Battle of the Cheesesteaks, redux

The Late Entry: Jury's on Lincoln Ave

I was off my game today when I headed to my regular writing / watering hole, only to find that The Bad Apple is not open until 4:30pm. And I call myself a regular. But I guess the silver lining is that I'm not the kind of writer who hits the bar before Noon.

Jury's on Lincoln in Lincoln Square: Messy & Fanciful

So I stumbled, hungry and thirsty, to Jury's in Lincoln Square to grab a Stella and some ESPN at the place where I usually grab crab cakes with my wife and kid. As it turns out, there's a "Philly Steak" on the menu, so I thought I'd take a crack.

More off my game, this time as a cheesesteak connoisseur, I had my nose stuck in some editing without even thinking about onions, peppers and all of the other stuff I don't typically want on my Philly when I order.

Not a Philly type haunt, the barkeep at Jury’s probably didn’t even think to ask how I take my steak. So when my late lunch hit the bar I was met with slight disappointment (so I thought) that I had ordered an artisan sandwich. But so what…

Jury’s take was different for sure. Their version of a Philly steak comes on quality bread, probably the best French bread that I have had outside of France.

Usually I don’t like onions on my cheesesteak not because I don’t like onions, but because it sweetens the taste and totally changes the effect. For me the onions just don’t work; and some things on your favorite foods just don’t work. Just like that you never order a cheesesteak hoagie to go for the simple fact that the “hoagie” part (the lettuce and tomato) will be a soggy, wilted salad by the time you get it home.

But at Jury’s even the onions worked, even though they were red onions, which are supposedly the sweetest when cooked. Likewise, the bell peppers worked too even though they spent their time falling out of the roll while hanging by a thread onto the stretch of Mozzarella cheese that kept it all together.

As a sports fan, I’d say that Jury’s gave me a head fake. If I were a teacher, I’d give it an A+. And an A+ is an A+, even for poor students like me and some of the rough-and-tumble Philly types (cops, fireman, and other tough guys) who wouldn’t be caught dead eating and artisan sandwich.

No Tastykakes, but still…nice work, chefs. Chicago cops, just park on the sidewalk as usual and get your butts into Jury’s.


Andy Frye writes about sports and life MySportsComplex.blogspot.com, and also tweets several times daily @MySportsComplex on Twitter, mostly about sports but sometimes food too.

So put that in your mouth, and chew it.

Battle of the Cheesesteaks: Chicago North

Every once in a while a writer gets what is known as writers’ block. But the block never applies to the stomach. A writer is always hungry; believe me…even the alcoholic writers like Poe and Kerouac, they just preferred alcohol over food.

Not that I’m suffering from either. Being from Philadelphia, I get asked all the time about Philly cheesesteak sandwiches, and where to go back home and here in Chicago. And it doesn’t hurt to veer off the sports track every once in a while and talk about competition of a different sort. So, since barbeque season is pretty much over with the onset of winter near, I figured it was time to compare cheesesteak joints in my neck of the woods.

The Phlly Cheesesteak...Good Stuff

Typically the first question from anyone who has been to Philly is “what are those two cheesesteak places and which is better?” What this tourist question refers to is the two well known cheesesteak meccas, Pat’s King of Steaks and Geno’s, both on 9th & Passyunk Ave in South Philadelphia. I’ll answer the second part of that question some other time.

For now, it’s Chicago, a world class city that rivals London and New York, smells better than Houston, has more real meat and potatoes than LA. Plus, there’s a whole lot more to do than Midwestern driving-only cities like St Louis. So here’s the ledge…



The Authentic: Philly’s Best on Belmont

The jewel in the crown for Philly Steaks is of course Philly’s Best; a spot that used to fly in Amoroso rolls daily about a decade ago, before going with a local Chicago purveyor, Gonella. Gonella’s rolls are crusty, not half bad and close enough.

I once dragged a lifelong Chicagoan friend after midnight, breaking him in to Philly verbal judo while watching the owner vocally harangue some teens who were messing up tables with condiments after ordering only a drink. Skilled at the judo and attitude, the owner made the kids feel bad enough to pick up their mess and leave (after a short argument of course), and I told Brad, “Welcome to Philadelphia. Let’s order.”

