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T H I S+W E E K If it's Tuesday, D E P A R T M E N T S The Surreal Gourmet
Postmark: Philadelphia
Passages:
Readers' Tips and Tales
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LA S T+W E E K Tuesday, May 13 Foucault au lait
A full list of all
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Philly is obsessed with the strange. BY
MARY ELIZABETH WILLIAMS | a friend once asked me where the weirdest place I ever had sex was.
I didn't hesitate for a moment with my reply. "Philadelphia," I answered.
"Definitely Philadelphia."
While she may have been expecting something more along the lines
of "in the men's room of the Royalton," I stand by my response.
Philadelphia is one of the weirdest places on earth, regardless of what you
happen to be doing there. David Lynch has claimed that it was his years living there that inspired him to write "Eraserhead." Specifically, Lynch
has called the home of the hoagie "the sickest, most corrupt, decaying city
filled with fear I ever set foot in in my life." This critique may not
jibe with the image of colonial charm and soft pretzels the town tries to
maintain, but it probably does not surprise its citizens. And yet, despite
this citywide abundance of oddness, Philadelphians remain true to
Philadelphia. Maybe it's because there's something in the sickness of
Philly that is eminently attractive. Quaint even.
Philadelphia occupies a special place in my own heart because I
spent a portion of my youth there, studying film at Temple University. I
fondly recall the '80s as an era of high weirdness, even by Philly
standards. It was the waning epoch of boss Frank Rizzo's administration. It
was the time of the botched siege on MOVE headquarters (which immediately
inspired the dance-floor chant "The roof! The roof! The roof is on FIRE!"),
and the memorable last press conference of state Treasurer Budd Dwyer, which ended with him blowing his brains out in front of the assembly. It was the heyday of Gary Heidnik -- a spectacularly colorful local serial killer who
drove around in a Rolls Royce and fed his chained-up victims to each other.
All in all, it was quite a time.
But now there's more to Philly than just death and small-town-style
political corruption. I believe the tide began to turn in the late
'80s, when the city made the bold move of finally allowing skyscrapers
to be built. Previously, tradition and a lingering sense of colonial
decorum had dictated that no building could go higher than Billy Penn's
hat -- a reference to the statue adorning City Hall's dome (a statue
that, when viewed from certain angles, appears unmistakably aroused). That all changed when the gleaming monolith Liberty Place was built. A mere decade later, the skyline of Philadelphia resembles, well, an actual skyline.
But it isn't the old and new phallic symbols jutting out of downtown that make me love Philadelphia. And it certainly isn't the Liberty
Bell or Independence Hall. I love it for the same reason John Waters loves
Baltimore -- Philadelphia is not hiply cynical, it is not coolly self-aware. It is unconcerned with itself and unpretentious. It is, quite simply, the
real deal.
Other cities pervert diner culture with grotesque faux-'50s
nostalgia, with "Pulp Fiction"-style Marilyn Monroe iconography and $5 milkshakes. But Philly doesn't have to embrace the past because
Philly has never left it. At the Melrose Diner, napkins are emblazoned with the
less-than-Shakespearean verse, "Everybody who knows goes to the Melrose,"
and waitresses wear cutlery-shaped pins that don't just tell their names
but also reveal the years they started. As in, "Betty. 1967." The Melrose
is a place to sample the local specialty scrapple (rhymes with crapple), a
chunky, mysterious kin of sausage. Personally, I prefer the Melrose's
apple pie with vanilla sauce, and the kind of damn fine cups of coffee that
would wow even a David Lynch character.
For an even more intense flirtation with artery-clotting Philly delicacies, I can head down to South Philly for the evening and experience the cholesterol
level-shattering sandwiches at Pat's. This open-all-night titan of
cheese steak is as significant a Philadelphia landmark as anything in town
having to do with the year 1776 and the founding fathers. On summer nights, the
sidewalks surrounding the eatery resemble the climax of "Close Encounters"
-- hoards gathered in glassy-eyed awe under the bright lights. It's just
that instead of grooving to an intergalactic melody, this throng is getting
buzzed on the smell of grilled onions.
