Big whoop. A dirty knife? Mouse droppings? A little fungi manifesting in the icebox like it’s the freaking Super Mario Brothers movie (not a good, a GREAT reference)? WELL RUN FOR THE HILLS, BOB BARKER, BEFORE I CALL THE FEDS!!! Seriously. Anyone and everyone who has ever eaten at Pat’s King Of Steaks, or any genuine cheesesteak place in the Philadelphia area, knows what they’re signing up for – and it ain’t a health class. Even the customer they interviewed admitted she didn’t care. There are always pigeons chillin’ on the ledge where you order for Christ sake. Hell, they could tell me mice are having orgies in the cheese buckets while the employees stamping each steak with their nuts. It wouldn’t matter. Wiz Wit me or death, because the latter isn’t that far off, anyways.
You couldn’t pay this 40 yr employee of Pat’s to be more South Philly if you tried. Tom Francano is, you know, a goddamn city landmark himself by now.