Grease Is The Word

I cannot bee leave that I waited 27 precious years to taste an actual cheese steak in the city that made it famous, Illadelphia. What really puzzles my noodle even more is when I finally tried the so-called ‘bestest of the restest’, Pat’s & Geno’s, I was less impressed than when I found out the ‘special guest player’ at one year’s annual Oriole Fan Picnic at Memorial Stadium was none other than relief shitbag pitcher Kevin Hickey (alternate great pic). Btw, I wonder if the autographed photo I have of him is worth less or more then the johnhancocked card I have of Dale Sveum. But all that hate was so then, and this is so the now. After heeding the advice of you dear readers and consulting the brillsness of HollyEats.com (who rates yumminess by grease stains), I vowed to my stomach and taste buds to avenge my earlier disappointment and find the ultimate c-steaks that Philly had to offer.

Luckily, me and the rents (recently voted as 2 of the Top 50 Mos Hottiestest People) were in Benny Frank’s backyard this past weekend to catch the muss-see-of-muss-sees: the Dali eggzibit at the PMA, and had plenty of time to try not one, but TWO glorious out of the way Gardens of Greasen. Yep, my rentals are cool like that. I mean, they hail from the same city as Nelly & Busch Beer. And I already had a good feeling about them both, since none had an official website. First up was Chink’s. Awful name, polar opposite of awful food. After that first bite, I felt a giant weight and hate lifted off my shoulders. Alas, I was finally tasting a c-steak that would make our Founding Fathers proud when they valley-forged this great nation of ours. I almost ‘ummmmed’ and ‘yummmed’ more than Rachael Ray on a typical episode of 40 Dollas a Day. I washed it down with a banana and strawberry milkshake that was so tres tasty that I almost forgot I was enjoying c-steak royalty.

Our final pit stop took us to some area across del rio called Roxborough, where the Patriots don’t play, but the eaters prey on the umcrediblenessness of Dalessandro’s. Talk about ambrosia of the gawds!! The reasonably priced mammoth c-steak was overLOADED with scrumdeliumptious minced beef and purrrrfectly blended with melted cheese (btw pt 56, neither place seemed to offer ‘Cheese Whiz’ as an option, which calls into question the authenticity of the claim that it is a muss have on c-steaks). I kept trying to compare it to Chink’s, but that’s almost as daunting as deciding who should next ascend to the title of Her Royal Thighness, Mandy ‘Can I have sum’ Moore or Mischa Mistress?

As the day wore on and my burps and farts grew nastier and swampassier, I had no doubt in my mind that out of all 4 c-steaks I’ve ever tried in Motown Philly, Dalessandro’s was top of the class, with Chink’s and that nana-berry shake coming in a close second. Papa Thigh Master agreed with yours drooly, but dearest Mumsy preferred C’s more. But can we really trust her judgment when she didn’t nosh on either one with the bun and judged by meat alone? And the moral of this tale? Philly rocks and so do their infamous c-steaks. They key is knowing where to go, and in my opinion, u have to travel as far from the city center as possible to get the goods. Let liberty ring, whilst I finally take a dump. Til next time, I’m the Thigh Master, and you wish you were me.