Armed with a cheesesteak from Pat’s (conveniently located only one block away), we entered Ray’s in our sweats and slippers (remember, it was 7am), followed closely by several friends looking to share in the wonder of this early morning event.

breakfast of champions

To start the day off on a fairly unbearable yet amazing note, we toasted with our cans of Schlitz and then raced to finish them, which was a highly unsuccessful endeavor.  (Jimmy put us all to shame, but I’m happy to say that I kicked his ass in round two.)

the most disgusting chug of all

As we continued to get our drink on (which included “Jager bombs” that were just glasses full of Jager and ginger ale), the owner – Ray’s son, Lou – brought us over a bottle of champagne, free t-shirts and a birthday Schlitz, which was a can dressed up with two candles taped to it.  Classy.

who needs cake?

The drinking continued, which led to dancing, which led to free drinks and more dancing.  It was a vicious, drunken cycle of awesome.

this is how we always dance

Turning 30 is a milestone that many a woman dreads.  For them, it’s a sign that they have passed their prime, no longer the partying, easy going young thing that gets picked up at the bar on a Saturday night.  30 is like the ushering in of a new era for these ladies, one in which they are ready to shrivel up and waste away with 12 cats and a basketful of yarn and knitting needles.  What they need is a drunken dose of Ray’s while playing hookey from work.  And who knows?  They may just see me there.

On Sunday, October 10th, the North Star Bar (27th and Poplar Streets) competed against playoff baseball and an unpopular weekend night out (albeit teachers and city employees had the following day off) to host the first ever Philadelphia leg of the Air Sex World Championships tour.

2009 was the first year of the Air Sex World Championships, which toured 14 cities and eventually crowned the champion from LA as the best-of-the-best in the finals in Austin.  This year, the tour expanded to 20 cities, allowing the citizens of the City of Brotherly Love the chance to gyrate for glory and a world title.

For those of you who want to know more, but hate clicking on links, here’s the quick and dirty from the website:

Never been to an Air Sex show before? Here’s what you need to know: it’s a lot like Air Guitar, but instead of rocking out with an imaginary guitar, you’re making sweet and/or filthy love with an imaginary sex partner. You choose a clip of music, you show up in whatever sort of wardrobe you like, and you come up on stage and show everyone how you do it. Or how you wish you could do it. Or how you once had it done to you, and oh my god was that a bad idea and while it’s embarrassing to show that act to a room of strangers, you know that you need to do it now in order to make sure that no one else falls down the same rabbit hole you got stuck inside. Or, you know, just do it however you want.

The only rules we have are the laws laid down by the state we’re in. Since most Air Sex venues serve alcohol, you can’t get naked. And since some also serve food, all orgasms have to be simulated (or at least arguably so). Other than that, you’re free to do whatever it takes to impress the judges, the audience in the theater, and the world!

As we entered the bar, the bouncer checked our IDs while trying to convince us to add ourselves to the contestant list.  At first I was flattered, assuming that we were asked because of some vibe we were giving off that alluded to our air sex prowess, but, once we made it to the back room, I realized that the hard sell was because of a lack of contestants.

The first performance was an exhibition by the emcee, done to R. Kelly’s “Bump and Grind.”  Then, the judges were announced, one of whom was on the tour, and two that were Philly natives.  They ran through their expectations of the contestants, stressing creativity (“you can only see so many fisting routines…”) and commitment to the craft (“if you’re not ready to get air pregnant, get the fuck out of my room”).

Contestant number 1 ended up being the bouncer, who put on a pretty fantastic show wearing only a furry thong shaped like the head of a bull.  His wife is definitely one lucky lady.

The second contestant was an embarrassingly drunk guy who kept falling down in the crowd while yelling “sex!” over and over.  I had my fingers crossed for a face plant while he was on stage, but instead, I witnessed what may have been the saddest air sex performance ever documented.  When it ended (seemingly 3 days later), the judges ripped into the guy, asking him if he always nailed his feet to the floor when having sex, and joking about the fact that he was singing along to the song the whole time.  Whoever it is that he sleeps with is NOT quite as fortunate as the bouncer’s wife.

One of the judges came up next, and if I never end up in a room with him again, it’ll be too soon.  He was an over-the-top, yelling for the sake of yelling, Lewis Black wannabe whose comments made Stephanie and me contemplate the merits of stabbing ourselves in our ear drums with dull pencils.  As he sang “My Cock is on Fire” (a parody of the Kings of Leon song “Sex on Fire“), we decided we couldn’t take it anymore and ducked out of the event to watch the end of the Phillies game.

