In Philadelphia, two cheesesteak shops face each other across forty feet of road.
Pat's King of Steaks. Geno's Steaks. They have been staring at each other since 1966.
I assumed this was a duel.
At Pat's, a sign above the window read: ORDERING INSTRUCTIONS. A code of engagement.
Whiz wit. Whiz witout. Provolone wit.
"Wit" means with onions. You say it fast or they send you to the back of the line. This was not a sandwich window. This was an oral examination, conducted at midnight, in the rain.
I stepped to the glass. My mouth dried up and I could not tell you why a sandwich counter frightened me more than anything I have faced in forty years.
"One... whiz... wit."
The man — Tony — did not look up. Hands already moving.
"Whiz wit. Next."
Assessed, weighed, and graduated in under two seconds. My university took four years to accomplish less.
The bread cracked. The steak drowned in Whiz and soft onions. I tried to eat with composure. The Whiz prevented this. It found my collar, my wrists, and the last corner of my dignity I thought was waterproof.
Then I looked across the street.
Geno's. Neon blazing. Orange and green and white, lit up like a fortress that refuses to sleep. A different army, fighting the same war, open twenty-four hours.
I went.
The man at Geno's window — Frank — saw my collar before I opened my mouth.
"You just came from over there."
"...I carry the evidence on my shirt."
"How was it."
I had walked into enemy territory wearing the stain of his rival. In my country this would end in apology or blood. Here, Frank waited.
"...It was an honorable sandwich."
Frank laughed. Not mean. The laugh of a man who has heard this exact confession every single night for thirty years and still finds it a little bit funny.
"Get a whiz wit. Then you tell me."
I ate two cheesesteaks in fourteen minutes. Both extraordinary. Both different in ways I lack the English and the stomach to investigate further.
I sat on the curb between them. Midnight. Grease on both sleeves. No verdict.
Pat Olivieri started selling steak on a roll from a hot dog cart in 1930. Joey Vento opened Geno's in 1966 with six dollars in his pocket, directly across the street from a legend.
In my country, that is called a death wish.
In Philadelphia, they call it Tuesday.
Sixty years. Same corner. Same sandwich. Both open around the clock. Neither has closed. Neither has moved. Neither has won.
In my land, two sword schools on the same road means one must fall.
In Philadelphia, it means the sandwich never sleeps.
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