Diary of a Food Road Trip

The Mission: One Scion xB Limited Edition Release Series with a full tank of gas. One writer and two friends with completely empty stomachs. Three cities, three cuisines, and 48 hours. Go!

Part One: Escape From New York

I’ll say it: the Scion xB is the perfect city car. I know it sounds like I’m making a biased plug, but I’m not; having fought my way out of Manhattan traffic in everything from Volkswagens to Acuras, I can guiltlessly say the xB is perfect for this. Huge on the inside, tiny on the outside, I slipstream through jalopies on Canal Street, and me, Tony, and Frank are into the Holland Tunnel way earlier than we ought to be.

Part Two: Pat & Geno’s, Philadelphia, PA

Although Pat & Geno’s are often mentioned in the same sentence, they’re separate (and rival) institutions. They’re also side-by-side. History: Pat invented the steak sandwich in 1931, while Geno’s came around in the ’60s and added cheese to it, thus giving birth to the Philly cheesesteak.

As we arrive, neon-lit Geno’s is packed and neon-less Pat’s is dead. We stop at Geno’s first. When ordering a Philly cheese-steak, you have two main options: cheese type (Provolone, American, or Cheez Whiz, for you gourmands) and with/without grilled onions. I go for the Provolone with onions.

The service is quick; I’m eating within 30 seconds of approaching the establishment.

Overall, I was surprised at how clean it tasted. I expected a big, messy, greasy, spitting sandwich with juice dribbling all over my hands, but this was tidy and ergonomically sound, in addition to being delicious. The steak was tender and not fatty, offset nicely by the subtle cheese and the bite of the onions. The lightly salted bread was super-fresh: crisp outside, chewy inside.

The Cheez Whiz variant, however, was messier and nowhere near as good.

Next, we crossed the street to Pat’s, which was now packed, while Geno’s had gone dead; the two places seem to maintain equilibrium.

I tried Pat’s with Whiz—a mistake; it had a strong chemical/artificial taste, with fattier meat. Decision: Geno’s.

Part Three: Reading Terminal Market

The next morning we hit the food stands at Reading Terminal Market. I’m overwhelmed by the sheer number of choices—Greek, Italian, Thai, Pennsylvania Dutch (Amish), you name it—but Tony and Frank have a nose for these things, so they go on the hunt.

Ten minutes later, Tony brings back barbecued baby back ribs from an Amish joint called Rib Stand, Frank brings a hand-pulled roasted pork sandwich with spinach and aged provolone from Tommy Dinic’s.

The ribs are killer, nice and soft, decent sauce, practically falling off the bone. But the Dinic sandwich wins this round hands down: fresh and chewy bread; moist, tender pork with just the right amount of fat; and perfectly aged Provolone to give it a little bite.

“Top notch,” says Frank.
“Best ever,” says Tony, and coming from a foodie like him, that’s saying a lot.

Stomachs full, we hop back in the whip, aiming the hood towards Maryland.

Part Four: Blue Crabs at Bo Brooks, Baltimore, MD

“Have you guys ever done this before?” she asks, in a tone that suggests we’re about to shoot heroin.

“No,” we confess.

Our waitress Cathy sits down to demonstrate. In front of us are a half-dozen crabs, thoroughly dusted with a substantial brown powder, as if they’ve been working in a mine. Each is about the size of discman, with iPod-shuffle-sized claws.

“Grab your knife and flip the crab over,” Cathy demonstrates. “Now pop this thing off.”

“This thing” is a little T-shaped piece of shell near the crab’s asshole; you work your knife around it and it pops right off, like a battery cover.

“Then split it open.” She shoves her knife up into the crab, like she’s making a crab lollipop, and pries the top and bottom shell halves apart, CRACK. Hers splits neatly along the “seam”; mine shatters messily into shards. It looks like my crab has taken a shotgun blast to the stomach, providing a jagged window into a netherworld of crab guts and gore. I need some scotch.

“Don’t eat the lungs, you can get sick,” Cathy says, pointing to two white things that look like flattened cloves of garlic. She peels them apart and tosses them in a bucket. Tony seems fine but Frank looks a little uneasy.

“Don’t eat the intestines either,” she says, pulling some squiggly white things out with her knife. Frank’s face tells me the intestines particularly disgust him, so I take mine out and arrange them artfully along the edge of his plate, earning me a murderous glare.

“The rest is all meat. Enjoy!” she says.

The three of us set to work, and all conversation stops. Eating crabs ain’t easy! We experiment with using mallets to remove the shell, but quickly discover crab smashing generates collateral damage, showering shell bits in a three-foot blast radius.

