honestly a thing of beauty. I mean, come on. It's a sandwich that is so great, they tell you what's in it right there in the name. Bacon, lettuce, and tomato. And that's it. At the P.O.P.E., it also comes with basil mayo, which is a delicious blend of herbaceous flavor and artery-clogging mayonnaise-y goodness. It is the perfect compliment to the sandwich: an uncomplicated symbiotic relationship that takes nothing away from the primitive pleasure of bacon on bread. The bacon is grilled to perfection, nestled with juicy, plump tomatoes and fresh green lettuce between three slices of crispy toast. It is unpretentious in it's simplicity.

Sometimes, it really is the little things in life. The bartender who is typically there on weeknights seems bemused by my new found fascination with something most people pass by without a second glance. I pick up my BLT gingerly, as though it were an ancient relic dug up by historians from a far away date in time BC (Before Celiac) and bite into it, unquestionably relishing every bite. "Why do you guys have gluten-free bread?" I ask him, as I am always inexplicably fascinated by the "why"- dare I hope to imagine the fact that this new trend might someday become the norm, or is there some more realistic rationale behind it, like a family member or employee with Celiac? He smiled at me and asked how my sandwich was. "Ohmygodsogood" I manage to get out between bites. "Well, that's why we have it," he said, and turned back to his other bar guests.

I couldn't have asked for a better answer.

The Pub On Passyunk East
1501 East Passyunk Ave
Philadelphia PA 19147
215-755-5125

"Too Few People Really Understand A Good Sandwich" -James Beard

New Yorkers call it a "hero." In New Jersey, it's a "sub." If you are in Philly, you'll only get it if you call it a "hoagie." 

For Celiacs, it doesn't matter what it's called, we can't eat it anyway, so everyone just shut the fuck up about it already.

At least, that's how my life used to be.

And then, like the shadow of an action hero emerges slowly out of the wreckage towards Camera 2, back lit by bursts of flames and buildings collapsing in the background, one man came into my life.

His name is Chef Peter McAndrews.

And he believes that sandwiches, whether you call them hoagies, subs, heros, grinders, blimpies, or poor boys, are a basic, inalienable right which cannot and should not be stripped from any American, regardless of race, creed, color, or intestinal ability.

McAndrews owns several restaurants in Philadelphia, all of which I will rave about in separate, and most likely multiple future posts. Two of his children have Celiac, and all of his restaurants are super gluten-free friendly. I'm not just talking about some crappy gluten-free menu omitting all the good stuff, informing the reader in an exasperatingly cheerful type-face that they can eat "any of the above sandwiches without bread" (thanks guys, I could have never made that intellectual leap on my own). I'm talking about gluten-free dishes that are so amazing and delicious that the first twenty words you would use describe them would not even include "gluten-free" because their gluten-freeness becomes just another inherent composition of the dish, like "beef" or "pork" or "chicken."

So, anyway, we will start off with the basics. And the basics for me are that I live in South Philadelphia, home of Pat's, Geno's, John's and Bill, the old Italian guy who lives down the street from me, and I had not had a freaking sandwich that was any good in at least eight years.

Which brings us Paesano's. They have two locations- one on S. 9th Street in the Italian Market and one on Girard at 2nd.

Walk into Paesano's from the bustle of the Italian Market- cars triple parked, wayward bicyclists weaving though vendors and carts, and the smell of cured meat and fresh seafood- and you will be greeted by a chalkboard hanging over the counter, framing the small kitchen which echos the sound of metal spatulas on a sizzling grill. The guy behind the counter will usually be wearing a grey houndstooth fedora cocked to one side and a blue t-shirt with yellow text proudly posing the question to end all questions: "Jaeatyet?"

Today, I'm going with the basics. The Daddywad. $7. On gluten-free bread of course.

The Daddywad is an Italian Hoagie made with delectable layers of Mortadella with Pistachio, Genoa Salami, Sopressata Cappacotta and Prosciutto Di Parma. To me, these words strung together are strangely reminiscent of something that your Great Uncle Sal starts mumbling when he has one too many shots of Sambuca (I grew up in an Irish-Catholic family where lunch meats were simply referred to as "ham" or "turkey.") But this salty, delicious, slightly spicy blend of meat is cushioned by thick slices of Sharp Provolone and is pretty much the best thing ever. The sandwich is finished with arugula, tomato, onion, and both sweet and hot peppers, and it's oily, hoagie-y deliciousness seeps all over the thin sheets of deli paper like little drizzles of happiness as you struggle to strike the perfect balance between enjoying it as it should be, and not ruining your shirt.

But let's be real here. We know the sandwich rocks. For people with Celiac, the meats, the veggies, the cheeses could be hand-crafted by Jesus Christ himself and we would still raise an eyebrow and ask skeptically, "Okay. But how's the bread?" The bread holds up to the sandwich in a way I have not seen anywhere before. It stays intact, which, as we all know, is a huge check in the "Win Column" for gluten-free breads off the bat. It comes lightly toasted, but is still as spongey as gluten-free bread can get. The gluten-free rolls are a bit smaller than the regular rolls, so there is some lunch meat carnage, but nothing that can't be scooped up and rescued into the ends of the sandwich roll. It even holds in the refrigerator really well for one day if you can only eat half your sandwich (I should clarify: I don't actually know if it holds well for longer than one day because I have never been able to wait more than one day to eat my leftovers). Because it doesn't seep the oils into the roll and get soggy, I actually feel like it holds up better than regular bread. I am not sure what its main ingrediant is, but it is one of the best gluten-free sandwich rolls I have had.

And so now, I can officially join the debate. It's called a hoagie.

Visit Paesano's

(Word of advice: just call ahead and ask if they have gluten-free bread because sometimes they run out)

1017 S. 9th Street

Philadelphia, PA 19147

215-440-0371

152 W. Girard Ave

Philadelphia, PA 19123

267-886-9556