Philly Foodology Over 40
the good, the bad, the Ffffhucking delicious
This post is not a who’s-who of Philadelphia. Most Philly people could give two fucks about attention and notoriety anyway.
The hoagie above, the pizza on green below, and the cheesesteak under that hail from Angelo’s Pizzeria on 9th Street in South Philly. Angelo’s wasn’t a thing in the 80s when I was deep in my youthful suburban dough frenzy. This newly minted sandwich institution mapped itself into the handheld media sphere via Swampscott's Dave Portnoy and his One Bite Pizza reviews.
Angelo’s Pizzeria deserves all the palm-gazing buzz it receives when you understand two things: You will wait for your food and you will have cash in hand.
Number three: if you hold up the line at Angelo’s someone behind you will have thoughts of curb stomping you but they won’t. Remember that thing I said about Philly people vibing away from fame? Unless Bradley Cooper walks through the door, then the whole street corner openly loves Hollywood for a day or two.
You can dream about this kind of food in Hollywood but you ain’t gonna get it. You either fly privately to PHL or you connect somewhere completely out of the way on bankrupt Spirit Airlines. Either way, just look at that smoke-show below.
That’s what a fffhucking pizza should look and taste like.
You can’t call it Neoplolitan and it’s not that over-cheesed by-the-slice Greenwich Village junk that lodges a cheeseball in your hiatal hernia. With that said, the most accurate description of this pie is a strange combination of the two.
I mean wudja look at dat cheesesteak wit!
It’s the perfect crime scene.
Old school run-of-the-mill mentality stuffed in a new school seeded bun oozed together by Cooper sharp cheese. The DNA left behind in this case is so fresh it almost aged better than the initial massacre.
Translation: The half I didn’t eat spent the night wrapped in paper on my kitchen counter and when I ripped back into it twelve hours later it was magnificent.
But Philly knows how to fhuck things up too, it’s not always Sunny there with good deliciousness. The hoagie you see below resting on my thumb was a handful of mediocre history. I grabbed it on a whim from a local deli in Conshy that I’ll keep nameless. I’ll avoid every digital curb-stomp coming my way understanding inevitability is coming to get me.
The best way to describe this ill-equipped criminal is by comparing it to the trash they serve at the Subway chain with that ole’ pedophile poster boy.
RED ALERT: if you are over 40 and eat this kind of food more than once a month you’ll be grossed out in the bathroom mirror post-shower in a carb-slog. That’s your counterbalance queue to eat straight proteins, go on long walks, and relearn the practice of sport fucking. You got this!
My favorite part about this post is the AI bots at “Grammarly” want to change the word hoagie to sub or submarine. Fucking dumb bots don’t even know how to speak Philly. They get a curb stomp, it’s called a hoagie asshole!
GLOSSARY:
Wudja - would you
Dat - that
Hoagie - what fools call a sub or submarine sandwich
Wit - with onions
Conshy - Conshohocken
Sub or Submarine - nobody in Philly uses douhz words for food
Douhz - those
Have an excellent weekend - James
Elton’s AI bots are totally coming to curb-stomp me, ahh fuck ‘em, they’ll never find me, I’m not part of Substack’s who’s-who…