Like the family owners who moved out here from West Philly two decades ago, everything you could want here is authentic as you can get. Cheesesteak orders must be specified with or without onions, and with your pick of Provolone, Whiz, White American, Mozzarella or Cheddar if you must; and your meat comes out flat and layered just like at Geno’s and suburban Philly chains like Lee’s. Likewise, if it’s a meatball sandwich you want or something vegetarian, they have that too. Locals like their “East Coast Style” pizza, which I think is nothing special, really.

Along with a selection of everything from Tastykakes to pepper & egg sandwiches for Lent, Philly’s Best has signs that tell you to be ready when you order and that if you are not a customer that the restroom is “The Lake, 5 blocks east”. There are pics of the owner poised with celebrities like Jackie Mason, Hillary Clinton and local news people, and to top it off, all of the employees must wear a mandatory Philadelphia Phillies caps and a red shirt. Like I said, authentic.



The Approach & Attitude: Clarke’s on Lincoln

Clarke’s is nowadays a standard diner with everything you could ever want on cheeky menu adorned with side commentary, and is open 24 hours with a few locations on the North Side. Everything they make is cheap and excellent.

Great ad, but you'll need to go to Cali for this one.

The first time I went to Clarke’s was in 1995, and I went with a friend from Ohio who was kind of a know-it-all / pain in the ass type of guy. He tried to pull some ‘tude on the staff at Clarke’s and got it shoved right back in his face.

My lunch mate (unfortunate me) decided to ask for the Fruit Plate, hold the grapes and then changed his order, strangely, to a Bowl of Grapes. In the midst of arguing his flimsy “customer is always right” shtick he was told by our impatient waiter, probably a DePaul student, that Clarke’s wasn’t a five-star restaurant. But that he could choose from the myriad choices on the menu or get out. He settled on a club sandwich.

Since East Coast style frictions were stirred up just during the order, flustered, I picked their cheesesteak, wondering if it matched the mood. Like Pat’s King of Steaks, it came out with the steak chopped up, signaling that the short order chef knew what he was doing. It came out plugged with my decadent favorite, White American cheese, which was hard to get in Chicago back then believe it or not.

Good standard-build cheesesteak, authentic quality, pretty much like home but with no frills and no variance. And a little attitude to go with it.

Ironically, Clarke’s website says “We have a large menu to choose from-and you're able to order whatever you want whenever you want.”


Heavy on the Pepper: Hoagie Hut in Lincoln Park

Ever since my later college days in Ohio, I’ve been haunted by the “Philly Cheese Steak Hoagie” I once ordered at Oxford’s now defunct Attractions Bar & Grill (good riddance) which best known for 25¢ beers and should have stuck to that.

“Hoagie” in the Midwest can be a fielder’s choice of any meat on any bread, and on that one occasion the “Philly Cheese Steak Hoagie” was a grease-ridden bun length hamburger with more bread filler then meat. It was even more terrible than I could have imagined, and I was insulted that Attractions was brazen enough to think they could even fool the townies with such a half-hearted, unstudied, garbage rendition of a cheesesteak. You’d probably get a better cheesesteak at the Ho Chi Minh City Airport.

So when I first scoped out “Hoagie Hut” I was skeptical that a Midwestern establishment could nail a hoagie or anything close. But have no fear here. Hoagie Hut is a top notch sandwich spot that does it all right.

A couple of other foodies picked up on something that I did too, that Hoagie Hut uses “a lot of black pepper” and probably white pepper too, according to many who dropped feedback. Not only did this assure me that my taste buds haven’t gone soft on me, but I have to say the Hut’s extra kick adds a little dimension to their cheesesteak which, like Clarke’s, is basic but spot on.

Pat's at 9th and Passyunk. "Who's the King, baby?"

No Cigar, Still Decent: The Daily, Lincoln Square

Lucky for me I wasn’t alone on this one. I’ve been to the Daily Bar a number of times and will continue to go back, but it wasn’t until I had a visitor from PA, an old high school friend, that the Daily had put a cheesesteak on their menu.

On the tail end of several beers and about two hours of conversation and catching up on the last 20 years, it was time for dinner and we both took the leap in ordering a the “Philly” which comes standard with Pepper Jack cheese. To me, deli Jack cheese is just White American with an extra joust of flavor, and a little extra red pepper in anything (for my tastes works). Notably, my pal Eric who is a strident purist on all things Philly thought their steaks were pretty good.

It could have been the 75 degree Spring weather or the beers that night, but The Daily seemed to hit a bright note on their own take of the cheesesteak, taking a risk that is taken too kindly among cheesesteak connoisseurs. And it didn’t hurt that the steak was basically chopped prime rib.

