Normally, if a restaurant had an autographed photo of Mr. T, gold chains and all, in their dining area, my eyes would open wide, my brain would wonder if I had been somehow transported back to the early ‘90s, and my feet would back slowly toward the door. But with Jim’s Steaks, good ol’ Mr. T adds to its tourist-trap (in a good way, though) charm.
Known for its Cheese Whiz-smothered (or American cheese- or provolone-smothered, if you wish to deviate from the Philadelphia way) cheesesteaks, Jim’s Steaks is the sole reason for my annual pilgrimage to Philadelphia. To satisfy the year-round craving I have for a cheesesteak, I, someone who barely has enough patience for the line at the local Subway, endured waiting in line for a little over a half-hour, alone and cold, while Danny rummaged around in the record shops on 4th Street (okay, so he was there most of the time). And part of this line is inside, where you have to endure the meat-and-onion aromas as you inch closer toward that thing of beauty--well, at least, in my hungry eyes. All the while, you’re being watched by the eyes of current and former celebrities who have graced the dirt-specked floors of Jim’s, including those of Montel, a trying-to-act-tough Bruce Willis, and a couple of unrecognizable actresses who probably ended up in the porn industry when their careers flopped.
When you arrive at the front after a long, trying wait, please don’t order a "Philly cheesesteak." If you do, the mile-a-minute cooks and waitstaff may freeze in horror while the other patrons all turn to stare. Well, maybe not, but that’s the best way to say, "Hello, my name is (insert), and I’m not from anywhere around here." Instead, pick a type of cheese and any toppings you’d like to add and spurt them out like so, "Whiz (not Cheese Whiz), onions, green peppers, mushrooms," although I noticed most people didn’t add extras like green peppers. All advice courtesy of frequent cheesesteak eaters.
Moving away from the speed-racer cooks, head upstairs, where you’ll be joined by Mr. T and Montel. Like lions fighting over the best meat of a kill, groups rush in on a poor unsuspecting table whenever the current table-hoggers (to those not at one) even blink an eye or make any indication that they might be leaving, although somehow you never do feel rushed to get your butt moving. Being the kind person you are, though, I’m sure you won’t linger long after your stomach gurgles in reaction to the massive amount of oily meat you just inhaled, and be warned–-after that last bite disappears, others will be watching you like a hawk circling a clueless mouse (last nature show reference, I promise). You can pause a moment to mourn the loss of a cheesesteak that had such a promising life before it, but after that, the table’s fair game.