Standing over the grill in his eponymous South Philadelphia sandwich shop, Tony Luke Jr. pushes up the sleeves of his triple XL black sweatshirt. “Cheesesteak,” he says. “Watch how it’s done.” Luke lays a row of raw rib-eye onto the greased metal surface. Using a spatula, he shifts it around without chopping it (chopping, he suggests, is just a way of making lesser cuts of meat easier to chew). “When there’s just a little red left,” he instructs, “throw the cheese on. It melts. Put it on a roll. Add onions. You’re done.”

Once a regional specialty peculiar to Philadelphia, the proudly blue-collar cheesesteak is now a culinary star on a national scale. Food service companies pull in an estimated $500 million annually shipping cheesesteak meat across the country. Subway and Quiznos each serve their own version. It’s even traveled to California, where Cheese Steak Shop franchises dot the coast from San Francisco to L.A. But these aren’t the real deal. The real deal cannot exist outside of Philly, where the cheesesteak is treated like the city’s overprotected daughter: not to be fucked with nor taken from home.

Still, even within that 135-square-mile cheesesteak mecca, there are so many subtle variations of the sandwich, it seems an impossible task to determine which is best. A greasy, cheesy, gut-busting task. Upon further consideration, a task I must complete.

Meat and Greet
I begin at the corner of E. Passyunk Avenue and S. 9th Street, site of one of the country’s most famous food rivalries—a 42-year-old battle for cheesesteak supremacy between Geno’s and Pat’s. The two restaurants face each other across the intersection, their massive signage engaged in a stony, decades-long staring contest. “For out-of-towners, it’s the thing to do when you come to Philly,” says lifelong resident Lauren Ainsworth, 32. “You run up the Rocky steps, you go to Pat’s or Geno’s.”

Both are hallowed institutions. It was brothers Pat and Harry Olivieri who created the steak and grilled onion sandwich in 1930. According to Pat’s great nephew Frankie Olivieri, cheese—American and provolone—came along in the ’40s. Ten years later, Cheez Whiz was introduced for efficiency (because it’s liquid, it’s faster).

The first rule of cheesesteak ordering in Philadelphia is, there are only three cheese options. It’s American, provolone, or Whiz, period—a lesson then-presidential candidate John Kerry learned in 2003, when he requested Swiss at Pat’s and was derided by locals for his ignorance.

The second rule of cheesesteak ordering is, learn the lingo. For a cheesesteak with Cheez Whiz and onions, order “one Whiz wit.” If you don’t want onions, drop the “wit.” Despite the shop’s rep, my “Whiz wit” from Pat’s is disappointing. The bread is cold, the meat is rubbery. Even the Cheez Whiz tastes off, a bit too waxy. How do you screw up Cheez Whiz?

Hoping for better, I cross the street to Geno’s, a blur of neon lights and nuclear orange tiles. Joey Vento opened Geno’s in 1966 and claims it was he who first wed cheese to the steak and onion sandwich, a contention that rankles his chief competitor. “Ludicrous!” Olivieri says. “For all he’s concerned, he invented the wheel and signed the Declaration of Independence. Joe Vento is the Mother Goose of cheesesteaks.” Maybe, if Mother Goose were the type to ride motorcycles, sport a Confederate flag tattoo, and post a sign beside her pickup window that reads: THIS IS AMERICA. WHEN ORDERING SPEAK ENGLISH. But it’s in Vento’s best interest to stop instigating and get back in the kitchen. Simply put, his steaks also come up short. Dry meat, cold buns.

As I talk to locals, I’m quickly learning about the proud Philadelphia tradition of loudly debating both sides of an argument. It is a town full of strong opinions. Don’t forget, these are people who once booed Santa Claus at an Eagles game. When it comes to their cheesesteaks, they’re just as adversarial. Tony Luke Jr., owner of the next shop on my list, tells me, “I’ve literally had people walk by my place and go, ‘Tony Luke, you suck! Pat’s is the best!’ Then other people walk by and go, ‘Pat’s sucks! Tony Luke’s rules!’” My opinion of Luke’s cheesesteak? Not to knock it, but let’s just say if I came here again, I’d order the roast pork.