That said, The Daily (which is not named after Mayor Daley, by the way) has a great selection of beers and is an excellent place to watch sports, having no affiliation other than Chicago sports in general.

So if you're at The Daily and if you don’t like cheesesteaks or calculated risk, have a Bud Light and the Daily Meatloaf.



Andy Frye writes about sports and life MySportsComplex.blogspot.com, and also tweets several times daily @MySportsComplex on Twitter, mostly about sports but sometimes food too.

Rock over Philly, Rock on Chicago.

"Pep Talks, Chairs and Dodgeball"

The following is part of a series called Short Short Sport Stories which are real life stories, funny stuff and things that happened around about 1000 words.



Dodgeball was a game that I picked up not on the playground but through my participation in the local Cub Scouts troop. Usually the scout experience is about the outdoor stuff, which is pivotal for the 3rd grade boy if he’s ever to get his butt off the couch and become a man. Good thing for me that I grew up in the days before video games were a kid’s first meal of the day.

Scouts is also about the experiencing life through constructive activities. Team building. Pitching tents. Responsibly starting, using and extinguishing camp fires. Arts and crafts and using a whittling knife. Plus, thanks to the scouts I learned how to tie knots and consequently complete the previously un-mastered art of tying my shoes.

You see, our Cub Scout “pack” had a reorganization that got about twelve of us 3rd graders from different schools in the same cohort. Part of the deal was a weekly Wednesday night meeting, a remodeled Scout Lodge, and a new leader, Mr Neumann. While my friend’s mom did a good job as Den Mother before, we needed to be whipped into shape.

When the first Wednesday came, we got our orientation from Mr Neumann about the structure and drill. It went like this:
1. The pledge of allegiance, and some formal stuff
2. An opening game
3. An outdoorsy activity, usually a about problem solving
4. Cleanup

Looking back it was like landing Bear Bryant as your coach plus use of the Superdome. I remember Mr Neumann as a tall, imposing guy, somewhat quiet and measured, and sort of a John Wayne type with an East Coast accent.

Now I wanted in for sure, even though I had contemplated quitting just like everything else I had ever joined.

Sports wise, dodgeball became our opening game from the second week on, settling on the sport because it just worked. And when you are indoors on a winter night, not too many other alternatives work unless you got a full gym, so it fit.

Sure, Scouts is about cooperation. And though dodgeball is a team sport that forces your team to mend and adapt quickly, you approach your opponent with vigor and cutthroat competition.

As one major newspaper put it, dodgeball is about "violence, exclusion and degradation". And maybe that was what I felt that made me, a fairly spastic 3rd grader already, snap one evening.

Despite where I might be now, I started out with no talent whatsoever in sport of any kind. I was a pretty gentile lad, idealistic maybe, and I thought that dodgeball was all teamwork and cooperation….not being pelted and knocked out as an early sacrificial lamb. I came to find out I was an easy score for the other team no matter who got the ball.

Week in week out of the first month of Cub Scouts, every game of dodgeball began with a whistle and grab for the ball at center, followed by me getting pelted and sent off. We played a couple of rounds every Wednesday night, but the result was always the same and my minutes on the court were more like seconds at most.

But Week 6 would mark a change though not in the way I thought. My intention that night was to start the dodgeball match with a rush toward center. I figured if I used my kid speed, I'd snatch the ball and defend myself before the first assault.

But by the time I got the ball in-hand, an opposing scout had wound up his throw, spotted me, and launched the ball right at me. Knocked on my butt, it took the ball clean out my hand and threw me back a few steps. The other 3rd graders laughed with a roar but I had had enough.

So I responded the way any other extremely frustrated 3rd grader would do. I had a verbal fit, threw out a few obscenities and grabbed the nearest chair, tossing it Bobby Knight style, right across the court.

And for a moment that stopped the laughs. “Hey!” yelled Mr Neumann, as I stormed out though the front door the of cabin, holding back the tears of frustration that I didn’t want anybody to see. Probably February, it was cold outside, and with the door slamming behind me Mr Neumann came out and I figured I would get sent home after getting my ass chewed out by the Scoutmaster.

Coach Bobby Knight, the pro, showing how you do it right.

But then a weird thing happened. Mr Neumann talked to me like an equal, giving me a chock full of empathy, acknowledging my frustrations and a bit of a pep talk.

No chewing out, no “you're going home, son”. Instead of being a military grade tyrant or a corny scout leader with silly anecdotes, Mr Neumann treated me like an equal.

