This Is My Blood: Bilsner

There's a magical time of the morning when the city is still asleep. As much as I like the hustle and bustle of Philadelphia, I love when everything is at peace, all tucked in. There's a silence that pervade the early morning dark that is neither eerie nor uncomfortable. It's the time of day when a man can find truths in himself, because the city gives him the room to find it.

Now, this is going to sound silly and contradictory, but the very best place to experience such a young morning calm is a 24-hour cheesesteak shop. The neon lights might seem loud, but seen in the right light, they are a source of calm and comfort. It's almost like finding a base on the moon, whenever you show up at a steak shop at five in the morning—What is this? It's open? I can get food here?

I had no particular reason to be at Phillip's Steaks before 6 AM this morning, none besides the fact that I was awake and that I was out the door for work anyway and that I could always eat a cheesesteak. It's not like I was coming off a third shift, or just experiences an epic Saturday night bacchanalia. Nope, it was just me and my weird desire to experience everything that is new.

New to me, anyway. I must've driven past Phillip's before, but I've never pulled over. Around 24th and Passyunk, this is fifteen long Passyunk blocks away from the epicenter of Philly Steakdom (Pat's/Geno's). Since Philadelphia gets grittier the farther southwest you travel, Phillip's luster levels were somewhere between the Republican and the Purple Orchid (the fact that I chose two strip clubs in that example should tell you only that I am not familiar with Philadelphia southwest of like Broad and Washington, and nothing else).

It's the classic cheesesteak palace set-up. There's a broad, somewhat triangulate building, white checkered facade, two windows (one for steaks, one for everything else), cash only. There are Ronnie-looking young bucks at the counter, and Tony-looking potbellied Italians working the grill. There are pictures of B-list celebrities and Philebrity sports stars who stopped by for a cheesesteak over the past ten years (Phillip's had pictures of, from left to right: buzzcut model Amber Rose, Sixers backup center Norvel Pelle, Eagles little man running back Boston Scott, shitty sports radio blowhard Anthony Gargano, and, of course, Joseph R. Gannascoli, a.k.a. Vito from The Sopranos). Most likely there's going to be like two other people there, and they will both be bald and middle-aged, and they will be both be ordering two cheesesteaks each, and the cheesesteaks will have some fucked up shit on them like red sauce and mushrooms or whatever.

That last paragraph makes me seem bitter and sarcastic for some reason, but I don't feel that way. I felt at home at Phillip's. If I make fun, then it's only out of love. There's a silent camaraderie to be found along the row of picnic tables in the parking lot, everyone eating silently, processing whatever fucked up circumstances brought them to eat a wiz wit' for breakfast in the first place. This is the Philadelphia I know.

We need to rope beer into this story, since this is a drinking column. I had a beer there, of course. They don't sell beers (rarely at cheesesteak shops, certainly not at the all-hours shops), but it wouldn't be a true Philly cheesesteak without an ice-cold beer to wash it down. I had wrapped one in a paper towel and drank it alongside my American wit'out.

An out-of-towner could probably draw a line between the pilsner I drank and the cheesesteak I had. They might say that the pilsner I had was garbage, both for its taste and because it made a big stink about being "supporting local" by adorning the label with a big American flag, which, as we all know from Facebook profile pics, means that this beer is trash, and possibly racist. That might be true—don't give me a knockoff version of a German pilsner and try to call it "American"—but to equate that with my gloriously shitty cheesesteak would be misguided.

I'm not claiming cheesesteaks are good for you, not by any means. I'm saying that it makes sense to take pride in the humble cheesesteak. There is no inadequacy to be overcompensated for—it is but a simple sandwich, meat and cheese on a long roll, with a little bit of ketchup sprinkled on top. You don't need to dress it up. It is simple and perfect. It doesn't need to be loud to get your attention.

It can instead exist as an island of soft light in a sea of darkness, a beacon of hope for the hungry and tired, the hoi polloi of this city who desperate yearn to clog their arteries at an ungodly hour. We quietly assemble, while the rest of the city sleeps, and we enjoy an honest truth. In the five o'clock hour, we can sit with beer and steak and be ourselves, no distractions, the city laid bare, and simply exist. It is a secret world that I'm glad I was able to enjoy today.

NOTES

BEER: Bilsner

GENRE: German Pilsner

ABV: "4.20%" the extra zero making this a marijuana reference I guess

BREWED BY: Burley Oak Brewing Co.

LOCATION: Berlin, Maryland

PURCHASED AT: IGA

PAIRED WITH: cheesesteak with American cheese, ketchup, no onions (cross it off this list)

GRADE: 1.5 pukes out of 5 (cheesesteak gets 3 pukes, though—a little chewy, but got better the farther I ate)

BEER COUNT: 356