Ecstasy at Pat’s Steaks

6-16-09 Chris Goldstein

It was 9:30PM on a cold and rainy night in Philly. We were hungry. But not just plain hungry: Massive waves of ravenous sensations accompanied by nearly visual fantasies of food crashed into our brains until no conversation was possible. The only words spoken were of the next morsels that would pass our eager lips. Then someone said THE words and we were off, “Cheese Steak.”

At 9^th and Passyunk in Philadelphia is an establishment that is legend. Actually there are several legends on a tight few blocks surrounding the community baseball field in deep South Philadelphia. Everyone has a favorite. Mine is Pat’s.

There is nothing on the planet Earth like a Pat’s Cheese Steak.

Earlier in the evening we came back to Philadelphia from Jersey over the Walt Whitman Bridge. Low, smoky fog that spat intermittent rain veiled the city skyline and grew haloes around every light. A Phillies home game was in progress at Citizen’s Bank Park so the stadium blasted red and white illuminations into a huge ball of brightness creating a snowglobe in the fog. On the crest of the bridge you could clearly see the massive screen at the park with the at-bat players profiles.

Baseball is a powerfully serious thing in a city defending the World Championship. It makes the ball field hugging cheese steak joints even more of a hot spot among locals. The triangle shaped city block is the center of the Cheese Steak universe and it’s always crowded, teeming with bobbing red hats.

We got in my truck and cruised up 9^th from the stadium area with only the Cheese Steaks on our mind. The Vietnamese video stores and then Italian bakeries rolled past us in silence as we contemplated our order. The Universe told us we were on some pre-destined journey by granting us dream-parking directly in front of Pat’s. (When I am looking for street parking in Philly I sing a little song to myself called “Dream Parking” whose melody and lyrics change frequently.)

On the corner a professional photographer was in the middle of a full-on-pro shoot of a very attractive young woman in unzipped short shorts, half of a black leather jacket and hips that said “Dance me to the Sunrise.” Damn… I wish they really DID say that…

The entire reason this little piece of Gotham is a national landmark rests solely on the unique flavors. The ingredients seem so simple: Ribeye Steak, Roll, Cheese Whiz, onions and a little lard.

But somehow the technique, the ambiance and perhaps some space/time portal to perfect flavinoids make these ingredients join into a supremely unique and satisfying meal.

Pat’s Steaks and Geno’s Steaks have co-existed here for generations. Geno’s has the Vegas style lights and Pat’s has the local grit. Both have a tremendous history of celebrity visits. Both serve up steaks 24 hours a day, 7 days a week and are nearly always crowded. Both have loyal fans. Eating a steak at one of these places is a treat for me, not an everyday thing. It’s an experience all on its own.

There was a good 3-month spell since my last Pat’s Steak. Now everything down to the DNA in my tongue reached out for one. We got lucky and the line thinned just as we arrived: The Universe aligning things for us again like the parking.

 You MUST order correctly and be ready with an exact description of your desired serving.  There is even a large sign giving clear instructions on how to order. We humbly went to the 60ish but ageless and ultimately Philadelphia-esque woman behind the Plexiglas window that is made slightly opaque from the griddle frying goodness. We approach her like a first communion student to a priest.

My turn. “Pizza Steak, with Onions and Whiz.”

It took all of 70 seconds for the meat to be expertly extracted from the sizzling mass of fast heating beef. The extra long, weathered spatula gently placed the steak on the signature Italian roll with the chewy crust. Then comes a lightning fast dipperful of superheated Cheese Whiz. The spatula darts again to the griddle to pick up a load of delectable fried onions. Finally, almost too fast for the eyes to catch there is a stripe of marinara sauce and the complete Cheese Steak is handed to you almost too hot to handle.

Cost: $8.00

And at that price it represents one of the world’s biggest bargains.

I take my steak grab a napkin and sit down. It doesn’t need any seasoning or condiments. At Pats there are red rubber coated picnic tables that are sturdy and comfortable. They are made to hold the traditionally obese Philadelphians who eat these things more often than I will allow myself. The red tables are right on the edge of the street but reside under a generous awning, allowing for Cheese Steaks to be served and eaten in any weather, at any time of year.

Seated and watching the rain, pondering the passers-by reflected in the puddles, I took a moment to prepare myself and then began to eat.

The roll used at Pat’s is distinct and different from their competitors, with a chewy crust and a dense loaf, almost like a baguette except darker. This type of roll holds the grease along with the cheese and sauce perfectly; allowing some of the flavors to penetrate the bread but keeping what could be a big mess neatly in the entire roll.

The steak itself is always perfectly cooked and perfectly tender. It is not stringy or rubbery. Quite the opposite: It’s butter. Secretly seasoned, aggressively tenderized ribeye expertly cooked.

A single bite yields an explosion of flavor across the palette highlighted by the variety of textures. The velvety beef, the creamy yet tart cheese-whiz and the juicy marinara are all brought into focus with the strike of the onions.

I devour, shaking my head like Ray Charles singing “Georgia” at the red picnic bench in the rain in south Philadelphia looking at the sexy model bump for the flash of the diffused lights of the photographer. Each mouthful delivers; there is no diffusion or tolerance to the potent flavors.

Once begun there was no stopping. Under the fluorescent lights of the awning people would fall silent, intent on their task of Cheese Steaks and chili fries before them. Some just stared and opened their mouths, practicing, while others had already started their epic journey into the world of food.

Cheese Steaks are eaten like fish by sharks: Ripped apart in large groups; feeding frenzies; some primeval gathering of humans masticating together. There is a respectable kinship with strangers in sharing this common experience.

My pizza steak was gone in about 14 minutes. Each swallow warming my belly and soul, forming a force-field of fuzzy satisfaction to hold back the cooling night.

Pat’s Steaks. Philadelphia. Phillies home game in progress. It was hard to leave. Though the portions are generous for sure we all agreed we could almost, maybe, perhaps… eat another one right away. But no, no. Like I said, these are a treat. Everything in moderation.

So we went back to the dream parked truck. Slowly we opened the doors and looked lovingly on the weathered little building. The line at the window was getting longer again. It was almost 10:30. The game would be over soon and then this area would be completely mobbed with fans. We rolled past the photo shoot nodding in appreciation to the model and descended back into the rowhomes of South Philly.

The mission was clear and our quest was accomplished. The signature sandwich of our City of Liberty satiated the hunger.  It was night munchie ecstasy at Pat’s King of Steaks in Philly.

 Pat's Steaks Website