He told me bit about keeping my cool. And that by keeping my cool I’d have more fun, plus that the other kids wouldn’t as easily poke and prod. “Sounds stupid”, he said, “but it works... Keep your cool.” It was the first time in my life that a man had talked to me like a coach. I was only 10 or 11 and had played sports before, but this was the first real coaching I ever got.

Strange thing about this pep talk stuff is that it ties in well with a favorite film, Dodgeball the movie. From Lance Armstrong's jibes about quitting to Rip Torn's anachronisms and dodgy advice, it seems that dodgeball brings out pep talk, perhaps by its ying/yang nature. And Mr Neumann's pep talk helped me and could have helped the Average Joes, the underdog team in that film.

I had heard recently that Mr Neumann had passed away after a bout with a long illness, and the news came right at the time I had thought about penning something about dodgeball. As usual, I had heard the news after the fact and maybe that made me a bit pensive.

Though I didn’t keep in touch or get to say goodbye, it was meaningful to remember that my first ever coach lived a good long life. And that my first coach showed up on the scene during one of my worst moments as a young athlete.

Andy Frye writes about sports and life here and also tweets several times daily via @MySportsComplex on Twitter.

After being buried in day-job work, writing about sports provides the mind and soul a nice vacation.

Writings © 2010. Pic of Coach Knight making love to his chair courtesy of USA Today

Symptoms of a "sports complex"

Years ago I blew out my knee playing soccer while taking a free kick during a Sunday intramural game. Playing contact sports at age 31 is a venture and it is the approximate age when your body starts to revolt and roll downhill.

To summarize, it was just me and the ball in the back field; goalie behind me and everyone else up ahead, looking to make a play out of it. I stepped into the ball to take my kick right footed and must have stepped too hard on my worn out left knee only to make it snap as I hit the grass.



This reminded me one winter evening, known among friends as “The Drunken Ice Capades” when I slipped on ice, hitting the pavement in front of my apartment after a few margaritas with friends. In gracious fashion, after I fell, they each obliged and did the same.

But on this June day, I didn’t hear my patellar tendon detach as I went down but my goalkeeper did. He also informed me that, more importantly, I got off a pretty good kick. Later when someone asked, “What did you do to the other guy?” I had to answer that there was no other guy, just a ball.

Actually it wasn’t that big a deal. Over time it heeled just fine.

The very next week on the same field and same time, 10am maybe, we were up against a lesser equipped team in a playoff. Our best player, Jeremy, was carrying the ball downfield as always, speeding down the right side and getting ready to score as he always did. And as usual there wasn’t much the other team could do about it.

Yet this time, some hack that got stuck playing defense, probably because he wasn’t in good enough shape to run far, fouled Jeremy, sticking his leg out in front our guy with the ball. Jeremy went down, tumbling over with a yell and a couple of f-bombs.

From my sideline spot about 20 feet away it didn’t look like he went down that hard. But the colorful words were plenty justified as we found out later that Jeremy had broken his ankle in three places and would require surgery that day. While being lifted into the ambulance, Jeremy apologized for his language.

That was about seven years ago and to my knowledge Jeremy had the metal rods taken out of his leg not too long ago. Since the injury, he’s played plenty of games since, including soccer, softball and a few other sports, with extra caution, and a doctor’s note for the airport metal detector as the only major inconvenience.

But the injury, the pain, the foul language and the surgeries weren’t the main problem. Nor was the metal rod destined for his leg, nor the doctor’s note that would accompany it. The big problem that faced Jeremy that day was that the Yankees were playing the Cubs at 1:05pm.

I had Cubs season tickets that summer; night and weekends, 60-some games, third base side and great view. And it was the first season in five or six decades that the Yankees would come to Wrigley. And I don’t think they’ve been here since.

By then in a hard cast, leg straightened, I couldn’t sit in my Wrigley seats anymore, and I had many friends lobbying me for those tickets. Moreover, Jeremy was a lifelong Yankees fan and a rabid, partisan one at that. Don’t get him started about how much he hates fair weather Red Sox fans. He had to see his team and so he got the Cubs-Yanks tickets for that Sunday. To top it off, Roger Clemens was on a hot streak and was pitching that night, set to get his 300th win**.

But it took more that an ankle broken in three places and an orthopedic surgeon to tell Jeremy that he wasn’t going. The hours between 10am and 1:05pm flew by as any reasonable person would expect, but that didn’t matter. It took Jeremy’s brother a few attempts to talk some sense into him, before the crushing blow, “Forget it. You’re not going today.”

