BY JOEY SWEENEY | It was a great man who once said “You only rock once,” and it is in this spirit that I try to do most things, for the claim is both a caveat — “don’t blow it!” —  and a dare. Case in point: I now limit myself to a maximum of one (1) cheesesteak per month, but I try to make it count. 

Yesterday was the last day of the month. And I wanted to make it count. So I did something I have always wanted to do, but had always shied away from: I rolled into Famous Fourth Street Delicatessen, beloved Jewish deli and home of the “zaftig”-sized sandwich and comedic food proportions in general, and I ordered their cheesesteak. (I’m a big fan of the off-brand sandwich in places that are usually famous for another kind of sandwich: The hoagie, at Jim’s Steaks? Dank. The hot dog or fishcake at Pat’s? Don’t mind if I do. And so the cheesesteak at Famous feels like a question the world has asked, a phone that is ringing, and someone had to answer.)

Famous, as it’s known in this household at least, is the longest-running Jewish deli in Philadelphia history at 90 years young, and to say it is a foundational eatery here is putting it mildly, from both culinary and cultural standpoints. You are not a U.S. President until or unless you have eaten here, and you may not understand love as an emotion with physical manifestations until you do, either. Famous is for sale right now, and I can’t bring myself to think about what we would lose if we lost it. But then again, the st(e)ak(e)es (pun) are so high that if anyone ever bought the place only to shut it down, they’d likely never have a Philadelphian, any Philadelphian, speak to them ever again.

It arrived, and it was huge. The waitress eyeballed the sandwich, took a look at me, an aging hippie, and said, “Have a good time!”

I know there’s pictures here, but it is worth some detailed description of the type of cheesesteak that appeared before me: It’s 14 inches long, at least, and one half weighs at least twice what most other cheesesteaks clock in at. The roll is toasted. The “chop ratio” — Pat’s is barely chopped, for instance, while Ishkabibble’s would be chopped finely — is in the middle. I ordered mine with fried onions and American cheese; Famous does not offer Cheez Whiz, which very much tracks.  

If I may here, a sidebar: American cheese is the most loving of cheesesteak cheeses. If you have ever had a person in your life who loved you enough to make you a cheesesteak at home, they would have likely used American, because what kind of filthy animal keeps Whiz at home? There’s more to it than that, though: American cheese melts like a gravity blanket onto a cheesesteak and into that Amoroso roll at home. It says I made do with what I had, and that what I had was pretty good. It says be thankful for what you’ve got, as William DeVaughn put it. It says diamond in the back, sunroof top, diggin' the scene with a gangsta lean. And that’s what this sandwich was saying. Only… at viscerally loud volume. 

Take any size bite. It’ll take you a while. It is as dense as the prose in your iPhone usage agreement. Have this once and it will redefine your expectations of a cheesesteak for the rest of your life. I texted as much to Kretchmar: 

“The pickles are an amazing foil,” he said, and I agreed. A point of grace even. As was the giant Pepsi. And I don’t even like Pepsi. The Famous cheesesteak will make you re-examine everything.

As I took my first bite, this is what was playing on the Famous muzak system:

And tell me 
when will our eyes meet?
when can I touch you?
When will this strong yearning end?
And when will I hold you again

That song’s bombast, its crescendo of longing, that is what both Famous feels like at the emotional eating level — and trust me, honey, all eating is emotional eating. Some days, the emotions are bigger. This must’ve been one of those days.