Philly Cheesesteak

My only experience of Philadelphia so far has been from the inside of a train station, but thanks to a friend of ours who is a native we recently got to sample its most famous culinary creation, the cheesesteak.  This is a sandwich (in the American sense, which encompasses a broad church of bread-based foods, in this case it means it comes on a long roll) filled with thinly sliced steak and cheese, at the very least, with added extras depending on who makes it.

Our friend was kind enough to bring us two different kinds, one from Pat's, which has widespread reputation for good cheesesteaks (and is supposed to have been founded by one of the inventors back in the day), and one from Max's which is her personal favourite.

Max's was modestly wrapped in paper, Pat's was more promotional.

Having tried both of these I can honestly say that they were both fantastic but Max's clearly blew Pat's out of the water.  Apparently Pat's use processed cheese (only in America!) while Max's uses real cheese, and it really makes a difference.  And while Pat's added only onions Max's added some kind of tomatoey sauce which moistened everything up delightfully.  Here's a cross-section, Max's on the left, Pat's on the right.

Max's reminded me very much of eating a good steak and cheese pie back in New Zealand, which isn't surprising because there are many similarities.  Given that meat pies are almost entirely lacking in this part of the world, it's obvious that things like the cheesesteak fill the gap.

It's also clear that the City of Brotherly Love knows what its doing.  I've ordered cheesesteaks before in other parts of the country, even the state, and the genuine article is just in a league of its own.  I certainly know what I'll be eating next time I go to Philadelphia!

The plumbing strikes back

I had been going to end the last post by noting that when the Amish fix something, it stays fixed.  Alas our toilet seems to have the devil in it, for not a day had elapsed after they left before it started playing up again.  We've been on to the landlord and have received instructions that Hosea (which I now learn is the satisfyingly exotic name of our erstwhile and taciturn plumber) will appear sometime next week to have another go.

I hope he brings his bible as well as replacement valves, just in case there is more than rust at work and he has to exorcise demonic forces from the cistern.

The Return of the Amish

The Amish are back again.  Long time readers will recall that they fixed our deck earlier in the year.  Now they're back to fix our screen door, some drainage difficulties out the back, and an unrelated problem with the flush in the downstairs toilet (or "half-bathroom" as they're called here, despite not containing a bath).  For thirty years of my life these people might as well have been from a fairy tale, now they're fixing my toilet.  I'm not sure what to make of that.

I'm writing this post to take a break from writing about the next big thing in high speed wireless communications.  Somehow it feels a bit wrong doing that while these famous eschewers of the electric age are downstairs fixing the door.  Admittedly I'm still using a computer as I write this, but at least the subject matter isn't adding insult to injury.  Anyway, I hear the fellow downstairs using his electric drill and possibly even a cell phone...so my overactive conscience is somewhat assuaged.

Unlike last time when they swept in and out with barely a word, this time I have had to interact with them to explain the plumbing difficulties.  I had been going to write - and indeed had just written before I erased it - that these Amish workmen seem cold and unfriendly.  But I've just this minute been on a hunt in the basement for the main water valve (turned out it was hidden behind some slapped-together walls) and I think I should revise that.  Taciturn and quiet, yes.  But not out of hostility, I think, just as a way of using as few words as possible.  They've got a job to do, you know.  Mind you, they don't say hello or goodbye.  I don't know their names, they come and go without a word.  So maybe not cold, but certainly rather chilly.

It's an interesting experience, trying to learn about a people from the way they mend your house, and a technique that anthropologists would no doubt frown upon as full of methodological flaws.  It's the only one I've got, though, so I'll have to stick with it even if it leaves me with more questions than answers.