As it turned out, the tickets went last minute to a Canadian friend of ours who made a blind date out of it. Surprisingly, the Cubs beat the Bronx Bombers 5 to 2 that evening, and Clemens did not get his 300th win.

Understandably, Jeremy was annoyed about his ankle and the prospect of hobbling around Chicago. But he was really miffed about missing Clemens pitch.



I’ve written many times before about sports fandom, and the apparent irrational nature that goes with being a sports fan. Many, like me, associate rabid fandom with being glued to the tube during a tight game, or rearranging plans to watch. Sometimes we get a little wild at the ballpark and yell, talk trash, or throw a beer at the opposing team’s outfielder. And don’t get me started about what Philadelphia Eagles fans have thrown onto the field over the years.

But it seemed unusual to see a guy with a broken ankle say “hurry up” to the doctor and his staff so he could take his seat at a regular season baseball game. Then again, maybe it’s not so unusual.

There’s something about competition and suspense that pulls people in and holds them tightly as fans and TV viewers relentlessly without mercy. This might explain why so many tune in repetitively to watch “The Bachelor” and “America’s Got Talent”. Certainly it’s not unpredictable plots or interesting dialogue that makes it all a hit.

But there’s a strong difference between the competition that you witness on game shows, and the kind you feel during a down field drive. Or suspense you feel during a pitch to a batter at full count on home plate, with two outs and bases loaded. Sport is the one thing that embodies competition and suspense in its most rich, dense and enjoyable form.
This goes for sport of any kind, whether you’re talking golf, hunting game, or team sports like volleyball, cycling or even a four on four game of bocce.

First, as participants, we’re willing to risk injury just to play and then we’re willing to brush it all off, broken bones or not, to participate as spectators in our favorite team’s afternoon endeavor.

The love of sports, its suspense and our psychological need to follow it, causes the fan to do other obsessive or irrational things. Maybe not as irrational as my team mate Jeremy, but still...

So, what are the symptoms of this social condition I call “the sports complex”? First off, it consists of things we’re all aware of. Constant checking of scores, wearing of replica jerseys, and studied knowledge (if not savant-like knowledge) of sports trivia…these things all apply.

But it might creep a step further when a member of your household designates one room as the “sports lounge” or dresses up the dog in a football jersey. Generally, one’s behavior is affected in ways both big and small. Perhaps some anecdotes would paint a picture of a complex at work.

One parent that I know personally, painted a golf course scene around his infant son’s room. In that scene, a Chicago Bears fan, clad in dark blue and an orange pointed C, was enjoying his day on the links. His caddy was tired and slumping, dressed in yellow and green with a frown on his face. And a big Green Bay Packers “G” on his cap.



Another friend from college, an Ohio State fan, ends every email from August to January with the farewell “Beat Michigan, ”

Similar college football sentiments came up once after my kid attended a fellow 3 year-old’s birthday party. My kid gave his friend, for his birthday, a wooden puzzle map of the United States. His parents, who are friends of mine and Alabama football fans sent a warm thank you note pointing out Bailey’s great friendship and also that any map from a University of Mississippi fan’s academic collection would usually have states missing from it.

Ha ha, yeah, OK. I wasn’t sure if the joke was cracked on Ole Miss’s academics or Mississippians’ age old Civil War fixation. But like any greeting card, it’s the underlying thought that counts.

Years ago, the marketing people in Las Vegas stole an old adage from the culture of English Football. That old adage, “What happens on the pitch, stays on the pitch” was transformed to the tagline, “What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas.” Sure, they stole a good line for profit and TV advertising, but at least the marketing people got the spirit right.

Since I’m not a shrink or a social scientist it’s fair to say I’m not the proper authority to fully define or diagnose the sports complex. But I do know one thing about sports nuts.

And that is that, no matter the symptoms, whether it is the collecting of caps, ball and jerseys; the hours spent watching sports live and on TV or whatever; every fan with the sports complex shares one thing in common.

That common attribute is living every moment with at least a little bit of sports on the brain. Most importantly, that fan can never, ever just “leave it on the pitch”.



Andy Frye writes about sports and life here and also tweets several times daily @MySportsComplex on Twitter.

**He had to fact check this stat from memory and 7 years ago but totally nailed it. Such is the condition known as “the sports complex”.

Writings © 2010. Clock picture courtesy of Photobucket.com