Primanti Challenge

For a few hours on a recent Saturday, I thought the legend of the Primanti Brothers sandwich was just that, a legend.

I'd heard about the famous Pittsburgh meal since before I arrived in the city. I pass by the Market Square Primanti Bros. on my way to and from work each day, and I pass by the Oakland branch on my bus ride home.

"Don't eat for hours ahead of time," a Pittsburgh resident told me. "But make sure you keep drinking water so your stomach stays the same size."

Those were intimidating words. I never felt hungry enough for the much-hyped sandwich during the last few weeks when I walked by, until recently, when friends from out of town came in to visit me for a weekend.

I tend to reunite with these same friends, three or four times a year, by meeting at Chipotle, where we start, and finish, burritos.

The calorie count of these burritos nearly breaks a thousand. Our quarterly trips to Chipotle and our ability to consume a meal the size of a brick is not a feat to be proud of, but the point is, we were familiar with unnecessarily large proportions.

The prospect of Primantis was intimidating at first. At lunchtime, with no breakfast in our stomachs, we sat down at a table outside the Market Square location and the waitress handed us a menu.

We ordered waters, and I told my friends the Primanti Brothers lore. I ordered the Pitts-burgher cheese steak, and I was not that impressed. It was a large sandwich, and probably the only sandwich I've ever eaten containing french fries, but it wasn't as daunting as I'd heard.

When my friends and I finished our sandwiches, we didn't feel any fuller than average. Marylanders who grew up on crab meat and Old Bay seasoning had managed to withstand the Pittsburgh Primanti Brothers challenge, we thought. We paid our bill and then walked around the city for a few hours.

At dinnertime, five hours after our Primanti Bros. experience, we stopped to get dinner. It was then that we realized we still weren't hungry. We ordered appetizers but couldn't finish them.

I was wrong about Primanti Bros. Those sandwiches are deceptively filling. Pittsburgh 1. Riely 0.

Stopping to enjoy this runners' paradise

By Laura Keeley / June 26, 2009 

I don't know about you, but after munching on a couple of pieces of cheesecake, I need to hit the gym. But, in the spirit of summer, why not run outside?

Let me preface everything I say with this: I actually like running. As in, it's not something I do just to burn some calories, but something that helps me relax (No, I'm not crazy). So, if you don't like running, I guess take what I say with a grain of salt.

I have lived a couple of other places besides Pittsburgh, and this area is hands-down the best running environment I have ever experienced. For one, despite what natives here tell you, it never really gets hot. Try running outside in Texas or North Carolina - you would have to wake up before the sun if you wanted to do that. And who wants to get up early in summer?

For another (and this is where my love for running really kicks in) Pittsburgh has great terrain (read: hills). If you can run here, you can run anywhere. There is nothing like a good ol' Pittsburgh hill to get you hamstrings firing. And if you are running for calorie burning, think of all the extra calories that are melting away thanks to those bumps in the trail! If you want to run on flat ground, go to a track or a treadmill. But I'm warning you, it won't be near as exciting.

So if you do decide to run outside, I have the perfect place for you: North Park in Allison Park, a northern suburb about 30 or so minutes from downtown. It's 3,075 beautiful acres sprawling across Hampton, McCandless and Pine Townships. There are literally tons of trials for you and a buddy to go explore, but the most popular is easily he five mile path around the lake. It's paved AND it's alongside, but not on, a road. So you won't have to worry about some idiot almost clipping your shins or running you off the road. It's also highly traveled, so if you go during the day there will be plenty of people around so you can feel comfortable running solo. The hills are quite tame compared to other routes in the area, so that's a factor (a plus for most people) too. It's a great way to spend an hour or so of your day. And who knows - maybe you will even run into me.

Dante's Inferno, in the check-out line

Courtesy of wisebread.com

By Martine Powers 

The deepest circle of hell is reserved for betrayers, mutineers and those who forgot to bring their reusable shopping bags to the grocery store.

If Mayor Luke Ravenstahl wants to impress the leaders of the free world with Pittsburgh’s green economy, he should forget about the eco-friendly David L. Lawrence Convention Center and the city’s extensive recycling program.

Instead, take the G-20 to Giant Eagle.

