Let’s face it. Philly cheesesteak sandwiches are for philistines. But having never been to Philadelphia, and therefore having never consumed a Cheez Whiz*-soused, grilled-gristle-and-onion bomb from Geno’s, Jim’s, Lorenzo’s, Tony Luke’s, or Pat’s King of Steaks, how can I possibly say this with any authority?
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Among regional beef sandwiches such as the Chicago IB, the Los Angeles French dip, the New Orleans debris po’boy, the Baltimore pit beef, and the Buffalo beef on weck, the dominant national profile of the Philly cheesesteak can arguably be attributed to the commercial success of its appalling bastard offspring, the Steak-umm—which in turn must have something to do with the extremely low bar a more faithful Philly cheesesteak needs to meet. Methods may vary but the template is created by slapping wads of thin-shaved beef onto a griddle, spatula-hacking it with onions and sometimes green peppers, cheese-ing it with deli slices or Whiz, and then shoveling the mess onto a bun, ideally from a particular, beloved 108-year-old bakery that reportedly makes all the difference. It’s imitated far and wide, and Chicago has its own all-purpose fast-food joints that offer facsimiles, the collective quality of which inspired the esteemed blog Greasefreak to forswear the sandwich altogether.
So what does Monti’s have going for it that these don’t? One thing it doesn’t have is an ideal location. I should point out what happened the last time a barstaurant specializing in a highly specialized regional dish opened in this very same space. Cinners, despite having served a solid and thoroughly orthodox bowl of Cincinnati chili, nonetheless shuttered after just under two and half years. It’s not that plenty of worldly eaters don’t enter the location’s immediate orbit. Just a few steps north lies Nhu Lan Bakery, Goosefoot, Harvestime Foods, Hellas Pastry Shop, and a handful of excellently seedy bars and insular coffee shops where old men shoot Metaxa and play dominoes into the wee hours.
Gottwald also offers a few variants on the standard—a cheesesteak hoagie with lettuce, tomato, and mayo added on; a mozzarella and pizza-sauced version; a mushroom, Swiss, and horseradish-creamed cousin; and the Rocky, a spicy, mayo-drizzled slayer, mined with an oily giardiniera of pickled scotch bonnet, serrano, and jalapeño chiles. This is a sandwich you go to war with. You’ll fight through the pain to finish it, but it will fight back long after it’s gone.
- Any resemblance to cheese is coincidental.
4757 N. Talman 773-942-6012ilovemontis.com
