North Star Writers Group

There tend to be a variety of emotions associated with a visit to one’s childhood home – nostalgia, regret, anxiety, excitement, comfort or anything else. The only consistent thread is that they are all, always so very bittersweet. Sometimes we crash headfirst into memories of former relationships, old sweethearts, your first breakup, a best buddy or, occasionally, friendships that simply lost their way.

This year, between Christmas and New Year’s, I found myself back in the Philadelphia area, face to face with my old high school, my first college, my original neighborhood, my first house and my oldest friend. It was overwhelming to say the least, but none of it rocked my socks quite like my visit to the greatest place of fine dining in the tri-state area. Its reputation precedes it, as does its endless line of customers.

Yes, Pat’s King of Steaks has a distinct aura surrounding it, a sort of glow, if you will. And while some mistake it for something mystical, veterans realize it is simply sunlight reflecting off buckets of cheese whiz that stand proudly, forming a glorious pyramid, inside the windows.

While any visit to Pat’s Steaks is special, this time around was even more unique, because this time, I brought a visitor. She was beautiful, and had never been to Philadelphia. She was also my wife.

As most guys understand, opportunities to impress a girl by treating a unique and generally high-intensity situation with an air of confidence and familiarity are both rare and extremely important. When such an opportunity is handled with grace and charm, there is no telling how deep and lasting an impression a guy can make.

Keenly aware of my situation, I had the whole episode perfectly mapped out in my head. “Remember, Katey, it’s going to be busy, and if you don’t order correctly, you’ll get booted to the back of the line.” Most people know that ordering a cheese steak at Pat’s is no laughing matter. There is a very specific sequence to it. Being the veteran that I am, I knew that I would walk up to the window and when it was my turn, state loudly and clearly, “two cheese wit’”, which means, “I would like two cheese steaks, both of them with cheese whiz and onions, please.”

We met my brother and his wife there around one o’clock on Saturday. We were half an hour late, and the line was already all the way around the restaurant. It was just as I had imagined it. “Next!” was being shouted by the middle-aged, pot-bellied, sweatshirt-wearing order-taker, cheese steaks were sliding onto the outdoor counter like beers in a bar. People were smiling, the place was packed, and I was as giddy as a schoolboy at recess, first in line for the swings.

Of course, this was until I saw the sign: “How to Order.” I remembered no such sign. I began reading the instructions quickly and nervously, hoping they did not contradict my own recollection of proper ordering etiquette. They did.

Step one was to state “wit’” or “wit’out,”. This was supposed to be step two. But step two was to state what kind of cheese you wanted. Uh oh. Then I began to think to myself, I want cheese whiz, but do I say cheese or whiz? I remembered saying cheese, but suddenly, saying “cheese” instead of “whiz” seemed to make no sense at all. Do I stick with old habits, saying the type of cheese first and following it with the onions, or do I adhere to the strange new sign? Do I say cheese or whiz? Before I knew it, my brother had already ordered and there was only one customer between myself and the angry man in the sweatshirt yelling “Next!”

“Nathaniel, can you order an extra cheese steak for me?” my brother asks as I am frantically reformulating my battle plan. In my mind, I screamed “Can’t you see I’m in a crisis?” but my wife was right next to me and this was an important occasion. “Sure thing, Mark.” Jerk. He’s sabotaging the entire operation.

“Next!” Who, me? “NEXT!!” Whaddya know, he is talking to me.

“Three wit’ whiz, please.”

“Three cheese wit’!” Always trust your gut. Dang it. Thanks a lot, Mark. I smiled sheepishly at my wife.

“Take your steaks. Next!” Me? Holy moly, there they are. All three of them! I did it!

“Move your steaks!”

“Katey, aren’t you going to help me?” How in the heck am I supposed to pick up three cheese steaks? I’ve only got two bloody hands. She grabbed a steak and I clumsily grabbed the other two. A table opened up, and we were home free.

Looking back, I may never forgive my brother for what he did on that fateful Saturday. And I will definitely never forgive whoever decided it was a good idea to place a misleading sign outside a restaurant that has been around for over 70 years.

All in all, my attempt at appearing calm and collected under the pressure of an angry Philadelphian was quite the failure. But my wife still loves me, and we both sure loved our cheese steaks.

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This is Column # NS37. Request permission to publish here.