When I travel, one of my main goals is to eat as well as I can within, and occasionally out of, my budget. It’s not surprising I should feel this way, since it is my goal every day at home, too. I just returned from a few days in Philadelphia. Because we were traveling en famille, the budget became even more vital, so important that we alternated our restaurant meals with egg salad and pimento cheese sandwiches, fruit, and cookies brought from home. Breakfasts were hard-cooked eggs, yogurt, and juice from the same source – “breakfast in bed,” to put it romantically, or “breakfast-on-the-cheap,” to put it practically.
When we were eating out, we wanted to try some tastes of the city, which in Philly means cheese steaks (everyone knows that) and pork sandwiches (not common knowledge outside the local area). So, we took ourselves across the street from our hotel to the Reading Terminal Market, one of the most famous markets in the US. I expect I will dream of this market from time to time. The atmosphere is perfect – an old building where Polished, Professionally-Marketed Sushi Bar meets Home-Spun, Also-Probably-Professionally-Marketed Amish Cheese Stand. The scent of Indian curry mixes with the smell of soft pretzels. The sounds of live music, sizzling meat, and ringing cash registers are tied together by thousands of people talking, laughing, and eating.
Between the two Male Adolescent Offspring and me, we sampled a pork sandwich with provolone and raab from Dinic’s and a cheese steak with provolone (couldn’t stomach the Whiz) from Spataro’s, plus ice cream. Another day, I managed to get some of Oprah’s favorite macaroni and cheese from Delilah’s, which, while not as good as my own (so says The Husband), was highly respectable.
The prize for Best Thing I Ate in Philly goes to an offering of Beiler’s, an Amish bakery tucked over to one side of the market. At the end of our first visit, I was looking for some treats to take back to the hotel for a little before-bed snack, just in case we got peckish and the dozen snacks I’d packed in the cooler didn’t appeal. (Ok, let’s be honest – everything in this market looked terrific and I wanted to buy something else.) The boys each chose a doughnut from Beiler’s and I found myself waiting for my change from that transaction in front of a display of individual slices of pie. There was a piece of rhubarb, and as The Husband has a special fondness for rhubarb pie, I chose that for him. With nothing in particular in mind for myself, I scanned the other choices and saw wedges of cherry among the apple and peach.
Even supposedly “homemade” bakery pie rarely satisfies me – I much prefer my own, or even better my mom’s, because it is so hard to get a flaky and tender crust when baking in quantity. For some reason, though, this pie appealed to me. It was homely-looking, as the best pies are, and because canned cherries are every bit as delectable as fresh ones in a pie, I knew the filling could be good even in February. I tucked it into my bag, hoping for good pie luck.
Hours later, I pulled it out of the bag, looking slightly worse for wear, squashed as it had been by a careless Male Adolescent Offspring, but I was still optimistic. I settled myself against the bed pillows, stretched out my legs, and discreetly licked smeared pie filling off the bottom of the Styrofoam plate before officially beginning to consume my pie. Bite. Chew. Swallow. Oh my. This was cherry pie without pretense – no almond flavoring, no cinnamon distraction. It was itself alone. This was cherry pie defined. It was so good, it filled a hole in me I didn’t know I had. It was so good, I bought an entire version of it to bring home with us. It is so good, if somebody tries to take the last piece, he may get stabbed with my fork.
Follow
3 Comments