Overall, the Philadelphia Air Sex World Championships was a bit of a letdown, though I think the perfect storm of it being a new event for the city, taking place on a Sunday and competing against playoff baseball in a sports town kept the crowds away.  I’ll keep my fingers crossed that next year, the “talent” comes out en masse.

Situated on a triangular stretch of land on the southwest corner of the street, I had only ever gone there for breakfast, because it’s one of the few places in the city where you can get a bagel with hummus and avocado.  (For a gal who loathes cream cheese, a coffee shop that has hummus is a huge score…)  There’s a fair amount of outdoor seating, so it took about a year’s worth of visits (which are fairly few in number, given that I don’t live or work on that side of the river) to realize that the small front room, which holds the coffee counter and a few chairs, isn’t the only indoor space – there’s actually a decent sized, slightly more formal dining area in the back.

Another great thing about Gold Standard, in addition to the hummus and avocado bagels, is the fact that it’s a BYOB, so you can save a few pesos while still getting your buzz on.  Unfortunately, due to quite the bender the night before that took a while to recover from (my recovery time seems to grow in direct relationship to my increasing age), Stephanie and I decided to fore-go the booze.  However, a part of me couldn’t help feeling a bit jealous of the couple that was sipping on some pink champagne, because it reminded me of my days at James Madison University, when I regularly made party while double fisting $4 bottles of pink Andre.  And, let’s be honest, it’s extremely rare that I don’t have a desire to drink champagne, regardless of how cheap and/or disgusting it is.

Stephanie went with the vegan summer garbanzos (stewed chick peas with sundried tomatoes,
squash, preserved lemon and tabouleh), which she was totally into,

beans!

while I partook of the sea scallop salad (seared scallops, bean salad, barley and bulgar pilaf), which could have used a scoch less dressing, but was, all in all, a pretty tasty dish.

We ordered coffees to go, still needing caffeine to balance out our sluggish and hungover bodies (if you’re lucky, someday I’ll tell you the horribly embarrassing story of the previous night), and headed to the show, which once again took me back to my days in basements and yards listening to local bands in The Friendly City.  I realized while I was listening to Cranes Are Flying (it was my first time hearing them, and I think I need to listen to their recorded stuff before forming an actual opinion about whether or not I’m a fan) that anyone who struggles to understand the difference between hipsters and indie kids need only attend a local, backyard show to clear it up once and for all.

But I digress…

Jenny and I hardly squeezed our way through the door of Carman’s Country Kitchen (11th and Wharton, Friday-Monday, 8am-2pm), partly due to our ample backsides, but mostly because of the large crowd of people waiting to eat and trying to beat the sweltering 102 degree heat outside.  A staple in the South Philly brunch scene, and one of the primary members of the Philadelphia “brunch belt,” Carman’s is basically just a small room with three tables (accommodating 2-3 each) and two counters (adding another 9-10 seats).  It’s rumored that larger parties are able to sit in the bed of Carman’s pickup that’s parked outside, but I haven’t seen it in my many passes by.

We had made a reservation (it’s recommended), but were told by the waiter (who we later found out was Carman’s son, Jaret) that we’d still have a 10-15 minute wait.  (Carman offers everyone coffee while they wait, so you don’t have to sacrifice your caffeine addiction in order to get a seat.)  Four minutes later, we settled into our seats at the far end of the counter near the door, taking in the atmosphere of the place, which was full of tchotchkes (mostly of the sexual variety) and signs of all types, many of them bearing the motto of the restaurant.

are there 16 of them? are they 16 years old? and what exactly does "smart" mean?

jaret has been sufficiently guilt tripped into being helpful.

enough. said.

***If it isn’t yet obvious, you probably don’t want to bring your kids here, unless you’re a bad parent.***

Each day at Carman’s there are four menu items – a pancake/belgian waffle dish, a challah french toast dish, an omelet, and a special.  As someone who truly struggles at brunch to make the choice between sweet and savory, I was thankful that Jenny wanted to share so my tastebuds could be fully satisfied.  We opted for the challah french toast with jersey blueberries and south carolina peaches and the special – a large piece of shrimp with crab grits, two eggs any way you want them, yukon gold home fries and toast.  We also had coffee (of course) and sides of bacon and homemade country sausage.  (I know good sausage, and Carman’s is right up there with the best I’ve ever had.  It’s definitely worth the $2. Don’t skip it.)

mmm...french toast.

this was much more tasty than the picture implies. the grits had so much crab it was shocking.

