Geor-Geno’s Challenge 2k9

Just a friendly reminder that the double-header to end all double-headers is T-minus 24-hours away. Lo, though it has been too long since last we battled the demonic (but delicious) GEOR-GENO’S CHALLENGE, we have stayed vigilant, knowing that this evil beast could return at any time, and that it is up to us to slay eat this monstrosity.

For the uninitiated, the GEOR-GENO’S CHALLENGE (henceforth, GGC) is a sandwich event borne from the minds (and, later, the colons) of your Aggro-heroes. It was 2005 (or 2006, who can recall?) that the spark of invention, the same spark that graced Philadelphia luminaries such as Benjamin Franklin and Gary Heidnik (both honorary Aggros) shot down from the tumultuous heavens and inspired us to ask the question, “Where is the sandwich made for ME?” Sure, the traditional Philly cheesesteak was a delicious and regularly enjoyed, despite our mutual feelings that the roast-pork sandwich should really hold the title of Philly food mascot, but it failed to “hit the spot” as it were, much like a .22 calibre bullet when compared to a neutron bomb. Indeed, if we were to ingest the sandwich of our dreams, we ourselves would have to design it.

Make it bigger, fatter, stronger.

Now, this is where we Aggro-luminaries differ from, nay exceed, our similarly “foodie” brethren. Whereas they may head to the kitchen and concoct a sandwich nightmare, something we too enjoy at times, we knew there was a solution to be had on the streets of the Italian Market. We spent days and nights wandering the streets, minds confused and stomachs rumbling. We eschewed sleep, warmed ourselves by fiery drums, examined our chemistry and checked our math. And the we stopped bullshitting and make the umpossible possible.

The journey started at George’s Roast Pork, a little window-shop conveniently located (yet somehow hidden from the masses) at the corner of 9th and Christian. This place, let me tell you my friends, this place makes the best damned roast pork sandwich in the world (John’s on Snyder is a close 2nd, Tony Luke — as usual — brings up the rear). The pork is rich and buttery, the prov sharp, with broccoli raab proving the bite and foliage needed to pass this meat-strosity. And the bread — uggggggggghhhh. Soaked in pig grease, dripping thru the paper bag before you can even bring sandwich to face. Yes, this sandwich was damn fine, like a sexy woman, a Lamborghini and a shotgun all rolled up in one. BUT. It was not the ultimate, more like a cruel temptress that lulls you into a food coma before the hunt could really begin. To complete this sand-bitch, we would have to hold out on hunger and trek further down 9th St.

Straight to Geno’s cheesesteaks then. While some folks may cite Joey Vento on his harsh politics, hatred of immigrants and love of neon, they are wrong in their judgements. They should be giving him crap for his chewy bread and gristly meats, but despite the digestive horror these funk-bombs generally perpetrate, it was these exact qualities that drew us there that fateful day. 2 sandwiches, both delicious though complete opposites in texture, taste and consistency, would be joined in unholy food-sex to create the ultimate in sandwich technology, the GGC.

Nobody knew quite what to expect when we cracked open those first Geno’s steaks, laden wit onions, wiz and Geno’s bitchin’ hot sauce, then crammed in our soggy-with-grease-but-still-steaming George’s pork, wrapped the crusty/chewy Geno’s roll around the whole shebang and proceeded to devour. What we got exceeded our wildest dreams. A 5-lb monstrosity, a sandwich containing every wonderful quality any sandwich we had ever eaten possessed. A powerful mouth-bomb, savory and sweet. Verily, the ultimate sandwich.

When we woke up from our food comas 2 weeks later, we knew we had succeeded in creating the ultimate Philly sandwich jawn. Though one would risk life and limb to attempt this sandwich too regularly (much like a sandwich-stoned Syd Barrett), we ventured to devour this beast semi-annually. As of late our pilgrimages have grown further and further apart, but this Monday AMS returns to its former glory by staging what should be the largest gathering of GGC-devotees evar.

Thus I implore you, oh reader, to please join myself, Dr. Cristophus Fear and Grommitt Starp (current holder of the GGC time trials, at an astounding 9 minutes) as we climb Everest one more time. Some may not return, but those sacrificed in the name of deliciousness will not be forgotten.

Kick-off starts at George’s Roast Pork, 9th & Christian, at 1:30pm sharp on Monday. All are welcome, except for those weak-willed souls who utter such disgraceful things like “I don’t think I can finish this.” Trust me, you’re gonna eat that fucker one way or another.

And you’ll never be the same.