Tantalizing...

So, you've got your slow food and your slow travel, but I'd venture to guess that for most of us mere mortals, the latter is more of a fantasy than a reality. I myself have a mere fifteen vacation days each year, which doesn't exactly lend itself to renting a Tuscan villa and settling in for the winter.

And as for slow food...well, yeah. There's slow food, and then there's America. Personally, I am of the belief that one of the most important things in this world is balance. (Though even a cursory examination of our menus for the last three days of the trip would appear otherwise.) So in this case, balance would mean a melding of cultures. Are you with me? How does this sound: It takes 7-10 hours to pre-prepare the dish that was the focus of this trip. And after a half-day of slow roasting over a slow heat, it's then pulled together in a couple of minutes and served on a paper plate. With a styrofoam cupful of refillable sweet tea. Yeah, it's southern. Yeah, it's good. It was an NC-style BBQ odyssey:









Yeah, that's how they rock it, Lexington style.

It didn't start with BBQ, of course. Because (at least if you're me and your sister lives in Philly) the first stop is in Philadelphia for cheesesteaks and hoagies at Cosmi's deli. (I know. You've probably never heard of Cosmi's. Let's just keep this between you, me, and the rest of the internet community.)

Those other joints? With the neon and the screwy politics? Skip 'em. Go to Cosmi's. It's like a dep (corner store). With a deli in it. Order your sandwich on a half-seeded (their bread is from Sarcone's, except you don't have to deal with Sarcone's seemingly arbitrary hours or their equally arbitrary preparation conventions like, "no, even though we've been open for an hour and a half and all we serve is sandwiches, our breaded chicken cutlets aren't ready, so you can't have a chicken parm hoagie").

NON-SEQUITUR

I like to pass. For local. I don't, of course, I pass for Canadian, but I like to try, wherever I am, to give the impression (however fleeting) that I am fully of the place. Paris? My proudest moment, actually being mistaken for a Parisian. Mexico City? I think I kind of look Mexican. Philly? Well, so visiting Philly over the years, I've worked hard to master the art of tossing off a curt order of 'One American with.'

(Extra non-sequitur: Picture me at my most conflicted. I am in an excruciatingly long line at Jim's (don't ask) and, approaching the order point, I start eyeing the lovely, muscle-bound, tattooed, dreadlocked cook. Just for kicks. But the view is nice. So I keep looking, but meanwhile, I'm very, very focused on my order: One American. With. One American. With. Remember, passing is key. I'm going to pass for a Philadelphian if it kills me. Until...one of the two ladies in front of me screws up her order. She's from NYC and doesn't know any better. So the cook leans over, holds up the line, rests his hand on the counter, looks at them real mean and growls, "Baby, you got to tell me what you want."

I almost died. I collapsed back against the railing. His greasy apron. That knife. The steam rising from the grill and his patient-impatient look. I wanted him to say the same to me. Lean over the counter, exhausted with these useless customers who don't know how to order a cheesesteak, but slow down the line, spend an extra minute looking into my eyes so I can tell him what I want.

But the call was stronger. The call to pass. So I ordered: One American. With.

The line never stumbled.)

END OF NON-SEQUITUR

It's more complicated at Cosmi's (I claim) in part due to the fact that they're actually friendly (incidentally, not at all a factor in my evaluation of their food, merely a bonus) and that throws me off. In addition, unlike the more traditional haunts, at Cosmi's, unless you have a jar in the fridge at home, you order your hot peppers (long hots) on your sandwich. I blame the long hots. Ultimately, it matters very little whose fault it is (though, as mentioned, I blame the long hots). The fact of the matter is that my orders at Cosmi's have been consistently wrong for the past year and a half. (Considering the timing, if you won't accept my long-hot defence, blame my beau.)

But back to my point. Yes, my first order at Cosmi's this past trip was also screwed up. Except. Except.

Did they screw it up and how. Would I ever--ever in a million years?--ever order a cheesesteak "American with"..."with cheese whiz"??? (I actually don't even know if that's how you would order it.)

Let it be said that I am, on principle, neither opposed to nor in favour of cheese whiz. My first cheesesteak (ordered as per the instructions of a real live Philadelphian of otherwise impeccable gustatory taste) (if you'll allow that awkward phrasing), was actually a "Pizzasteak, whiz, with." (Which, if memory serves, I actually also screwed up--proving only that I have come full circle in my ineptitude--ordering a "Cheesesteak, whiz, with."). This steak failed to impress, and I never returned to whiz. Until now.

My ordering error, or perhaps their scrutiny of my innermost desires, led to a magical discovery. If you decide to order yours simply "American with" or even "Provolone with" I won't blame you. But open your heart. Open your mouth. Give "American with, with whiz" a try. (Or maybe be more specific when you order. Don't listen to me. I don't know how to order.)

I've now written hundreds of words, and we haven't left Cosmis's, let alone even gotten to Baltimore yet! Gak!