Let me set the scene. There is a window that says steaks only, and we are thinking we want steaks and fries. We are not sure if you can order all those items at this window. Thinking it is like a cheese steak express line, we go to the next window, which we are yelled at again and told now that it is only for fries and drinks. We try and BACKTRACK to the steak window, which has now processed about 50 people in one minute and those people are not liking the fact that we are now trying to get back there. Everything is moving so quickly that I have forgotten how to order-I need the Cliff's notes and I can't think, I am being yelled at, and I have no freaking idea what I want. There's no time to think when ordering your cheese steak in Philly. DP ended up with a cheese steak with cheese wiz on it cause she didn't know what she was doing and got scared, and I got mine mostly right, but I had a ton of onions as I guess I uttered the code word for butt load of onions.
Then we are thrown our sandwiches and change, literally, and the dictator starts yelling again, "MOVE IT, MOVE IT". We get to the next window and there is more yelling, more money throwing, and little time to think. Finally we all walk away with cheese steak and half filled fountain drinks and some fries. We look stunned. We try and find the ketchup station, and after we locate that and look for a table, we find that there is none to be found. We end up sitting on a stoop of an abandoned store with our food across the street.
Let me add in here that it is not too long ago that I was heavily medicated for OCD, and we are sitting here with greasy steaks, fries, on a dirty stoop-- with 2 napkins to share between the three of us. None of this matters now because we have the beloved Philly cheese steak in hand, and we have the battle wounds to prove it. The anticipation is too much to handle and we bite in with such abandon . . .only to find . . .
it's a cheese steak. . . Nothing special .. .after all that we'd had such high expectations and were quite disappointed. The fries were cold, the steak was greasy, and all together a waste of a few million calories.
So there you have it. Between the yelling, the dirty eating accommodations, the million calories, and disappointing finish, you can see why I have affectionately called this Post traumatic cheese steak syndrome.I say next time we stick to this cheese steak place-Tony Luke's in Philadelphia. The steaks were better when we went last year with DP's family, and there was no psychological abuse involved. I drove by the scene of the event yesterday and I began to shake. I am sure in the distance I saw flying cheese steaks and heard the sounds of screaming men-just as I put the pedal to the metal and drove far, far away.