Almost everything was absolutely delicious (though I’ll admit that I’ve had better potatoes in my day), and I ended up feeling full but not uncomfortable.  Unfortunately, Jenny wasn’t quite so lucky – “I’m so full that when I sneezed, I felt like I was going to vomit.”   (That’s what she gets for having a cold and a weak immune system.)

Overall, the mix of the over the top inappropriateness and unintentional kitschiness made me feel right at home.  Carman cooks every dish, making it feel as though you’re at an eccentric aunt’s house for breakfast.  To me, that’s comfort at its finest.

The City Tap House is located on Walnut between 39th and 40th in the Radian, that brand new residential + shopping + eating complex that Penn built, which I personally feel looks like an homage to 80s tape decks.  The door was a little hard to find, sandwiched next to Capogiro, and most of the parking around there costs money, although all the meters have been replaced with kiosks.  The El would be the easiest option, SEPTA-wise, since the 40th street stop is only a few blocks away.  Once you enter, you immediately take an elevator to the restaurant, which is two or three floors up (it was hard to tell).  The look is very sleek and modern, and they have taken full advantage of being located on the second floor–the entire wall facing south is windows, and about half the place is outdoor seating.  There were the fire-pits, as advertised, with cushy bench seating around them–I saw people ordering food, but many people were choosing to just lounge around them and drink.  There was even a field of wildflowers next to the patio tables.  I suppose this was to help with drainage and make the building more green; I liked it–it made it feel like we weren’t in the middle of the city.  The view was great, too, looking out at Penn’s campus and beyond that, the city skyline.

Overall the prices seemed moderate–my Scottish Salmon BLT was $10, and most of the other “craftwiches,” salads, and appetizers were around the $10-12 range.  They also have daily specials and mussels that you can get as entrees.  The entrees were a little more, maybe around $15-20.  The beer ranged from $4-7; there’s a wine list, but with 60 beers on tap (the most in the city) I didn’t pay it any attention.

So about that salmon BLT…first, it was the size of my head, and the size was mostly salmon.  There was nothing skimpy about it.  It was also cooked to order (I got rare, and it was amazing). I had to eat it with a knife and fork because I couldn’t figure out how to pick it up, and it was fantastic.  I only managed half.  My dining partner got the mussels in a saffron sauce, and she said they were delicious.  We also got the vegetable bruschetta–you only get 4 little squares, but it was very good; however, dinner was so good that I think next time I wouldn’t bother with an appetizer.  I also got fries with my BLT; they were shoestring style, crisp and tasty.

Finally: THE BEER.  One great thing that the Tap House does is give you a card to take notes on your beer; you put your name at the bottom and they save the card for you so that when you come back, you can see what beers you tried already, and what you thought of them. For a place that sells itself on the amount of beer it has, this is a fabulous idea.  Some people are just able to remember the names of every beer they drink; while I like beer, I am not that good.  They also sorted their draft list by type of beer and gave helpful descriptions about the beer, which I also appreciate.  Their beer list changes daily, so you are not guaranteed that the beer you have one day will be there the next, but included in the list they tell you what kegs are next to be tapped in case you want to come back for one.  The draft list is also on the website; I’m guessing it is updated fairly regularly because when I went to look up what beer I had, it wasn’t listed there anymore (all I know is, I had a brown ale and then a Japanese coffee stout, and they were both great).

Dress code was fairly casual; I wore jeans and so did most of the servers, although there were several tables around us with dressed up folks.  The beauty about a restaurant near a university is that there were also tables of people all in scrubs, or workout clothes, or business suits.  They also do live acoustic music fairly regularly, although that appears to mostly happen indoors, and with this place, outdoors is where you want to be.

My summary: good food, good beer, great atmosphere–perfect for escaping the city on a summer evening, when you can’t actually get out of town. I will definitely be going back to sit by the fire pit and fill out more note cards about their beer!

The first to arrive, I parked myself near the door, watching couple after couple come in, only to be turned away because of their lack of reservations.  It seemed a bit odd to me, considering that most of the tables were empty, but I learned later why this was the case – a meal at Zahav is more than just a meal.  It’s a dining experience, one which you need to set aside a good chunk of your evening to truly enjoy.

