Thursday, January 5, 2012

Thank me later, but you may have noticed a total lack of New Year’s resolutions this, uh, year, and the omission is by design. Normally I’d be able to milk a post or two out of whatever declaration pops into my head, but the slate is blank this year. There are no such pronouncements, save for one delivered yesterday evening, when I told my archnemesis in ping-pong that I’ve resolved to beat him more this year. Let the records reflect this.

Let the records also show that I tried the best cheesesteak in these here parts today, according to Charlotte Magazine, and although it was good, it still wasn’t the cheesesteak I’ve been craving. Most of the foods I loved from Chicago have made their way here, whether by hook or by crook, and that includes Chipotle, Giordano’s, and some big honkin’ cookies lovingly baked under the El tracks. There are two items that continue to elude me, however: Potbelly Sandwich Shop and Philly’s Best. I don’t know if I’d ever claim to yearn for the former–it’s more the fact that Quiznos invariably toasts disappointment into each and every sandwich.

But Philly’s Best! I suppose I’d be better served by hitting up Philadelphia for authentic cheesesteaks, but a general has to go to war with the army he’s got. When I sit back and really deconstruct what I miss, it’s the texture. It’s always the texture. It certainly isn’t the quality of ingredients. Let’s be honest here: “quality ingredients” and “cheesesteaks” are, as the French would say, on the wrong fuckin’ sides of the Venn diagram. There’s a reason why you never hear patrons shout, “Garcon! Some of your finest free-range steak destroyed by a spatula, please, and smothered in organic Cheez Whiz. The white kind.” No, it’s the texture–that slightly chewy bread ensconcing a veritable crime scene of cheese “product” and what appears to be livestock fed through a paper shredder.