I don’t remember the first cheesesteak I ever ate. Which feels wrong. Like not remembering your first concert or the first time you took the subway alone and accidentally went the wrong direction but pretended you meant to do that.
What I do remember is the first time I had a cheesesteak sandwich that made me stop mid-bite and stare at it like, Oh. You’re serious.
That happened somewhere between Queens and Philly. Which is dangerous territory to even say out loud, depending on who you’re talking to.
I live in Queens. Born-and-raised energy. I trust corner grills more than Yelp. I’ve eaten sandwiches at 2 a.m. that changed my worldview slightly. So when people start talking about cheesesteaks like they’re sacred texts, I listen… but I’m skeptical. Always skeptical.
Because sandwiches are personal.
The First Time I Got Yelled At Over a Sandwich
Here’s how you know cheesesteak sandwiches matter: people will correct you aggressively.
I was with a friend—Philly native, which already sets the tone—and I said, very casually, very innocently, “Yeah, I’ll take a cheesesteak with provolone.”
Silence.
He looked at me like I’d just said I microwave pizza rolls with the plastic on.
“Provolone?” he said.
“Yeah,” I said.
He sighed. Sighed.
That’s when I learned: cheesesteak sandwiches aren’t just food. They’re a belief system.
Cheesesteak Sandwiches Are Simple. People Are Not.
Here’s the thing that cracks me up. Cheesesteak sandwiches are, at their core, ridiculously simple:
- Bread
- Steak
- Cheese
That’s it. That’s the tweet.
And yet somehow, this sandwich has caused more debates than politics at Thanksgiving.
Whiz or provolone.
Onions or no onions.
Chopped or sliced.
Roll too soft? Roll too hard?
Is this even a cheesesteak or just steak and cheese cosplaying?
I once watched two grown men argue about cheesesteak sandwiches for 20 straight minutes while standing in line for cheesesteaks. No one won. Everyone ate. That’s the system working.
Queens Will Give You Opinions (Unprompted)
Living in Queens means you’re surrounded by food opinions at all times. You don’t even have to ask.
You’ll be at a grill ordering a sandwich and someone behind you goes,
“Nah, don’t get that. Get the other one.”
Sir. I don’t know you. But okay.
So when cheesesteak sandwiches started popping up more and more around the borough—Astoria, Ridgewood, Jackson Heights, places that have no business pretending they’re Philly-adjacent—I got curious.
Some were bad. Like… disrespectfully bad.
Dry steak. Wrong bread. Cheese that felt emotionally distant.
Others?
Shockingly good.
Not “authentic” in the strict sense, but good in that Queens way where you know the guy making it has opinions and doesn’t care if you agree.
Cheese: The Most Controversial Supporting Actor
People will fight you over cheese choices. Loudly.
Whiz is traditional. Provolone is respected. American sneaks in like, Hey, I know I’m not invited but I belong here.
I’ve eaten cheesesteak sandwiches with all three. Sometimes on the same day. No regrets.
Whiz is messy and confident.
Provolone is smooth and classy.
American is comforting and kind of chaotic.
If someone tells you there’s only one correct cheese? They’re lying. Or they’re tired. Or both.
When I Tried Making Cheesesteak Sandwiches at Home (LOL)
I shouldn’t have tried. But I did.
I had the day off. The weather was bad. I convinced myself this was a project.
“I’ll just make cheesesteak sandwiches,” I said. Like that’s a casual activity.
I bought steak I didn’t slice thin enough. Rookie mistake.
I overcooked it. Panic.
I added too much cheese. (Is that possible? Yes. Somehow.)
The kitchen smelled incredible. The sandwich looked… okay.
The first bite?
Not terrible. Not great. Definitely homemade.
I ate it standing up, over the sink, wearing socks that didn’t match. Which honestly felt right.
Cheesesteak Sandwiches Are a Mood
You don’t eat cheesesteak sandwiches when you’re trying to impress someone.
You eat them when:
- You’re starving
- You had a long day
- It’s late and you don’t want to talk
- You want something reliable
They’re not dainty. They don’t ask permission or drip. They demand napkins. Sometimes they demand a nap afterward.
And honestly? I respect that.
The Philly vs Everywhere Else Argument (Let’s Be Honest)
Yes. Philly does it best.
I said it. Let’s move on.
But here’s the part people don’t like to admit: cheesesteak sandwiches outside Philly can still be really good. They just become something else. A remix. A cover song.
And some cover songs slap.
Queens versions might add peppers. Or different rolls. Or different vibes entirely. And while Philly purists will clutch their chests over this, I think it’s kind of beautiful.
Food travels. It adapts. It picks up accents.
A Small Confession
There was a time—late night, scrolling, hungry—where I ordered a cheesesteak sandwich delivery knowing full well it would be mediocre.
And it was.
Cold-ish. Soggy bread. Cheese confused about its role.
Did I eat the whole thing?
Yes. Obviously.
Because even a bad cheesesteak sandwich is still a cheesesteak sandwich. And sometimes that’s enough.
Things People Say About Cheesesteaks That Make Me Laugh
- “That’s not a real cheesesteak.”
- “You gotta order it the right way.”
- “Trust me, I know.”
Buddy. It’s bread and steak. Relax.
Eat what you like. Argue for sport. Then eat again.
Final Thought (Not a Wrap-Up, Just… A Thought)
Cheesesteak sandwiches are one of those foods that feel bigger than they are.
They carry city pride. Personal memories. Arguments. Late nights. Bad decisions. Good days.
And yeah, I’ll probably never stop tweaking how I order mine. Sometimes whiz. Sometimes provolone. Onions depending on mood.
But every time I unwrap one and feel the paper already getting greasy?
I know it’s about to be a good few minutes.
And honestly?
That’s enough.
🔗 Outbound Links (Just for Fun)
- A chaotic love letter to sandwiches: https://www.seriouseats.com
- Philly food culture rabbit hole (enter at your own risk): https://www.atlasobscura.com