Stephanie was the next to arrive, so we grabbed a seat at the bar  and ordered some drinks to start the evening.  (Shocking, I know).

lemonnana - bourbon, muddled mint, fresh lemon, verbena

ginger petel - vodka, canton liqueur, muddled blackberries, lemon

Meenoo and Juie (the birthday girl) arrived shortly thereafter, so we moved ourselves to a carved wooden table to begin our evening of celebrating.  Stephanie and I decided to try the Mesibah, one of the two tasting menus.  Unfortunately, our waiter informed us that it was meant to be an experience for the whole table, and, since the signature dish of the Mesibah was a whole roasted lamb shoulder and our other two companions were vegetarians, it wasn’t really going to work out for us.  The waiter must have been able to read the disappointment on our faces, because he worked it out so that we could get the Mesibah, with Stephanie and me getting the lamb as our main course, while Meenoo and Juie got the Galil, a vegetarian dish of eggplant, tomato couscous, asparagus and tehina.

The service was fantastic, and the food, overall, is now on my list of the top ten meals I’ve had in my six years living in Philly.  Having ordered the Mesibah, we weren’t entirely sure what dishes would be coming, so it was like a constant supply of never-ending surprise plates.  The pictures in no way do the food justice, but here they are, nonetheless.

salatim and hummus

Potentially the best hummus in the world…

crispy haloumi

fried cauliflower

I don’t even like cauliflower, but this was fried so well that it was absolutely delicious.

savta mati's borekas

pitriyot

white tuna with fava beans

the galil

lamb shoulder with crispy rice and pomegranate

dessert - pistachio cake, halvah mousse, almond semifreddo, cashew baklava

We love its underdog status; its eclectic neighborhoods and the eateries that define them; the rich history; the diversity of people and opinions; the Skeletor karaoke at the Troc.

Yep, Skeletor karaoke at the Troc or “Trocadero” (1003 Arch St.) for those of you not familiar, which I now am, having spent a night taking in what has become somewhat of an institution right here in our great city.  Let me break it down for you all because it’s real simple:  man dressed in Skeletor costume leads karaoke for the drunk masses crowded in the Troc’s balcony, uses a gong to alert the unknowing participants of his displeasure with their performance (think Rex Reed from the “Gong Show”), all the while, taunting the “fools” who dare compete with the power of Gray Skull and trumpeting K-Ci and JoJo as the best R&B duo of all time.

Skeletor Singing and Drinking his PBR

I wasn’t really sure what I was getting myself into when I made the decision to check it out after attending Lucha VaVoom (Mexican Masked Wrestling and Burlesque) earlier that evening, but I thought, “Hey, it couldn’t possibly get any weirder than this, right?”  Wrong.  It was weird in the most fantastical, hysterical and nonsensical way possible.  While Kellie and I didn’t sing ourselves, we stayed most of the night watching one courageous songster after another brave the stage and endure the Skeletor antics that would surely accompany their performance.  The highlight of the night for me?  Skeletor leading the male contingent in a heartfelt rendition of K-Ci and JoJo’s “All My Life” and the “punching solo” that accompanied the instrumental interludes.

After attending Lucha VaVoom, I didn’t think there would be much that could top watching masked luchadores, mini-estrellas and buxoticas doing their thing for two hours (and with luchador names like “Dirty Sanchez” and “Chocolate Caliente” who would fathom anything could be more delightfully offensive); however, Skeletor karaoke was added to my social calendar almost immediately upon hearing Skeletor’s diabolical, hyena-like voice belt out the first song of the night – Danzig’s “Mother” (in honor of Mother’s Day, of course).

Posing with some Luchadores

I encourage you to check it out at least once – you will not regret it.  And who knows, maybe you will be there the night Kellie and I unveil our choreographed routine to Tiffany’s “I Think We’re Alone Now.” Gong that back to Eternia, Skeletor!

Outside Bomb Bomb's. Don't let the neon bombs scare you.

Although Kellie and I were hoping to also snag a South Philly sugar daddy on our trip to Bomb Bomb, an endeavor completely emboldened by our reading for the evening (“Why Men Love Bitches” and “The Rules”…research for a forthcoming post! Do you think we would seriously buy either of these books for personal use!?), we instead snagged a half-rack of ribs and the house special lasagna.  Perhaps our affinity for food over men is the cause of our singleness?  Hmmm….something to definitely explore in a future post.  But I digress….

Before delving into our main courses, we started things off with the fried calamari. While a somewhat predictable selection, the delivery was anything but.  The calamari was fried to complete perfection – not too breaded or greasy – and paired with spicy marinara-like cocktail sauce, which was both spicy and sweet.

