My Late-Night Cheesesteak Run (FULL DELCO SUPERCHARGED EDITION)

only my DELCO or Philly friends will get this bit. DELCO Philadelphia slang , DELCO= Delaware County PA USA

So last night, somewhere between “I should go to bed” and “I could really go for somethin’,” I got hit with that craving for a cheesesteak wit — not a hoagie, not a sub (don’t you dare), not a salad.

A proper Delco cheesesteak wit, the kind that fixes your mood faster than someone hollerin’ “YO! Da Birds!” across the Wawa parking lot.

Problem is, I’m already in pajama pants and a hoodie that’s seen more Eagles seasons than I wanna admit. But hunger don’t care. Hunger drags you outta the house lookin’ like you’re runnin’ to Wawa at 1am for batteries and a half gallon of ice cream — which neither do they carry anymore, but old habits die hard.

The neighbor moment

Before I even left the driveway, my neighbor axed (asked) me,

“yeet-yet?” (did you eat yet?)

I shook my head and said,

“No. That’s where I’m goin’ here — gettin’ a cheesesteak wit. This is important… importing too, if you think about it.”

He nodded like that sentence made perfect sense — because in Delco, it absolutely does.

So I hop in the car and roll onto West Chester Pike, and immediately — IMMEDIATELY — I get stuck behind the one dude in DELCO who drives 27 mph in a 45.

On West freakin’ West Chester Pike I can’t make this stuff up!

At this point the whole line of cars behind us turned into a hive mind. We became one annoyed Delco creature, all thinkin’ the same thing:

“Buddy… YO… some of us are tryin’ to eat tonight.”

This guy wasn’t drivin’ slow — he was FLOATIN’. Like he’s takin’ the scenic route to go down the shore or somethin’, takin’ in the trees, the sky, the whatdayoucall it.

No brake lights, no urgency, just vibes. Meanwhile I’m white-knuckling the wheel like I’m tryin’ to merge onto the SKOO-kill at rush hour — that beautiful disaster of concrete clearly designed by someone who hated Da Birds and humanity.

I finally escape, swing into the cheesesteak jawn, and of course the parking lot is packed tighter than Phillies traffic after a playoff game. Every spot gone. People circling like they’re huntin’ for a pump at Wawa on a Friday before a beach weekend.

Eventually I park somewhere near the next township, walk in, and the grill guy is workin’ the flat-top like it owes him money. Onions sizzlin’, cheese melting, rolls flyin’ open — the whole place smellin’ better than scrapple fryin’ on a Sunday morning.

My turn comes: Siten on the counter is a box of crowns like I sapose to write my order down or somethin , yeah right?

Yo Wha-da-you_know-wha-da-you-say?

“Steak wit, American, light hots.” I say

No “please.” No “thank you.”

This ain’t Nordstrom. This is DELCO.

While I’m waiting, some teenager axed if they make cheesesteaks “gluten-free.”

A lady axed for kale.

Kale.

WTF? In a cheesesteak shop.

Then some kid orders a “cheesesteak bowl,” and I swear I watched the grill guy spiritually leave his body, like “Youse gotta be kiddin’ me.”

Finally they hand me that warm, foil-wrapped miracle. The weight alone? Felt like holdin’ a newborn that already has your last name.

I get home, grab a bottle of wooder, sit down, unwrap the jawn like it’s a Christmas present from youse kids… take that first glorious bite…

NO ONIONS.

Zero.

WITHOUT by accident.

The ONE THING I risked my sanity on West Chester Pike for.

But listen — it was still bangin’.

Because even a wrong cheesesteak in Delco hits harder than anything else you’re findin’ after 9pm.

And yes — I ate the whole thing.

And thought about goin’ back for another on da blue route, even if traffic was a nightmare.