I had forgotten about Pittsburgh’s obsession with sustainable living when I walked into the Centre Ave. supermarket yesterday to buy Honey Nut Cheerios, a gallon of two-percent milk and a week’s worth of Lean Cuisine microwaveable TV dinners. (Oh, the extravagant lifestyle of a summer intern.) I had also forgotten my bags — my reusable, organic, recycled, Fair Labor/Fair Trade, devastatingly unstylish green canvas bags in which I usually carry my groceries.

After directing my cart of foodstuffs to the nearest check-out counter, I noticed that I was the only shopper in line without a small collection of reusable bags. Some had theirs sticking out of the top of their purse or folded neatly under their arm. Some wore their grocery bags AS a purse, with their wallet and keys inside — so utilitarian, so multifunctional, so chic. But sadly, I was sans bag, which placed me sqarely within the innermost circle of hell.

"Would you like to purchase some eco-friendly reusable bags to carry your groceries?" asked the cashier. What he meant: This is your last chance at salvation from eternal damnation.

"No, thanks," I answered. "I already have some at home, but I just forgot them today."

Bring on the hellfire.

Pittsburghers’ wholehearted acceptance of the reusable grocery bag is, I think, a testament to the city’s commitment to maintaining an eco-friendly city; that same commitment is, supposedly, exactly why President Obama chose the Steel City as the site for the G-20 summit. The rivers, once thick with industrial waste, now flow clear and clean. The air, once hazy with factory exhaust, now smells fresh and sweet (unless you’re standing above a downtown sewer grate). Car-owners ride the T on Fridays; residents pay to properly recycle their alkaline batteries. Birds sing to the tune of Simon & Garfunkel songs as homeowners install their LED lightbulbs. The zeal of Pittsburghers when it comes to greening-up their city is quite impressive — especially when you’re not on the receiving end of their eco-friendly wrath.

Waiting at the Giant Eagle bus stop to catch the 71A back to Oakland, I averted my eyes as the Shadyside hippies and UPitt social activists sneered at the pile of blue plastic bags at my side. Each of those plastic bags will somebody suffocate a baby seal, the passersby seemed to say. I hope you’re he first to go when the melting icecaps drown Norh America.

So when the world’s leaders arrive in Pittsburgh this September to collaborate on creating a global green economy, they will surely find inspiration in the eco-friendly industry and culture cultivated here in the City of Champions. But Gordon Brown and Nicolas Sarkozy better remember to pack their reusable canvas grocery bags, lest they find themselves quickly on their way to hell in a handbasket.

Or rather, in a plastic shopping bag.

Best cheesecake in town is in Robinson

(Drum roll please): The best cheesecake in Pittsburgh (in the tri-state area?) is at . . . Juliano's Restaurant and Pizzeria in Robinson.

No, I'm not kidding. I, too was shocked to find out my beloved New York-style cheesecake came from a pizza place. I had only ever enjoyed it in the comforts of my home when my Dad brought it home from meetings Juliano's had catered. "That's the place," he said as we drove by it once on the way to the airport. "WHAT?!?" was my reaction. I figured that the best cheesecake in the 'Burgh had to come from a bakery, maybe an expensive fancy restaurant I had never been to, but certainly not an Italian restaurant.

Oh well, like they say, you can't judge a book by its cover or a restaurant by its supposed genre.

Anyhow, back to the main event: tTe cheesecake itself. It's not a cheesecake on steroids like you get at the Cheesecake Factory. It doesn't need any chocolate-Oreo-peanut butter-raspberry frills. It's cheesecake on the rocks, with just the cheesecake and the wonderful crust. The crust, actually, might be the best part - think of like the best crumbled up graham crackers you have ever tasted, make them sweet and times that by 1000. And, to top it all off, the pieces are small enough and just rich enough so you can eat the whole piece and not curl over in the fetal position when you’re done. Pure joy.

But, like most things, it comes with a price - $4.50 a slice to be exact (maybe in honor of the fact that it's 450 calories?). But hey, for the best cheesecake in town, it's a small price to pay.

Thanks, dad!

