This article was produced by National Geographic Traveller (UK).
Philadelphia is used to sharing the limelight. The birthplace of American independence, it was the United States’ first capital until Washington, DC claimed the honour in 1800. Then there’s the Big Apple, a hundred miles up the northeast coast, which has been stealing its thunder since, well, forever. But Philly is now taking centre stage. In the 2023 James Beard Foundation Awards — America’s ‘food Oscars’ — the city scooped more accolades than any other in the country.
Along Philadelphia’s grand, gallery-lined Benjamin Franklin Parkway boulevard, countless flags celebrate the many international communities represented within the city’s neighbourhoods — these days, many of these residents are New Yorkers, who are moving here in their droves. “In New York, a lot of people are trying to be something they’re not,” says local chef Peter McAndrews, emerging from his kitchen to shake my hand. “In Philly, you can be comfortable — it’s the place to find out who you really are.”
My own quest for self-knowledge begins with lunch at his sandwich shop, Paesano’s, in South Philadelphia. It has a timeless look, with black-and-white photos on the walls and a chalkboard menu. As it testifies, this city really loves a sandwich. Its best-known iteration is the Philadelphia cheese steak — a hoagie roll (sub) filled with sliced beefsteak and melted cheese — but you won’t find one on the menu here. People from this neighbourhood tend to prefer the ‘arista’: stuffed with roast suckling pig, broccoli rabe, ‘long hot’ peppers and provolone cheese.
“I enrich the sauce with anchovies, like the Romans used to,” says Peter. His menu is packed with Italian flavours, reflecting the heritage of the community it serves, while the restaurant’s name is a nod to the close-knit vibe of the area (‘paesano’ means ‘fellow countryman’). Immigrants from Abruzzo and Sicily established the outdoor Italian Market here on South 9th Street in the 1880s, and many neighbourhood businesses — like Di Bruno Bros deli — are owned by third- or fourth-generation Italians. Sitting alongside are Jewish shops and Asian supermarkets, the legacy of subsequent waves of immigration. “This area draws many different peoples and cultures together as one,” says Peter. “We’re a family.”
Stepping outside, I’m struck by the contrast between this neighbourhood and the gridded streets of downtown I’d visited earlier, with their soaring glass tower blocks, stately civic buildings and wide, uncrowded pavements. Here, contrails of sweet-smelling smoke from a kettle corn (sweetened popcorn) vendor drift over the busy market. Passing stalls piled with rosy apples and gleaming aubergines, I watch nonnas select the best for their baskets. As I head south, shopfronts change, handwritten signs switching from Italian into Spanish. Instead of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, windows display frilly dresses for communion and quinceañera— the Latin American party traditionally held when a girl turns 15.
The power of food
Every shared meal is a kind of celebration, says Cristina Martinez, owner of South 9th Street restaurant Casa Mexico, pulling up a chair. “When we gather to eat, our energies are united,” she says, beaming. “Family inspires all my cooking.” Spread before us on one of the brightly coloured tables are some of her favourites — homemade tortilla chips and guacamole, chicken served in a peanut molesauce. Ceramic dishes like the ones she’s used in their preparation are heaped on the floor in an informal display, while strings of Mexican flag bunting hang from the ceiling.
Food can also be political, as Cristina’s story shows. After arriving in the US undocumented, she sold tacos from a pushcart — a business that evolved into her first restaurant: South Philly Barbacoa. Its success — it featured on the Netflix series Chef’s Table — earned Cristina a platform to speak out on immigration issues. She went on to help set up The People’s Kitchen, which provides free, nutritious meals to Philadelphians experiencing food poverty.
Nowhere is Philadelphia’s cultural melting pot more apparent than at Reading Terminal Market. At the heart of the Center City District, it’s a United Nations of food; 75 stalls laid out, like the city itself, on a grid. Wandering the aisles the next morning in search of breakfast, I find my attention snagged by a cacophony of neon signs — everything from Cantonese cuisine to Filipino fusion food, Georgian breads to Indian curries. The busiest counter of all belongs to a diner tucked away at the back of the hall: Dutch Eating Place. Staff here are dressed in the traditional clothing of the Pennsylvania Dutch: simple shirts for men and, for women, long dresses and modest white caps. They belong to a community of conservative Christians living in Lancaster County, about 70 miles west of Philadelphia.
When I ask proprietor Javan Esh to explain the distinction between the Pennsylvania Dutch and the Amish, he reaches for a time-honoured food idiom. “Tomato, tomahto,” he says, with a boyish grin. Both are centred around faith and family; both avoid electricity and modern vehicles. “You can only go so far in a horse and buggy,” says Javan, who has the healthy glow of someone who spends a lot of time outside.