Bomb Bomb Calamari

The homemade Italian dressing that donned our salads (we were attempting to throw something healthy in there) was a little too tart for me but I appreciated a gesture that left me feeling like I just stepped into my grandmom’s kitchen for Sunday dinner.  Since we were at a BBQ and Italian restaurant, we decided to throw caution to the wind and try both.  I’m so glad we did.  The ribs were slathered with the house-made BBQ sauce and were scrumptious.  The meat literally fell from the bone.

Mmmm....ribs....

Our waitress recommended the lasagna, one of the night’s specials, and while I wasn’t a huge fan of the big hunks of sausage, the marinara was perfecto and had just the right amount of ricotta.  I could have probably ate the whole thing had I not known about and planned to devour their infamous dessert – the Ice Box Cake.  If you’ve never had it, I highly recommend it.  Named for the “oven” in which the “cake” is “baked” (Get it?  It “cooks” in the ice box.  The quotes were supposed to help you figure that out), it is chocolate and vanilla pudding layered between crushed graham crackers, topped with whipped cream, and served in a sundae glass. The perfect out-of-sync end to our mishmash main course. Yum!

Bomb Bomb's Famous Ice Box Cake

While Kellie and I may have left this corner taproom sans sugar daddies, in the end, the Bomb Bomb experience inspired us to appreciate the other unlikely but completely complimentary pairings that abound in our world – Ebony and Ivory, anyone?

**I have to personally thank my colleagues and lunch buddies, David and Nicole, for pointing me in the direction of Bomb Bomb.  They did not steer me wrong.

Modeling my Three Wolves Howling at the Moon T-Shirt

Of course, I allowed Kellie to be the lead investigator and cultural broker for this experiment, given her familiarity with the study site (South Philly) and her clear-cut uber-coolness, as evidenced by her hot-orange, vintage hunting jacket and low-top Chuck Taylors.

For those of you who don’t know, parts of South Philly have been undergoing a “hipster” renaissance of sorts.  Gone are the old-world days of green awnings, fake flowers, and Virgin Mary statues (well, that’s not completely true, as Kellie and I discovered during our brief walk through the neighborhood).

Neoclassical Architecture in the Heart of South Philly

Nowadays, you are more likely to experience its uncomfortable juxtaposition with skinny jeans, coffee shops, and post-modernist thought than the Mafioso that made South Philly notorious.  East Passyunk Ave. is the ultimate example of this renaissance and was the site for at least half of our jaunt into the somewhat unknown.

Kellie and I started out at 1601 at 10^th and Tasker – a cozy local pub offering updated versions of various comfort food classics.  I, of course, choose a PBR pounder as my drink of choice (I was trying to fit in with the locals, after all)

Pabst Blue Ribbon: Hipster Water

and went with the fish tacos, which were pretty disappointing and bland.  (note from Kellie – I’ve had the fish tacos twice before, and they’re usually quite tasty.)  Kellie tried to enjoy her Bacon, Lettuce, Avocado and Fried Tomato (BLAT) sandwich sans mayo; however, it came out with mayo and had to be sent back.  The delicious Parmesan pomme frittes and free stout for the mayo mix-up more than made up for these small missteps, though.  While Kellie and I dined, drank, and discussed socialism (again, we didn’t want to stick out too conspicuously), we studied the sociological mashing of old and new:  the weathered old man donning Nike and playing Megatouch; two hipsters waxing philosophical over “the nostalgia of analog recordings” (a direct quote); and, Nick Drake playing faintly in the background while March Madness dominated the flat screens over the bar.  As our own conversation devolved into more tawdry subjects (not to be shared here), so did the conversations of the natives.  (Did I really hear je ne sais quoi and the f-bomb in the same sentence?)   Seeing all there was to see, we decided to take our study to the next level and travel down the street to the what many would deem hipster Mecca right here in Philadelphia – Pub on Passyunk East aka “Pope.”  I learned quickly, though, never, ever to actually call it by its real name as that is as sure a social death as leprosy.

I was intimidated and nervous as we entered into the lair –  would I be fingered as an imposter?  A sell-out working for “the man” who is as removed from my “activist” days as Sarah Palin is from reality?  With Kellie by my side sipping on her “WTF” porter (even the beer names had the air of cool superiority) and a “G&T” in hand  (Gin and Tonic, folks…a required hipster drink), we settled into a dark corner and tried to blend into our surroundings.  Thankfully, those surroundings included a jukebox, which I was sure would be my redemption (one thing I know is good music) but even I was sad to learn that my musical lexicon was not nearly as eclectic as the jukebox offerings.  The best we could collectively muster was Metallica’s “Fade to Black”, some Al Green, Gang of Four, the Beach Boys and The Pixies, among others. (note from Kellie – the jukebox was a bit too sparse and indie, a dangerous combination.)

