Bar & Restaurant Reviews

[Author's note: Yes, I know 1,500 words is a little long for a restaurant review and that there's a considerable amount of personal material in here, but it was either write this or bathe myself in bleach — I beg your indulgence for my choosing the more dematologically sound of the two.]

It's no coincidence that when one encounters two people arguing bitterly over what constitutes an authentic Philly cheesesteak (and, more importantly, who makes the best one) invariably they're drunk. That's when a cheesesteak tastes best, when the entirety of one's higher education is concentrated on not accidentally drinking from the beer in which everyone's been putting out their cigarettes. As I'm not the slightest bit buzzed right now — sadly quite the contrary — I have just as little inclination to enter the scrum of that discussion as I do of revealing the exact reason why not long ago I felt compelled to cause a cheesesteak-fueled scene with The Assneck Formerly Known as My Boyfriend, Dan. Let's just say it had a little something to do with his penis, some skank named Rachelle, and herpes.

Dan and I had been going out for a couple of months. We'd gone past "Let's not see other people" and "Have you met my boyfriend Dan?" but weren't quite to "Let's spend this weekend apartment hunting" yet. You know, somewhere after the novelty of sleeping in the wet spot wears off and before the part where you catch yourself shopping around for an appropriately dramatic implement with which to stab them in the eye while they sleep. In other words, things were going well.

I left town over the weekend for a friend's wedding. I was gone for two days, three if you count me leaving from work early on friday afternoon. It was a beautiful wedding. (No Vera Wang, thank God.) I returned Sunday night to an especially clean-scrubbed Dan, who, judging from the dampness of his hair, had showered in the car on the ride over. His breath smelled like a combination of Listerine and drain cleaner; my tongue tingled when we kissed, and not in a good way. The sex that night was lukewarm and distastefully earnest. I caught myself wondering mid-moan why it felt like we were making up and over what exactly.

A few weeks went by and life returned to normal, save for the fact that Dan had been replaced with Captain Boyfriend-on-a-Mission. I've been around long enough — or I'm adequately cynical and self-loathing, your choice — always to have my suspicions when, without provocation, I'm showered with kindness. Did he make me dinner because he's a sweetheart or to assuage some gut-gnawing guilt? He brought me flowers — why? What did I do to deserve that 2-hour backrub? The kicker was when, out of nowhere, he finally threw out the wretched, freshman dorm Ikea lamp that had been lurking the corner of his bedroom and ruining my orgasms since we'd first started sleeping together. Not that there were a lot of those going around. Dan's sex drive had all but evaporated, a blessing really, as the unpleasant, brambly feeling between my thighs had lately been conjuring a well-worn biblical phrase. Throw in a couple of weak explanations ("I was getting a drink with the guys" and "It's a bug-bite"), one minor hissy fit over me touching his credit card statement, and a few hushed, conspiratorial late-night phone conversations "to his mother", and soon that burning sensation was joined by another, namely that Dan — or "Danny" as the voice on the phone referred to him — had been busy while I was away.

The scene: early evening, me on his couch reading In Style, waiting for him to come home from work. It was a Friday night and I felt like having an argument. A couple of drinks first — something light, like a nice, dry white wine — and then a good old-fashioned discussion about Us. I'd read just about enough on stupid, horse-faced Renée Zellwegger and was going to turn on the TV when the phone rang. His phone. Four rings, message, and the beep. A female voice, not his mother, leaving a message. I pick up.

"Who is this?" I ask.

"Who's this?" she says. She sounds like she chews too much gum and thinks boys writing their name in the snow is 'cute'.

"Who the fuck is this?" I ask again, louder. "What's your fucking name?"

"Rachelle, bitch. Who the fuck are you?"

"Why are you calling here, Rachelle?"

"Um, like, who are you, my fucking — "

I slam down the phone, then bash the answering machine with the receiver a couple of times and rip the plug out the wall for good measure. Keys in the door — he's home. I smile with pencil-lead lips. "Let's get a cheesesteak," I say.

