Yes folks, you are correct. These are gallons of Cheese Whiz. Gallons. Of Whiz. I'm not kidding. And behind this window display there is another mind-blowing, supermarket-sized tower of whiz. Now, let it be known that I do not endorse "the whiz" in any way. I will not buy it. I will not eat it. I probably wouldn't even spackle with it. However, I am not utterly insensitive to regional culinary trends and, after all, I was born in Philly. That means pretty much one thing to me. Cheesesteak. (cue choir of pearly-voiced angels in the rafters) Yes, the cheesesteak. One of the wonders of the junk food world, there is an undeniable allure to its unapologetic, in your face attitude (if there ever were an argument for food having attitude, well my friends, this is it).
The Sous Chef had never been to Philly, and we just happened to be passing through over the weekend.... and we were starving. Not the peckish, "oh, I could probably eat something if it were on my plate" kind of hunger. We are talking, "get the F$%# out of my way, I am going to eat the closest thing to my face" kind of hunger pangs. There was only one option for us at this point. Chopped caramelized onions, melted cheese and thinly sliced steak were parading through my mind in a choreographed vision of torture. Obviously, we needed to make a pit stop/detour. I ordered a "provolone, wit" from a very large greasy man standing next to the cans of whiz... btw: "wit" means "with onions" and "whiz wit" means, well, you know... the Sous Chef ordered some bastardization of a cheesesteak that doesn't merit further explanation. (They put other jazzier options on the menu for tourists) Both of us opted out of the whiz factor, which most likely alienated us from the typical cheesesteak consumer, but I am personally ok with that. Cheese comes from a cow not a can. Moo.