Cheesesteaks, Quirky B&B's, and South Street Mania

Philadelphia to a Parent – the chance to get in a history lesson (or two or three) on the annual family vacation
Philadelphia to a 22-year-old – the chance to indulge in a hangover remedy that actually works: the cheesesteak

While Philadelphia offers oodles of museums (the Philadelphia Museum of Art), statues ("The Thinking Man"), and historical monuments (The Liberty Bell), Danny and I came without any plans and, therefore, stress. Except of course to eat at least one juicy, cholesterol-raising cheesesteak at Jim’s Steaks. Though some may raise their nose at us for shunning the more famous Pat’s or Gino’s, waiting in line for 45 minutes, instead of 2 hours, and darting across two blocks from our B&B, instead of across Philly, to Jim’s suited us just fine.

Though our trip mainly involved stuffing usually off-limit foods into our mouths from the likes of Jim’s,A Taste of Home, Marrakesh, and one highly pretentious French restaurant I’ll refrain from naming, we also wandered like a googly-eyed couple on Valentine’s Day through the tree-lined streets of Society Hill, home to our luxurious B&B, Gaskill House, oohhhhing and aahhhhing at the 18th-century brownstones. And, of course, who can forget about the knick-knack shops and smoke-blackened bars of South Street?

Quick Tips:

Philadelphia is no New York—there’s not that much to do, but there's enough to keep you darting from one tourist attraction to another. So, instead of running around like your life will crumble if you don’t visit the overflowing-with-culture museums, statues, library... you see where I’m going with this? Take it easy. Don’t make it another vacation you need a vacation from.

And don’t let the out-the-door lines at Jim’s, Pat’s, or Gino’s deter you from planting your feet behind the last person—all the way around the corner—because these lines move fast. How long did you think it takes to eat a cheesesteak anyway? We’re not talking gourmet cooking here, unless your version of gourmet involves Cheese Whiz of course.

Best Way To Get Around:

As someone who’s lived in New York for almost 5 years, I expect various forms of public transportation to be at my disposal—and Philadelphia did not disappoint me with its various options, from the SEPTA to the buses to the actually common taxis. Although we didn’t bother trying to figure out yet another subway system, opting to rely on our favorite mode of transportation, our feet, we did lazily take one short cab ride after a bottle of wine at the aforementioned French bistro, and it turned out to be fairly cheap. Well, at least by our not-so-cheap New York standards.

Nestled on a narrow tree-lined side street filled with historical townhouses, a brief history of the residence etched in each window, some adorned with lace or some other kind of frou-frou curtain, Gaskill House is a far cry from the rough-at-the-edges reputation Philadelphia made for itself in the ‘90s. As it should be for the $160 a night when booked through http://www.bnbphiladelphia.com/philadelphia/, though I have the unfortunate suspicion that we could have luxuriated in the room accompanied by a Jacuzzi bath for the same price, if only we had discovered this sanctuary at www.gaskillhouse.com.

After being hit by the enthusiasm--an enthusiasm I couldn’t even muster at 22--of the retired-lawyer manager, Guy, and his sidekick dog, we entered a room with a complete mish-mash of decorations that somehow fit perfectly together, from the bold portraits seemingly gathered in a remote South American village to the Asian-print silk screens. The house beaming with an overwhelmingly quaint atmosphere, I feared I had pushed Danny too far with my too-wholesome pick, but he just ambled along beside his new four-legged friend, tail between his legs if he had one, as we were shown to our room named after one James Logan.

After, sadly, discovering the cozy fireplace to be out of commission, I moved to inspect the fake flowers sitting on the large wooden desk, only to find... real, honest-to-God flowers... no, no, fresh, real, honest-to-God flowers. Maybe I have been in New York one year too many...

Later, after dragging myself off the big-enough-to-sleep-a-family-of-four monstrosity of a bed, imagining myself to be Amanda Hearst or some other equally as glamorous heiress, there was the most breathtaking sight I’d been exposed to in months—a bathroom not only big enough for me to do more than stand up and turn around in but to walk more than *8* steps through, and not in a circle, either. (Anyone subjected to a Manhattan apartment bathroom knows where this awe stems from.) It was hard to forgo the $200-a-night room with, dare I whisper it, the aforementioned Jacuzzi tub, but this glorious, well-lit, grime-free thing of beauty would do.

Continuing to humor my fantasy of adoption by the Hearst family, Danny agreed to pull away from the hoard of pillows covering our bed in time for the full breakfast, where I could imagine Guy being my personal chef as he offered up made-to-order omelets, Danny’s having the mystery of a secret ingredient; tea; coffee; crumpets; jelly; zucchini bread (indescribably good); and fruit. Ahhhhh, if only I had a net worth of millions for being a Taylor...

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.

517 South Leithgow St.
215/925-5929

I’ve seen B-list horror movies that begin like this: a couple eschews the bustling main street—in our case, South Street—for an empty side street with nothing but a seemingly deserted restaurant at the end. As they approach the front door of said restaurant, the common doorknob is nowhere to be seen. Instead, in its place is an ornate, old-fashioned knocker and two doorbells off to the side. They ring the doorbell. Nothing. They lightly use the knocker. Nothing.

Thankfully, the ’80s horror flick similarities end here, as a group of more knowledgeable diners laugh at our puzzled faces and pound the knocker. A smiling older woman then appears in the doorway… only to ask which party we were and then kindly let us down, saying that all tables are reserved. As we walk away thinking that we have missed out on quite the dining experience, the woman yells after us, saying that a party of two has just cancelled their reservations. Was that too convenient, or are we damn lucky? I like to answer with "damn lucky."

As my eyes adjust to the dimly lit interior, I instantly know from the traditional (or what I assume is traditional) Moroccan dining set-up of couches overflowing with pillows and tables of giant gold or silver (it was too dark to tell) platters that this restaurant will plenty make up for all my past New York nights cuddled up with Chinese takeout.

A Moroccan waiter dressed in, again, traditional garb hands you their drink menu, and I suggest you choose wisely, as this will be one of the only two choices you will be allowed to make while here. After pouring water over your hands, presumably to soothe your anal-retentive side since you will be using your fingers to do everything except chew, out comes the first course of this prix-fixe seven-course meal (you won’t feel too gluttonous—each course is not that large), a "salad" made up of cucumbers, a tomato sauce, and carrots that serves as a dip for your bread. I could go through the texture, smell, and taste of each dish, but that would ruin the surprise, now, wouldn’t it? All I’ll say is that I was deeply saddened when the second course came to an abrupt end, Danny and I practically staring each other down over the last piece, and that your second and last choices of the evening will be between lamb drizzled with honey and topped with slivered almonds (which seem to be present in every course) and shish kebabs. Going with the lamb, Danny pouted at our choice for a good 5 minutes when he saw the kebabs, while I thoroughly enjoyed the somewhat fatty pieces—and I absolutely abhor fatty meats, which should tell you how delicious it was.

Possibly the second best part of the evening came at the end, when we were presented with a $67 check for this delectable barrage of food, a Miller Lite for him, and a White Russian for me—if only New York restaurants were so divine for such a reasonable price.