Eating whole crabs has a negative energy balance; the meat payload won’t replace the calories you burn dissecting the little buggers. The crabcake appetizers we started with are the way to go. Big, satisfying chunks of crabmeat, and all the work is done for you.

By the time we make it out to the parking lot, we’ve ingested so much crab we’re walking sideways. We scuttle into the car and get back on I-95.

Part Five: Sunday Morning Blues, Washington, DC

If there is such a thing as a food hangover, all of us wake up with one on Sunday. Philly cheesesteaks, barbecued ribs, pulled pork sandwiches, crabcakes, and the chili burgers we had at Ben’s Chili Bowl when we pulled into town were all fine individual experiences, but put them together and you’ve got a powerful food coma. And we still have one more place to hit, a soul food diner on Florida Avenue.

We try to snap out of it at the bar of J. Paul’s Dining Saloon in Georgetown, sucking down early morning Bloody Mary’s like it’s nobody’s business. We munch the celery stalks and stare off into space.

“Jesus Christ,” says Tony, holding up his celery. “You realize this is the first goddamn vegetable we’ve had this entire trip?”
All of us are stuffed beyond belief, but then we see the menu. Delaware Bay Blue-point oyster shooters, “medium to large in size with a mild taste and a briny finish.”

We look at each other, then Tony puts up a finger to flag the bartender down.

Part Six: Soul Food Diner

I’m standing in a crowd of waiting bodies at the Florida Avenue Grill. It’s laid out like a classic diner, long and narrow, with a counter that runs the length and tiny, truncated booths. Standing in the crush, it reminds me of being in the Tokyo subway, except this structure isn’t moving and everyone is black, not Japanese.

“Comin’ through, comin’ through, hot stuff,” says a voice behind me, and I squeeze out of a waitress’ way. She’s not carrying anything. She notices me noticing and leans towards me conspiratorially. “If you just say ‘comin’ through’ nobody moves; but you say ‘hot stuff’ and people move every time.” She brushes past me. “Comin’ through, hot stuff, watch your back.”

“Have a seat at the bar, gentlemen,” says a different waitress. I look around for a bar and realize she means the counter, where three stools have just opened up. We sit. “What can I getch’all to drink,” she drawls, and shortly we all have little pink plastic mugs filled with coffee.

There are seven or eight people with aprons on moving around behind the “bar,” ranging from an 18-year-old boy to an octogenarian woman. The staff is dripping with Southern charm: they address each other as “Miss Roxanne” and “Miss Caroline,” and fire off retorts with alacrity:

“Thank you very mu—”

“You’re welcome very much!”

As busy as the place is, the exposed kitchen is extremely tidy, especially for the amount of food coming on and off the grill. A sign on the wall says “Clean While You Work,” and everyone seems to heed it.

We order corn bread, eggs, country ham, grits, scrapple, and fried apples. Everything’s fairly tasty but it’s not about the food here, it’s about the experience, the ambience. The place was crowded, but we never felt rushed. And in contrast to most busy diners, the Florida Avenue Grill doesn’t look like a grinding place to work; it looks like seven people just hanging out making breakfast, cracking wise and eggs. I really like the vibe.

After we pay the check, I thank Miss Caroline for the service, and she looks at me like I’m crazy. “Y’all have a good day now,” she says, and hustles off.

Twenty minutes later we’re back in the car, on I-95. I cannot believe how much food we’ve eaten on this trip.

“You know we gotta pass Philly on the way back,” says Tony, referring to the map.

Part Seven: Pit Stop

In front of Geno’s, the Scion cools off by the curb under the neon glow while the three of us chow down around a table. Provolone with onions, New York can wait.

Restaurant Addresses:

Geno’s Steaks 1219 S 9th Street, Philadelphia, PA 19147 (215) 389-0659

Pat’s King of Steaks 1237 E Passyunk Avenue, Philadelphia, PA 19147 (215) 468-1546

Reading Terminal Market 12th & Arch Streets Philadelphia, PA 19107 (215) 922 2317

Bo Brooks Crab House & Restaurant 2701 Boston Street, Baltimore, MD 21224 (410) 558-0202

Ben’s Chili Bowl 1213 U Street, NW Washington, DC 20009 (202) 667-0909

J.Paul’s Dining Saloon 3218 M Street, NW Washington, DC 20007 (202) 333-3450

Florida Avenue Grill 1100 Florida Avenue, NW Washington, DC 20009 (202) 265-1586