The Elm City's cheesesteak gets no brotherly love

Just before Thanksgiving break every year, I have a complete mental breakdown. There are several reasons for this. It consistently gets dark outside before I get out of bed on weekends. The sky begins to puke up that fascinating mixture of slush and soot that makes winters in New Haven so charming. And I enter my 13th straight week without a Philly cheesesteak.

Philly is kind of like Yale. It knows it's cooler than that other, slightly more famous place up north, but still feels the need to prove itself. And the way it does this is with a hunk of meat and cheese, the likes of which no wussy New Yorker could ever hope to taste. So when one such wuss tried to convince me that New Haven actually served up a cheesesteak worthy of the Philly name, I was up to the challenge. It was my duty to defend the jewel of my city against those who can't tell the Real Thing from a New Haven imitation. Luckily, four local establishments gave me all the evidence I needed.

First, all of the menus insisted on calling my meal a "steak and cheese," rather than a "cheesesteak." I thought this might be a matter of semantics—like soda and pop—but I soon came to realize that it is a matter of philosophy. A real Philly cheesesteak blends every element into one harmonious taste. You can't taste the cheese without the steak, or the steak without the cheese—thus it's one word: cheesesteak. But making a steak and cheese was more like making a salad—throw a bunch of stuff together and hope for the best.

My tour began at Broadway Pizza, newly relocated to Derby Avenue, nowhere near Broadway. Even for a steak and cheese, Broadway blew great big cow chunks. And the cow from which it blew had clearly seen better days—not only was it suspiciously dry and crunchy, but parts were deep purple and eerily translucent, like those pictures of human embryos they show you in anti-abortion commercials. The "cheese" consisted of a congealed Kraft single stuck to the bottom of a stale roll. Finishing it off on top were a collection of wilted raw green peppers and onions. Ick.

I was slightly more optimistic about my next stop, Yorkside Pizza. The meat was hot and well-cooked, and almost entirely lacking in translucent embryo skin. The onions, mushrooms, and peppers were plump and juicy, and the bread, although strangely toasted, was fresh and tasty. Unfortunately, the difference between Broadway and Yorkside amounted to the difference between an ugly old whore and her equally ugly whorish daughter—Yorkside may have been fresher, but you still shouldn't eat it. The sheer quantity of meat in the sandwich overpowered any other taste that might have seeped through from the vegetables, and the cheese was undetectable. Worst of all, long after I threw the wrapper away, a lingering odor left my room sweaty and stale like a high school locker room on a hot day.

My next stop was Cappella's Apizza and Deli, located on the corner of Whalley Avenue and Ella T. Grasso Boulevard. Cappella's is renowned for its famous steak and cheese supreme, the "Bomber." The Bomber's philosophy is what its name implies—throw lots of explosive stuff together and watch the destruction ensue. Not only did Cappella's top its sandwich with bacon of all things, but it also included three different types of melted cheese, all drowned in a deep brown sauce that instantly melted the bun and caused the whole mess to collapse into a heap of chunky gray goo in my lap. To put it nicely, the Bomber was overly ambitious. It tried to create harmony, but it made such a mess that the only distinguishable sensation that resulted was extreme gastrointestinal discomfort. But then, maybe that's the destruction they were going for.

I finished off my cheesesteak challenge with Forbes Market, on Forbes Avenue just off of I-95, Exit 50. Even though the sight of a hunk of cheese gooping out the sides of the bun made my weary stomach turn, this one was objectively quite good. The meat was cooked just right, the cheese figured prominently, and the bread was soaked with just enough grease to keep it luscious. But the onions and peppers that topped it were soggy and bland, rather than sweet and sauteed like the ones I get at home, and the cheese was so prominent as to be overpowering. This steak and cheese may have been tasty, but it still wasn't a cheesesteak.

I emerged from my New Haven tour with a new appreciation for Tums and a renewed sense of municipal pride. Let New Yorkers go home to their Broadway shows, their phallic skyscrapers, and their championship baseball teams. I get to go home to a fat Italian guy named Geno who knows how to cook a cow in its mother's milk.

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