After a recent new-business pitch in sunny Philadelphia, our team was exhausted, food- deprived and flat-out worthless. We’re usually a sharp-witted crew, you see, but not post-pitch. Not even close. Those long hours of preparation catch up quick when there’s no more adrenaline to balance the fatigue. You agency folks know what I mean.
With a few hours before our flight, Neil, Jake and I noticed our vital signs were fading. We needed the Philadelphia cuisine. The overwhelming growling of our stomachs gave a unanimous vote, and we headed downtown to the Reading Terminal
Market in search of the only cure for our nuked-brain-syndrome: Yuengling beer and a cheesesteak.
We found the stand with the longest line and attempted, in our best wannabe Philly accents, to fit in while we ordered our steak-and-cheese with peppers and provolone. Twenty minutes later, we were tearing into our already-greasy paper bags with gusto.
No offense to Texadelphia, but those peeps don’t hold a candle to this bliss in sandwich form. Down to the sweaty, white-undershirt-wearing guys who prepared them, those cheesesteaks were legit. After about 10 minutes of silent scarfing and several gulps of Yuengling (the only way, I’m convinced, to wash down every artery-clogging bite), Jake mustered a quip. And we’re back!
I’m glad we were able to see a bit of the city on our way back to the sketchy parking garage, but it was those two hours we spent at the market’s beer garden that were perfectly rejuvenating. Kinda like visiting a spa, except with brewskis. And a pound of cheesy, beefy goodness. And a cursing barmaid.
Nice ta meecha, Philly.
