yeah, i went out with a pat or a geno...
by brian c. turner
I have recently moved to South Philly and am loving it. BUT, there is one Philadelphia staple based right down the street from me that continues to baffle my mind when contemplating the wants and desires of the human brain: "PAT's and GENO's." I have many complaints about the 2 establishments, what they serve as food, what they leave littered on my streets, and what vermin they host to, BUT I do end up giving either place about $20 a year at the least. George Foreman's grill is only a step away from being a primitive spit sitting outside of homoerectus' cave. Hey, those cave men knew how to eat healthily, let the fat drip to the ground, wash it down with some lake water, club a "hottie," and burn the calories procreating (and, in turn, evolving) inside the warm covering of the carcass they just roasted. A simple yet healthy way to survive all the way up to the life-expectant age of 20? Millions of years of evolution in body and mind has only allowed for rationalizing when deciding what to eat and more importantly how to prepare it: with onions soaking up grease that's older than city hall, beef that has so much fat that you can't tell the difference between it and the cheese, and cheese whiz that's more orange than Jim Henson's prototype for muppet pigment. Pat's and Geno's: turning the four food groups into heart poison for all of Philadelphia to enjoy. I have the choice not to buy a cheesesteak, and consequently, not file early on the list of who needs an organ transplant, but I don't seem to have a choice as to whether or not my block can be used as the trash receptacle for thousands of paper products filled with cheese and grease (feeding a family of rats for a day). Obviously, Pat's and Geno's move to inspire their customers not to throw their trash all over the street, with strategic placement of trash cans that are emptied by a strong city-breeze, is not cutting it. Take a look in the glassed-in stainless steel kitchen of either establishment and you'll see two sweaty guys flippin' onions, one guy slappin' beef and cheese on bread, one pimply secret sauce supplier pumpin' cheese whiz on fries, an androgynous prized pig takin' money, and fifteen other tee-shirt advertisers sitting their fat asses on the cutting counters. Give those fifteen mother fuckers a trash bag and send them to my block goddamnit, and remember to stick a cork in their noxious asses before you let them leave the fortress of slob-wit-tude. As said before, I'm quite a hypocrite on this subject matter. Geno's (what I consider to be the cleaner of the two) is like an x-girlfriend to me. At 2:00 A.M. on a Saturday, I'm walkin' home, having 3 too many specials at B&B's, and come across the x-girlfriend. I start a conversation (place an order), and before I know it, nostalgia turns into sex with regret, or, in this case, french kisses and oral wit' provolone and onions. The next morning you regret the visit, there's a pungent odor on your fingers, and whatever it was that was so good about doing it last night has left your memory. Instead, you're left with only the toilet-filling aftermath and a vow to never do it again.
I have recently moved to South Philly and am loving it. BUT, there is one Philadelphia staple based right down the street from me that continues to baffle my mind when contemplating the wants and desires of the human brain: "PAT's and GENO's." I have many complaints about the 2 establishments, what they serve as food, what they leave littered on my streets, and what vermin they host to, BUT I do end up giving either place about $20 a year at the least. George Foreman's grill is only a step away from being a primitive spit sitting outside of homoerectus' cave. Hey, those cave men knew how to eat healthily, let the fat drip to the ground, wash it down with some lake water, club a "hottie," and burn the calories procreating (and, in turn, evolving) inside the warm covering of the carcass they just roasted. A simple yet healthy way to survive all the way up to the life-expectant age of 20? Millions of years of evolution in body and mind has only allowed for rationalizing when deciding what to eat and more importantly how to prepare it: with onions soaking up grease that's older than city hall, beef that has so much fat that you can't tell the difference between it and the cheese, and cheese whiz that's more orange than Jim Henson's prototype for muppet pigment. Pat's and Geno's: turning the four food groups into heart poison for all of Philadelphia to enjoy. I have the choice not to buy a cheesesteak, and consequently, not file early on the list of who needs an organ transplant, but I don't seem to have a choice as to whether or not my block can be used as the trash receptacle for thousands of paper products filled with cheese and grease (feeding a family of rats for a day). Obviously, Pat's and Geno's move to inspire their customers not to throw their trash all over the street, with strategic placement of trash cans that are emptied by a strong city-breeze, is not cutting it. Take a look in the glassed-in stainless steel kitchen of either establishment and you'll see two sweaty guys flippin' onions, one guy slappin' beef and cheese on bread, one pimply secret sauce supplier pumpin' cheese whiz on fries, an androgynous prized pig takin' money, and fifteen other tee-shirt advertisers sitting their fat asses on the cutting counters. Give those fifteen mother fuckers a trash bag and send them to my block goddamnit, and remember to stick a cork in their noxious asses before you let them leave the fortress of slob-wit-tude. As said before, I'm quite a hypocrite on this subject matter. Geno's (what I consider to be the cleaner of the two) is like an x-girlfriend to me. At 2:00 A.M. on a Saturday, I'm walkin' home, having 3 too many specials at B&B's, and come across the x-girlfriend. I start a conversation (place an order), and before I know it, nostalgia turns into sex with regret, or, in this case, french kisses and oral wit' provolone and onions. The next morning you regret the visit, there's a pungent odor on your fingers, and whatever it was that was so good about doing it last night has left your memory. Instead, you're left with only the toilet-filling aftermath and a vow to never do it again.
posted by handbasket at 2:35 AM
1 Comments:
i fell off the pat's/geno's wagon the other night after several drinks and a VERY loud motorhead show. i did the double roast pork dance and topped it off with a bucket of cheez whiz/potato soup (aka - cheez fries.) the whole thing set me back like 17 bucks and i always like it when you are served your food, kindly say "thank you" to the establishment's proprietor, and then not even have your existence acknowledged as they shut the window in your face without as much as a "you're welcome!" you know, a "you're welcome for paying our ever-increasing prices for our shitty food that we serve with such disdain to the poor dipshits who made us millionaires." fucking assholes! i only came to your little crap shack cause it was almost 1 am and i was seriously famished from spending the night dodging the human open sores that call themselves metal fans (the fact that i even HAD an appetite was amazing in itself.)i gladly plunked down almost 20 clams for some hot chow and this is how i get treated? on top of that, the "open minded" folks that run the place still have their "freedom fries" sign up like a bunch of over-propagandized sheep afraid to go against the status quo. fascist hatemongers. I HATE YOUR FUCKING RESTURANT! from now on, i'll only go there when i'm drunk, get tired of having money in my pocket, or would like to be abused.
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