 This Week’s Dining News
The Food Beat
Chet Wesley
As usual, there's a lot going on this week-- so let's get to it!
I hear Neil Stein is looking to get back into the game with a high-end Italian fooder, tentatively called Marchetto. Word is, Stein’s looking in the Society Hill/Headhouse Square area, with plans for an early 2010 opening. We all know it’s bullshit, but let’s let him imagine he’s got something going on besides dog-walking and masturbating off his porch.
Stephen Starr is shooting for July 23rd for Glop, on the 700 block of Chestnut St. It’ll feature indeterminate piles of what may or may not be food, served lukewarm on dirty paper plates. As always, the waitresses will be extremely fuckable.
Look for The Crusty Bag, a teahouse/bakery, to open on the 200 block of S. 10th St. this week. Midtown II alumni James Hatchett will offer a basic selection of Acme-bought teas, as well as three varieties (rye, wheat, and pumpernickel) of breads baked in his nearby apartment. Will close within weeks, probably. What a lame idea.
There’s a BYOB opening in Lindenwold, but you’re never going all the way out there for a fucking meal. I mean, honestly, I don’t know why I’d even bother telling you about it.
Intrigue at Old City’s Swifty’s, as sous chef Nigel Morrison has abruptly jumped to The Soup Spoon, the new Chestnut Hill gastropub. Word is, tensions ran high between Morrison and Swifty’s owner Barry Davis after Davis poured a pot of boiling-hot oil onto Morrison, resulting in 3rd-degree burns, a series of skin grafts, and the loss of Morrison’s nose. Morrison hints he’ll add pommes frites to The Soup Spoon’s menu.
Jose Garces isn’t opening any new restaurants or anything, but I just wanted to remind everybody that pure, radiant sunshine pours from his glorious asshole.
Johnson’s Grille in Manayunk has hired a dishwasher who hails from Mexico—a foreign country which apparently has its own currency and government, and borders the states of Texas, Arizona, California, and "New" Mexico. Ubaldo Sanchez says he’s thrilled to be the first area restaurant worker from this exotic-sounding, faraway land. Welcome, Ubaldo!
In an effort to stand out in the crowded luxury-steakhouse field, Guirrecherra, the Brazilian chophouse on JFK Boulevard, will now allow each patron to slice one piece from his or her server, and roast it tableside. No word whether Chima or Fogo De Chao will follow suit. |
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 Fuck You, Roast Pork Sandwich
In the Community
A Cheesesteak
Hey there, Roast Pork Sandwich. There’s been lotsa talk recently ‘bout youse guys overtakin’ us cheesesteaks as Philly’s #1 sandwich. Thanks to some dipshit in the Washington Post, and that Heller broad in the Inquirer, it’s some kinda hot item. Now all these gourmet-type bastids is comin’ out of the woodwork, goin’, “Ooh, yeah—roast pork, that’s the ticket!”
What a buncha shit.
Now listen, Roast Pork Sandwich. You’re a nice sandwich. You’re a fine sandwich. But—an’ don’t take this the wrong way—you want a real Philly sandwich, we both know you’re not goin’ wit’ the roast pork. You’re not goin’ wit’ the broccoli rabe and all that fancy shit. You’re not goin’ wit’ somethin’ that’s made outta a goddamn pig, fer Chrissakes.
You’re goin’ wit’ the cheesesteak, natch’rilly.
Now, I know I might not be the most, whaddyacall it, unbiased guy on this, but what the fuck. Nobody comes to Philly and goes, “Hey, where’s all the roast pork sandwiches?” Nobody goes, “We’re in Philly—gotta get a roast pork.” ‘Cause I’m not just a cheesesteak—I’m a Philly cheesesteak. Accourse, you’re a Philly guy too; I’m not sayin’ you’re not—but are you a Philly Roast Pork Sandwich? Or are you just a Roast Pork Sandwich? I’m just askin’, is all, y’unnerstan’.
An’ just listen to what this shitbird from the Post says: “The subtle interplay between the pork and the tart greens, between the provolone and the spices in the juices, is heaven.” Subtle interplay? Tart greens? Spices? Lah-di-frickin’ dah! You wanna go the Craig LaBan route, get all cozy with the tight-ass penny-loafer set, be my guest, Roast Pork Sandwich. But I think we both know that’s not cuttin’ it. Save that shit for duck la lor-range, or whatever. ‘Cuz you an’ me, we’re sandwiches. We don’t need that critic jack-off bullshit. You go, you grab a goddamn steak, boom, eat it, and get the fuck outta there. Or yeah, go down to Tony Luke’s, grab one-a youse guys, do the same. ‘Cause I’m not sayin’ you’re not tasty, Roast Pork Sandwich. I don’t wancha to get the wrong idea.
But all this hoopla, it’ll pass, mark my words—and in the end, you ain’t no goddamn cheesesteak. Remember your place, Roast Pork Sandwich. Remember your place.
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