A Day of Pork and Beef from DiNic's and Royal Tavern
This entry originally took place on February 28. It's almost March on my blog! WOW!@#$%
After visiting the Mütter Museum and getting our fill of diseased organs and deformed fetuses (it's a "must visit" though, unless you are especially squeamish), Alex and I went to Reading Terminal Market to meet some of his friends...and so I could get my pork on.
I followed Joy Manning's recommendation to head to DiNic's for a roast pork and broccoli rabe sandwich. Alex's friend Mark joined me in line to do the same.
Distracted by MEAT.
The pile of bulging roasted meat chunks threatening to break out of the strings securing their juicy centers was quite distracting.
This doesn't show you how big it was. ...It was quite big.
But I led us astray, as I forgot that the holy trinity of the Philadelphian roast pork sandwich is roast pork, broccoli rabe, and provolone cheese. Fail. Not that it didn't taste good, although I wouldn't say it blew me away.
The tender, thinly sliced pork somehow managed to be full of porky juices and taste just a smidge dry at the same time. There was plenty-o-pork juice to go around—that the bread was semi-disintegrating from it showed just how much. Yet there was a tinge of dryness that didn't seem to make much sense. Still, I ate the whole thing quite happily, until a few seconds after polishing it off and grabbing my stomach while going, "Uunnngnggnn" because a whole DiNic's sandwich is about 100% more sandwich than anyone should eat in one sitting.
Alex's friend Penelope really, really wanted a shoo-fly pie. ("But Robyn, didn't you want one too?" Hey dudes, I WAS REALLY FULL. I have limits, as imposed by my tepid metabolism.) I tried a bite of pie, which was like pecan pie without the pecans. Which means it was like sweet goo pie. Nothing wrong with that.
We digested by hanging out at Mark and his boyfriend Kris's apartment, which involved a lot of ooh-ing and ahh-ing at their new Greyhound—until he farted, at which point then it switched to, "Uuunng the dog farted." (But we continue to love him despite his stinkiness because he's very, very cute.)
Humanity can be proud, for it has spawned Barbarella.
And then it switched to Barbarella, simultaneously one of the worst and best movies I've ever seen, the latter being because of the first. The music was definitely A+.
Kris, Alex, and I went to Royal Tavern, mostly because it was a short walk away, but also because they had a burger—one of the city's best, according to their chalkboard.
Unfortunately, I couldn't say this is one of the best burgers in Philadelphia. Not that it's bad—it would fulfill a burger craving. Their eight-ounce Angus burger came with caramelized onions, smoked gouda, pickled longhots, and chile mayonnaise on a toasted brioche bun. It also comes with bacon by default, but as I tend to find bacon too overwhelming when all I really want to taste is cow, I opted for a pork-less burger. While the patty was juicy enough—medium rare as always—it didn't have much flavor. The toppings helped, of course, particularly the mayo and the tongue-burning longhots. Otherwise, it was rather bland. Thankfully the bun was fine and of the soft, mildly chewy variety. Bad buns can destroy a good patty; good buns can make an okay patty taste better. (I also wrote about this burger on AHT, with lots of feedback on where to go next on my burger hunt.)
We returned to Mark and Kris's abode to hang out with them (and their dog and cat) for a while before going home to fully digest.
Alex + cat + couch = just another Saturday night.
And to end this post, a sweet photo of Alex. With a cat lording over him.