When I lived in San Francisco, I worked at The Cheese Steak Shop. We sold Philly cheesesteak sandwiches. Quit turning up your nose if you're from Philadelphia -- the owner of the joint hailed from City of Brotherly Love, and he knew his cheesesteaks. Rolls shipped in from Amoroso's Bakery and warmed on the grill before serving. Onions fried with the meat and hot or sweet peppers if you wanted them. White American cheese melted on the grill, and don't pester me with that Cheez Whiz nonsense. Tastykakes. Birch beer. I hated the job. It was greasy and sweaty and hot. I smelled like onions after I left each night. But I loved the cheesesteaks, and I took pride in preparing them well.

People loved The Cheese Steak Shop. Lines from the counter to the door reliably formed on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. Ex-Philadelphians swarmed the place. Robin Williams stopped by sometimes. People stood by the pickup counter to watch us perspire and clang our spatulas against the grill as we shredded and turned the meat. "Is that one mine?" they would ask. We knew what came next.

"A little salt and pepper on mine, please."

"Can I get an extra slice of cheese? Maybe two slices? Yeah, dog."

"Can you make mine really crispy? Go ahead and burn that shit."

"Extra mayo and mustard on my roll. I said extra. There you go."

One night, just after closing, I was mopping the dining area when a thirtysomething-or-other lady started banging on the door. I ignored her. The guy cleaning the grill ignored her. Dail, the shift manager, ignored her. If you wanted to buy a sandwich at The Cheese Steak Shop, you needed to break the plane of the doorway by 8:59:59 P.M. Pacific Standard Time, and we were not shy about going to the instant replay. Anyway, she kept banging on the glass, and we kept ignoring her, and finally she yelled:

"I need a cheesesteak sandwich!"

Dail, pissed off, looked up from counting money. "We're closed!" he yelled back.

The lady kept pounding. "I'm from Philadelphia, and I've had a really bad day, and I need a cheesesteak sandwich!"

Dail shrugged and pointed at the clock, which read 9:08, maybe even 9:09. What could he do? The grill probably didn't even work after 9:00.

The lady looked ready to burst into tears. She pulled something out of her purse, took a deep breath, smacked two twenty-dollar bills up against the glass, and yelled, "I'LL GIVE YOU FORTY DOLLARS FOR TWO CHEESESTEAKS!"

The grill did work after 9:00, as it turned out, and ten minutes later a very happy thirtysomething-or-other lady went on her way home to drown her sorrows in fried animal flesh, and I had resumed mopping with 13.33 illicit dollars in my pocket.

And that is the best story I know involving cheesesteak sandwiches.

(N.B. to Hubs and any other Denver readers: I've tried all of the cheesesteak places in Denver, and for my cash you can't do better than Taste of Philly at 2432 S. Colorado. You're welcome. And put a dollar bill in the tip jar, for the sake of Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior.)

+posted by Lawrence @ 5/18/2004 09:21:00 PM