When I'm in the mood for a more substantial dinner, or just want a
few post-steak drinks in a congenial atmosphere, I gather some friends and
perch in the jewel of South Philly -- the Triangle Tavern. The first time I
ever went to the Triangle, I felt like a Jersey-born Alice who'd
stumbled down into a beer-soaked Pennsylvania rabbit hole. I couldn't stop
repeating, "What is this place?" over and over and over.
The Triangle is a big, boisterous Italian restaurant and bar -- a
place with all the requisite trappings of wood paneling and mussels
marinara. What sets it apart is the house band. The performers are an
exceedingly average-looking, post-middle-age troupe, performing a
repertoire of old standbys and what can only be described as classic rock.
Imagine, if you will, your Uncle Tommy, T-shirt, jeans and beer gut
a-go-go, belting out a powerhouse version of "Born in the USA." Better yet,
imagine him doing "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?" Needless to say, it's not a pretty picture. But it
is, I assure you, a compelling one. There is something both perverse and
charming about the floor show at the Triangle -- something that big city
neo-swank hot spots, with their martinis and their cigars and their
relentless irony, could never hope to have. People go to the Triangle not to
look good but to have a good time; and the guys in the band even have a perma-"having a ball" expression plastered to their faces. The patrons cheer wildly. And you
come away with the feeling that if only Uncle Tommy did have a band, he'd
be a much happier guy.
That's what the Birthplace of Independence is all about -- personal
freedom, including the freedom to march to a different drummer. Philly is,
after all, the home of the "Mummers," who bring marching to a different
drummer to a whole new level. New Year's Day in Philly is traditionally
rung in with one of the world's most unusual parades, straight down the
city's main thoroughfare. Where else in America could grown-up men dress in
sequins and makeup and do what they themselves refer to as "strutting"? At
least, where else would hetero men do this? Perhaps only in Philly could
regular Joes adorn themselves in enough plumes, spangles and
rainbow-colored lamé to make the drag queen contingent at the Pride parade
look like a flotilla of Mennonites.
Although nothing in the world can compare to the spectacle of the
parade itself, I can get a vivid sense of the festivities, as well as
an education into the tradition of mumming, at the Mummers Museum. While Rocky Balboa never triumphantly dashed up this landmark's steps (there aren't that many), it still deserves recognition as one of Philly's most
important attractions. The Philadelphia Museum of Art may have a
distinctive façade and its share of Duchamps, but the Mummers has something
else -- the kind of fantastic displays the dadaists couldn't have imagined
on their best surrealism-soaked days.
Close in sound but not in spirit to the Mummers is Philly's other
great institution of distinction -- the Mutter Museum. Dedicated
exclusively to 19th century artifacts of physical deformity, the
Mutter boasts misshapen skeletons, mutant fetuses in formaldehyde and
plaster casts of freaks galore, all in somber, scholarly surroundings.
It's exactly the kind of place I can imagine "Eraserhead's" alien baby
feeling perfectly at home in.
There are, I know, people who come to the City of Brotherly Love
for the historic monuments, for the Rodin Museum and the shops of South
Street and the pretty cobblestone neighborhoods. I'll never understand these people.
The Philadelphia that excites my imagination exists almost entirely
off the beaten path -- in the diners and the dark corners, in the human
oddities preserved at the Mutter and out roaming in the streets, in the
exhaustive silent film section of TLA Video, in bars with names like
Doobie's and Dirty Frank's. Other cities -- your New Yorks, your L.A.s --
have significant populations of professional eccentrics. There, being
weird is an occupation and an art. It's liberating, but it's also a
competitive, full-time job. In Philly, being weird is just a way of life.
For that, I love it. David Lynch may have found his best nightmares there.
But for my oddball-embracing soul, it's a dream come true. What is it about Phillie? Join the discussion in Table Talk |
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