Pat's King of Steaks is in the middle of a real, working-class neighborhood. For those unfamiliar with Philadelphia, this does not mean hipsters in John Deere caps, ironically drinking cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. All the world might be a stage but not every stage has a ready audience of large, muscular, obnoxious men and their loud, nosy girlfriends. And serves cheesesteaks.

On the ride over he does his best David Schwimmer while asking me a thousand variations on "Is everything all right?" in an unbecomingly small voice. He knows something's wrong. He wants desperately to have it out, here in the car, where it's quiet and private and he always has the option of steering into a telephone pole if this whole thing is about what he thinks it's about. "I'm just hungry," I say, discreetly searching the car's interior for prescription receipts. "Let's talk after we eat."

Pat's is packed. The line curves around the side, through the picnic tables and into the darkened parking lot. Moths flitter under the streetlights, through the smoke that comes pouring up off the grill. The concrete is spattered with gobs of fried onions and Cheez Whiz. The smell is so rich and greasy and good I momentarily forget the real reason why we're here. Then the grannies start riding up — couldn't even think of wearing a thong in this state of inflammation — and I remember.

There are only two real choices with a cheesesteak: "whiz, wit" (meaning Cheez Whiz "wit" fried onions) or go home and boil Ramen. I get mine "whiz, wit" ($5.50); Dan, being a two-timing pussy who thinks Cheez Whiz is bad for you, just gets his "wit" ($5). He pays for the cheesesteaks and an extra large soda for me ($2) and tries to steer us around back. I beeline to the picnic tables in front and sit down next to a burly guy reeking of Drakkar Noir.

Pat's cheesesteaks are enormous. There's no way I can finish one, even on my best of days, so, after fifteen minutes of lip-licking and chin-wiping, and about thirty-seven napkins, I'm completely sated and I still have a good pound of greasy meat left in my plate. Time for the main event.

"Who the fuck is Rachelle?" I say out of nowhere. He freezes mid-bite and a great gob of fried onions falls from his mouth into his lap. "She called when I was at your apartment. We had a nice talk."

For a moment it looks as though he's choking. Maybe he's trying to choke. I give him a couple of light pats on the back. "Take your time. Finish chewing," I say. "I'll wait."

He chews until I can hear his teeth clicking together. He takes a long pull off my Coke. "Who?" he says finally.

"Nope — wrong answer," I say. Time to make it count. I get a good wad of meat in my fingers and look him in the eye. "If you play dumb one more time, I'll throw this at — " I look around the crowd theatrically and point at the largest Rocky I can see. "Him. So. Again. Who the fuck is Rachelle?" I come down a little harder on "fuck" this time. A few gold-hooped ears prick up.

"I'm not sure — " he starts. I drop the previous wad of meat and scoop up the entire half a cheesesteak from my plate. "Okay, okay. I met her at a bar the weekend you were out of town."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And did you FUCK HER?" Loudly now — oh yeah. People are turning and looking, pointing, laughing.

"Yes, I had sex with her," he whispers sotto voce, looking left and right. "Will you please keep your voice down?"

"Is she the one who gave you FUCKING HERPES?!" He makes an awkward goose-like honk I presume is supposed to be a laugh, gives everyone around his 'this is all a big, silly joke' face, then he drops his chest to the table.

"Can we PLEASE talk about this somewhere else?" he hisses. Suddenly I'm bored. One can only bat around a mouse so many times before the whole thing starts getting a little pathetic.

"Sure. Let me just get rid of this first — " I say and turn, throw the entire, greasy handful of cheesesteak at the back of Rocky's girlfriend's head. Gasps all around; the proverbial needle scratches off the record. It was a criminal waste of good cheesesteak, I know, but such is life sometimes.

I stand, point at Dan. "He threw it," I say to the rapidly-reddening Rocky, who now himself is standing and glaring at Dan. I pick up my jacket and lean in. "Enjoy, " I say and smile at him as pleasantly as I can.

Haven't seen him since. I do think of him every once in a while, especially when I hear an ambulance siren or I see riot footage on TV. And as for the herpes, turns out it was just a yeast infection — too much stress and not enough sleep. Cranberry juice is a wonderful thing. Now if only it went better with Cheez Whiz.

Belle

September 22, 2003

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