“It’s limiting, but it works as a safeguard — a way to preserve and protect our culture.” Javan welcomes respectful questions from curious diners like me. “Sharing our culture with our customers is important,” he says. “We’re all about bringing the country to the city and giving people an authentic experience.” Seasonal, farm-fresh produce is used to make carb-heavy dishes, served in portions intended to sustain people through manual work. After a mountain of eggs and rye toast, Javan insists I try their apple dumpling: a whole-baked fruit swaddled in pastry and served with thick cream. Philadelphia has long been known for high-quality dairy — it’s why Kraft stamped the city’s name on their cream cheese.
I walk west, and the skyscraper skyline of Center City gives way to the squat brownstones of Rittenhouse Square. Named after the pretty park at its heart, this is one of Philadelphia’s most upmarket areas. It comes alive in spring, when people gather for picnics or at outdoor tables spilling onto the sidewalks. I happily bypass them, because I’ve landed a reservation at Her Place Supper Club.
It’s a restaurant with a tiny space and a big reputation. “It’s a living room aesthetic,” says chef-owner Amanda Shulman as she finesses a dish in the open kitchen. “I want guests to feel like they’re at my house.” Vintage prints, the type you might find in a Parisian bistro or Milanese bar, hang from the walls. “Our food is French-Italian, with a nod to my Jewish upbringing,” says Amanda. “But really, we make exactly what we like. Our menu is driven by talking — to each other, to our producers.”
The conversation started over a decade ago, when Amanda was a local student and began hosting elaborate dinner parties for her friends. “Everyone eating the same thing at the same time builds community,” she says, stepping out with a plate of tortellini filled with spinach and robiola cheese for me to try. “In Philadelphia, you can take risks and people are receptive. Our diners love supporting someone who’s trying something new.”
One area of Philadelphia particularly well known for pushing the envelope is South Street, a 10-minute taxi ride away. The district spans around 14 blocks — I wander a few and find ample evidence of an alternative scene, including the work of local mosaic artist Isaiah Zagar, which spreads like tendrils between shops selling everything from fetish wear to bongs. In the midst of it all is Tattooed Mom: part bar, part club, part inclusive creative space. “Everyone should feel at home here, if we’re doing our job right,” says Robert Perry, who wears cool, thick-rimmed glasses and his grey hair in a quiff. He admits to being the owner only when pressed. “I’m the guy with the key to the door, but you’re the one making this space,” he insists.
Robert means this quite literally. The upstairs room at ‘TMom’s’ is decorated with 25 years’ worth of stickers and graffiti — everyone who’s ever partied here apparently having left their mark. Downstairs is ornately eclectic — a look Robert describes as “grandma on acid”.
Dodgem cars sit alongside palatial wingback armchairs, an octopus chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Moodily lit, it feels like a stage set for mischief. Events here like the ‘drag brunch’ showcase local performers, and even the co*cktail list veers towards the theatrical — Pickletinis (vodka and pickle juice) come in labelled-and-lidded jars, and vodka-cranberry is poured into a candyfloss-filled martini glass to make the Cosmo Cloud. “The coolest thing about Philly is that it contains so many little worlds,” says Robert, sliding me a drink across the bar. “Ours is a city of neighbourhoods.”
There’s one more I want to visit — one that first captured my imagination aged 11, every time I heard Will Smith’s Fresh Prince of Bel-Air rap about “chillin’ out, maxin’, relaxin’, all cool” in West Philadelphia at the start of each episode. It still has that vibe today. Porched houses line wide, sleepy streets, where an occasional streetcar trundles past. Since the 1990s, the neighbourhood has acquired a new claim to fame: Afrocentric grocery store and cafe Honeysuckle Provisions, which opened last year and was almost immediately named one of the best new restaurants in the US by food website Eater.
Chef-couple Omar Tate and Cybille St Aude-Tate are on a mission to celebrate Black culinary traditions and bring the best Black farmer-grown produce to West Philly. “We want to be intentional about food but make it relatable,” says Cybille, who has botanically tattooed forearms and a broad smile. “We’re not Black history experts but we teach people what we grew up with, helping to build connections between cultures.” Both have food memories evident on the menu — Cybille contributing a spiced bun made with chanm chanm, a classic street food from her native Haiti, made from ground corn and peanut powder; while Omar’s selection of ‘dolla’ hoagies are a love letter to the great Philadelphian sandwich.
Although both are instinctive innovators, Cybille and Omar understand the power of nostalgia and ritual when it comes to food. Their fried fish hoagies are served only on Fridays, when people flock from all over the city to get their hands on one. I wait for mine at one of three tiny tables, my eyes roaming shelves lined with wooden sculptural heads and books, including one titled Food Power Politics. My sandwich arrives: a homemade seeded roll bursting with crispy, creole-fried whiting — lemon and herb remoulade spilling copiously onto my hands. Lunch has rarely made me muckier — or happier. In a city that prides itself on inclusion and authenticity, it’s a fitting last meal.
This story was created with the support of Visit Philadelphia.
Published in the May 2024 issue ofNational Geographic Traveller(UK).
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