By Liyun Jin

My poor dad always seems to get jipped on Father's Day. Our ritual typically consists of "bonding time" at the mall, shopping for my clothes. Alternatively, if I want to make a better effort, I'll buy him a nice gift... using money that I find in his wallet. (To my credit, he always insists that he doesn't want anything, and I am more than happy to oblige.)

An indignant 11-year old me once asked him why there was a Mother's Day and a Father's Day, but no day devoted to children. With a tad of derision, he responded, "Why would kids need their own day? Everyday in a parent's life is devoted to children! Our lives revolve around you! Grumblegrumble."

He was right, of course. After 364 days of cooking, cleaning, doing my laundry, buying me things, and being my general slave, it was only fair that I express my gratitude on the one remaining day each year. Yesterday, his words ran through my mind as I broke our usual Father's Day tradition, put aside my annoyance at my nonexistent birthday cake, and decided to take him out to dinner--my treat.

Thus, to Applebee's we went (this is an unpaid internship, after all) for a meal that, though mediocre and unremarkable, expressed my sincere appreciation by sparing him a night in the kitchen. But I couldn't help my palms from sweating as he ordered a Pepsi ($1.49) and a glass of white zinfandel ($4.25). Why did he need to be such a self-indulgent spendthrift? Sure, it was his special day, but that didn't make me any less of a poor college student! Couldn't he just get by with some water with a lemon wedge ($0.00!)?

When the check came, I suppressed my fingers' natural inclination to reach for the MasterCard whose bill goes directly to my father's mailbox every month. Instead, I pulled out my own debit card, linked to the money I had earned through sweat and toil in my minimum-wage high school job. How selfless! My dad gasped. I beamed with pride.

That is, until the waiter returned five minutes later apologizing that the card had been declined. Um, what? I was pretty certain that there was money in my checking account. Then again, I haven't made money in a while, whereas I spend it pretty often. Determined that the Father's Day dinner would be on me, I dug around my wallet for cash and scrounged up a total of 37 cents. 

Sadly, my dad would have to pick up the tab, once again getting the short end of the stick on Father's Day. I guess all 365 days are devoted to kids, then.

Luckily, all this pity for my dad has made me appreciate him even more. Now if I can just manage to express it.

Liyun Turns 19!

By Liyun Jin

Guess what! My birthday was yesterday! Fireworks, wrapping paper, and celebration abounded! Following a countdown to June 18, the festivities commenced promptly at midnight EST.

Not really. By “festivities,” I mean that I just sat in my bed with my laptop while the rest of my family snored, eating Lucky Charms (they're magically delicious!) and staring at my Twitter profile and Gmail inbox.

About every two seconds, I refreshed my Facebook page in order to see which people had sent me a birthday message first, then used this information to rank my friends appropriately. “[So-and-so] wrote on your Wall.” Ah-ha! I always knew she was a true pal.

Purple marshmallow. F5. Repeat.

Honestly, I had pretty low expectations for this one. The 19th birthday is so anticlimactic, awkwardly trapped between the novel rights of 18 and the new decade encapsulated in 20. For me, turning 19 prompts depression, not celebration. I’m still a teenager, with all the baggage that the term brings, but it’s also the last time my age will begin with a ‘1.’ Before I know it, the 20s will fly by as fast as the 10s did, and I’ll be middle-aged, technologically impaired, and complaining about my ailing back. Sigh.

Indeed, as the day progressed, my low expectations were fulfilled. The world did not treat me any more kindly, the sun did not shine more brightly, and I was not showered with confetti and streamers. As I walked through downtown in the morning, doorways still smelled of urine and pigeons still attempted to puncture my head.

At 5:07 p.m.—seventeen hours and seven minutes overdue—my mom called me to wish me a happy birthday, then told me that my brother had bought me a deflated balloon. Awesome!

I got home, had Lucky Charms for dinner, and then passed out while refreshing Facebook some more. My lovely nap, however, was disturbed when my best friend from high school called me to tell me to haul myself outside so we could “Do something fun for your birthday!”

Yet I was perfectly content to do absolutely nothing. After all, I wondered, why do we even commemorate our birthdays? Isn’t the length of a year pretty arbitrary, anyway? Why do we need to celebrate the day the Earth is located at the same spot in its elliptical orbit as it was when we were born? (What’s the point? Of anything? Cue existential crisis.)