With our social experiment nearing it’s end and both of us still starving, Kellie and I decided to venture to the bright lights of cheesesteak row at 9^th and Passyunk.  Being Pat’s girls through and through (Geno’s is so 2000 and late), we chowed down on a “Wiz Wit,” Lady and the Tramp style, while enjoying the early-90’s musical stylings coming from the nearby South Philly Bar and Grill. (Rhythm is totally a dancer!)

A Wiz Wit: Heaven and a Heart-attack on a Roll

Ultimately, my quest to understand this often misunderstood species and enjoy some good food along the way re-awakened that little voice deep, down inside that whispers ”Damn, the Man!” and yearns for the day that little yuppy boys and girls can coexist peacefully with their hipster brethren.  Can I get an amen?!

Having read one glowing review after another about the joy that a PYT burger brings, I was almost salivating when I walked in on Monday night.  Here’s a rundown of the experience:

Host/worker says to sit at the third table on the right; doesn’t escort.  I get confused about whether or not to go to the third booth (technically the fourth table?) or the third table.  In my defense, the first “table” was tiny, so I’m not sure whether or not it actually counted as a place to sit.

We order “adultshakes,” and the server takes our menus and starts to walk away, then comes back with a comment about how we still need them because we haven’t ordered yet.  As if we aren’t aware.

Shakes come, both are Peanutbutterchocolatebanana (chocolate ice cream, Castries peanut rum, Malibu tropical banana rum, fresh bananas and fresh peanut butter, topped with whipped cream and rainbow jimmies).  Pretty tasty, but with shake dripping down the side.  Thank goodness for napkins.

I order first – the PYT Burger (cheddar, bacon, tomato, lettuce and some chunky special sauce – which I ask for on the side – on a potato roll).  The menu says it comes topped with chips, so I’m surprised when the server asks, “Do you want fries or onion rings with that?”  (Score!)  I get the onion rings, Felicia (PYT Burger) and Jana (Calibunga Burger) get the handcut fries.

We wait and chat, basking in the glow of the digital cable classic alternative music channel.  Billy Idol, The Clash, Blink 182…ridiculously glorious.

Burgers come sans sides.  I remind the server about the two orders of fries and my onion rings.  She gets confused and says she thought it was three orders of fries (apparently they were on their way).  I say, “No, I ordered the onion rings,” wanting to add (but refraining from doing so), “You wrote it down.  And I ordered first.  Not much grey area.”  She puts in my order for onion rings and tells me it’ll be a wait because they need to start cooking.  Super.

We dig into our burgers, and Jana’s falls apart at first bite.  She mashes it back into burger shape.  Bite and repeat for the rest of the meal.

I chance the chunky special sauce – the chunks may or may not be onions – and it’s relatively okay.  The burger itself is fine but nothing special.  Three quarters of the way through, onion rings arrive and are the best part of the meal.  Greasy, peppery deliciousness.

Server comes to clear table and picks up some items.  She realizes she can’t carry everything she picked up, makes a face and puts some things back down.  Leaves.

Classic alternative gets turned off and the bartender puts on music that needs to be yelled over due to the volume.  I shout to my companions, “I’m glad I already ran out of things to say to you.”  Good timing, I suppose.

Server drops off bill (and the holder also includes someone else’s bill).  We realize that we were duped, and the fries and onion rings are added as sides.  We’re charged for three fries and one onion ring.  (Didn’t we already go over this?)  We tell server there are too many fries on the bill.  She has bartender help her remove an order and brings updated bill.

We all have cards, so I write the amounts we want charged on each onto the bill.  Server takes it and we explain that we wrote it down for her.

Server returns and says to me, “You have lots of receipts.  I actually charged $0.24 a couple of times by accident.  Sorry.”  (A couple of times?)  I sign my three receipts and we almost run out the door.  Goodbye forever PYT.

Many Philly food blogs have spoken highly of PYT, but I don’t understand the appeal.  I can get a better tasting burger, a vaster selection of milkshakes (though alcohol free) and better service (not to mention free crayons!) at Nifty Fifty’s.  Mmmm…Nifty Fifty’s…