“You have to have a cheesesteak,” Marc says emphatically.
His eyes widened with excitement, sparkling from the memory. We sat across from each other at the kitchen table, miles away from Philadelphia in his Detroit home.
“You have to get it from Pat’s, that’s the only place you should go,” he said, nodding his head.
His brow furrowed with conviction.
“And write this down. You have to have it whiz witout.”
I dutifully took down in his instructions in my notes app: Pats — Whiz — Witout. I looked up at him and smiled: of course, of course. I’ll try it and report back.
You can take the boy out of Philly, I thought. A week later, I stood beneath a white awning on a grey, drizzling fall day. A couple of men worked behind the glass, a sea of silver fryers and worn cutting boards behind the faded counter.
“What can I get ya?” a man asked.
I looked behind me, and then back at him, realizing my turn was up. I stepped forward: um, one whiz witout please.
Minutes later, a mound of shaved steak in between two halves of a long roll was slid across the counter. Bright yellow artificial cheese glimmered, snaking its way over the divots and sliding down onto the waxed paper.
I held the monster sandwich in my hands, peering at it with mixed emotions: interest and alarm. Sitting down at a plastic picnic table, I pulled the wax paper away to examine it more closely. Steam radiated from the sandwich, the waxy cheese soaking into the bread.
Here it goes, I thought, and took a bite.
In the past nine months on the road, I have tried local delicacies from all over the United States. Lobster rolls in Maine. Hot Browns in Louisville. Chiles in New Mexico and goetta in Cincinnati.
Every time I reach a new place, I hear the same thing: you just have to try this. Enter, whatever the regional food or drink may be. And every time, I am more than happy to oblige.
While many American foods surpass city and state boundaries (meatloaf, hotdogs, and chocolate chip cookies spring to mind), there are many more that recall specific places in specific regions. Individually, our attachment to food comes from both time and place — the food we eat growing up becomes, essentially, a part of who we are.
I’m not immune to it: frozen custard, fried cheese curds, Spotted Cow — these are all tactile culinary experiences that remind me of home. Even closing my eyes and picturing them can ease my mind when feeling detached from my community.
On a macro level, food plays an important role in our regional and national cultures. Many recipes are passed down through generations. Other foods emanate from talented cooks and chefs from a place, staking their spot in the taste map of the United States.
And when you integrate these two levels: the wider cultural impact of a food that comes from a certain place with the individual experience (often stemming from childhood), it is unsurprising that people have strong opinions about which food — or version — is superior.
Take the Philly cheesesteak for instance.
Marc felt that Pat’s King of Steaks was the best — and in his words, only — option for this local delicacy. Once I arrived in Philadelphia, however, I noticed a rival shop across the street: Geno’s. (There is debate, in fact, on who first added cheese to the cheesesteak more than 50 years ago.)
Talking with people in Philadelphia, there are passionate opinions about which shop is best. People draw their lines in the sand and stand in fervent defense of their choice, offering up heated emotional arguments of true superiority. (Some, even, suggest that the best cheesesteak can be found at neither of these places — but instead another shop tucked away in South Philly.)
But when listening to the arguments, one thing is clear: emotion.
People feel strongly about which sandwich is best because they have an emotional, individual tie to the establishment. Maybe they went there as kids. Maybe their family has been going there for generations. Perhaps they decided to try both and determined one fit their preferences better. It varies from person to person.
I’ve seen this same routine — heated arguments about the “best” version of a food one place has to offer — all over the country. In Boston, there is debate between two cannoli shops on one street in an Italian neighborhood. In Nashville, there are arguments over where to find the best hot chicken. All across New Mexico, there are heated discussions about red versus green chiles.
Tying emotion to foods — and therefore places, memories, and moments in time — is not uncommon across the United States (and throughout the world). Food memories are more sensory than other memories, which is why tasting something familiar can transport us miles away to another time or place. It also suggests why we get heated about something (cannolis, chicken, chiles) that seems arbitrary to an outside viewer.
A week before Christmas, I was traveling through South Carolina when I was struck with an enormous wave of homesickness: the kind that threatens to bowl you over where you stand. At that moment, it did not matter that I was lucky to be on the road. It was all I could do to not book a flight home that instant.
Looking over the hills of South Carolina, the Appalachian Trail in the distance, I craved the flat fields of Wisconsin. Listening to a resounding hum of southern accents, I craved the nasal midwestern “a.” The people, the places felt so similar here, but yet a half step off — it knocked me off-kilter.
Which is when I saw it, glowing royal blue in the dark sky: the Culver’s sign, a chain of hamburger joints from back home. I must be seeing things, I thought. I was 800 miles away; my eyes had to be deceiving me.
But sure enough, the chain had snaked its way to the south, dotting the horizon like a beacon towards home. I pulled off the highway, ordering onion rings and frozen custard. In the first bite, I breathed a deep sigh of relief — home. Emotions flooded down to my toes with every bite.
You can take the girl out of Wisconsin, after all. But you can’t take Wisconsin out of the girl.