But then I remembered that there are a few birthdays I do enjoy, like Christmas, Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and Presidents Day. In other words, Federal Holidays, also known as No School Days. Now those days are worth celebrating.

Begrudgingly, I got out of bed and allowed myself to be dragged around town. We had a few adventures (long story involving fire, a merry-go-round, and public transportation failure.. I won't go into details) that, unexpectedly, ended up being really fun. By the time I got home, I didn't even care about the Facebook messages, the fact that my gift tally totaled one, or that I didn't get cake (okay, I'm slightly bitter about this). In the end, I had not only survived, but enjoyed, my 19th birthday.

Now can I please be 20 already?

Yet another award

By Jess Eagle

Our humble city has recently been dominating some of the country’s “best” lists: it’s the most livable city, apparently has some pretty courteous drivers (ha! We’ll come back to this…) and the touristy Mount Washington overlooks were listed in the top ten greatest places to stand in the U.S.

As for the first, I’d have to agree that this place is livable. After all, I’ve lived here for three years and am still living. (Just joshing, indignant reader!)

To the second, I have this to say: Ever heard of a “Pittsburgh left?” If not, I’m sure you’ve at least seen it: You’re sitting at a red light, waiting to go straight through the intersection. The person across from you has their turn signal kindly signaling to you that they plan on making a left as soon as you – and the other straight-goers trailing you – pass through.

Instead, as soon as the light turns green, the left turner blatantly dismisses the rules of the road, making their left and cutting you off in the process! And, naturally, you’re left thinking, “Excusez moi, Mr. I-don’t-gotta-follow-the-rules-of-the-road! I thought I had the right of way, here!”

In summary, I tend to disagree with AutoVantage on that one.

And for number three, well, it’s pretty hard for me to think of many greater places to stand than one of those round Mount Washington outlooks. Hence, the wedding parties lined up around the block every Saturday morning like pastel and tulle-wrapped groupies to get their photos snapped.

But I’ve recently come up with another “best” for Pittsburgh, one that rivals Mount Washington’s victory: Best overall viewing experience.

And the winner is: Driving out of the Fort Pitt Tunnel.

So it’s not as concise as “Mount Washington,” but, boy, is it an experience. Rather than a standing view of the city (which is totally fine, but not nearly as cool) driving out of the Fort Pitt Tunnel and onto the Fort Pitt Bridge is like getting smacked in the face with a palm full of Pittsburgh.

In the very best way possible.

I’ve actually read about this before I experienced it, but didn’t realize it until I’d driven through the tunnel at least a dozen times. In his novel “The Perks of Being a Wallflower,” author Stephen Chbosky describes the experience through his narrator – awkward, teenage Pittsburgher Charlie – like this: “And in that moment, I swear we were infinite.”

Driving out of the tunnel – where you’re surrounded by dark walls and a vacuum of sound – and out onto the river – where you feel like the heart of downtown has suddenly exploded in front of you – I’d say “infinite” is an accurate enough description.

If you’ve gone through this now award-winning* experience and haven’t felt overwhelmed, awed or speechless, you need do it again. This time, do it at night, and turn on one of your favorite songs. I promise you’ll change your mind.

*The Jess Eagle Best Overall Viewing Experience is a totally made-up award, and in no way should be taken seriously by anyone, anywhere.

Germany: now on the South Side

By Danielle Kucera

All right, the South Side does not at all compare to the real Germany. But if you've had a few drinks in you when you go to the Hofbrauhaus, a fairly new German restaurant alongside the Mon, you won't be able to tell the difference.

My grandma took me to see the movie "Up" (which I would recommend to most anyone) on Sunday at the South Side Works, and we ate at the Hofbrauhaus afterwards. On its lot beside the river, it is one street removed from the hustle-bustle of the shops adjacent to it. The location amplifies the contrast between the peaceful riverside and the insane world behind the front doors. 

First, let me say this: if you don't like German things, you need to stay far, far away from this place. Whoever decided to transplant clones of the original Munich Hofbrauhaus throughout the U.S. went all out.

