Flying to visit my brother and his family in central Pennsylvania (where I grew up) is a journey requiring two connecting flights, the last of which is on one of those unsettling tiny planes that shakes loudly. This holiday it also involved lost luggage and not eating for 13 hours. While trembling from hunger in the Philadelphia airport, it seemed logical to order a cheesesteak from Philly Steak. The sandwich was a disaster—mushy bun, dry meat, fibrous hot peppers. I inhaled the whole thing bitterly, wondering again how it is people manage to create terrible food. Philly Steak may be a quick-n-dirty restaurant in an airport food court, but that doesn't excuse it from massacring the iconic sandwich from which it takes its name.

Halfway through that awful cheesesteak, I realized—of all things—that I missed Seattle desperately. The pain in my heart could only be assuaged by a Hot Pepper Mush from Philadelphia Fevre—a seat at the counter, a luscious pile of chopped beef, sweet brown onions, and crispy bits hot off the grill. Philadelphia Fevre will be my first stop when I get home. Then I'll go down to Tat's Deli for a Tatstrami and some Tastykake Butterscotch Krimpets. Ah, to be free from Pennsylvania.