The first thing I noticed upon entering was the sound of raucous happiness emanating from the bier hall - an enormous high-ceilinged room with long, bench-like tables, hundreds of beer-handed customers and a live German band. The noise makes you want to bypass the hostess podium and join in the commotion around the corner.

A girl emerged from a flock of waitresses in German wench outfits (think Ricola cough drop woman) to steer me and my grandma to our table. We sat in the bier hall, but you can sit in a slightly quieter dining room and on an outdoor terrace overlooking the river as well.

Even though our purpose was food (a subject from which my mind rarely wanders), the meal ended up taking a back seat to the experience.

The table of woman next to us must have been German because they knew every single word to every single song. Shortly after we sat down, two of them climbed onto thier table, singing and stomping along with the Santa Claus-esque keyboard player. There is no way they were younger than 60, and they were no anomaly, either - hundreds of people sitting in the room clapped, sang and stomped in unison throughout our meal.

Every once in a while, the keyboard player, well I'll just call him "leader" because he really was dictating the atmosphere of the room, would yell "shotski!" and four people would line up in the front to take shots together off of a wooden ski. My grandma was swept into the commotion when the leader yelled "How 'bout them Pens!" and then began playing the Steelers Polka. I think my descriptions are making this sound like a cult gathering. I promise it was not.

I went there savoring some great German food (which I got, along with excellent beer). But let's just say I got much more than I bargained for. It's supposed to be even more insane later in the evening, or in other words, I'll be back soon.

Honk if you're a courteous driver

By Laura Keeley / June 17, 2009

Happy rainy day Pittsburghers!  While I'm sure most of you are hibernating at home to avoid melting like the Wicked Witch of the west, here is a little tidbit to brighten your day and bring you off the couch: According to a survey done by AutoVantage, Pittsburgh has the most courteous drivers in America. You're least likely to see a variety of flavors of road rage, including honking horns, cursing, angry waving fists, obscene gestures and even someone slamming into the back of another driver (it's probably because they are all stopped in standstill traffic of the parkway east anyhow).

The only conclusion I can draw from this is these people are clearly not trying to park downtown. With a 37.5 percent parking tax that's been as high as 50 percent (fyi consumers did not see any price cuts when the decrease happened) on downtown garages, it's pretty easy to get your blood boiling.

I guess, at least, I'm lucky no one is rear ending me as I line up to pay my daily offering to the tax gods.

Я тебя люблю, Malkin!

By Martine Powers

Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

 
Photo by:Robin Rombach/Post-Gazette

Since my arrival in Pittsburgh, I’ve met many of the future wives of Penguins hockey players. There was 20-year-old Danielle Hooks of Vandergrift, who told a reporter at Monday’s parade that Eugeni Malkin is her "future husband." And on the same day, Murrysville 18-year-old Sara Murphy declared that she "can’t wait to see Jordan Staal."

"He and I are getting married!" Murphy screamed. (The sincerity of her intentions, however, was questionable, as she simultaneously held a sign that read ‘I love you, Malkin!’ in Russian.)

And of course, nothing compares to the amorous affections inspired by Sid the Kid, the 21-year-old Nova Scotia native and Penguins captain Sidney Crosby. Just check out Facebook: there are at least a dozen pages of Sidney Crosby fan groups, most of which are variations of "I <3 SIDNEY CROSBY #87!!!" And there are also a plethora of Crosby fan club Web sites, like "Sidney Crosby’s Fan Forum" on www.talk-sports.net.

"I am a "die hard" Red Wings fan, yet I still totally adore Crosby’s hottness!" one anonymous talksports.net user commented Tuesday.

"sidney crosby is soooooo hot does he have a girlfriend?" asked another user Wednesday morning.

But I’d venture to say that the adoration following Sidney Crosby and the rest of the Penguins players has very little to do with their physical attributes. After all, Michelin-man uniforms, broken teeth and thick lumberjack playoff beards (Hello, serial killer?) are not exactly the stuff of teenage girls’ dreams.

The secret to the Penguins’ sex appeal must be something other than their grizzly-bear looks.

I have a theory about this: in the same way that girls are subconsciously attracted to men who remind them of their dads (I swear I didn’t make this up — UPI reported it!), I believe that Pittsburgh girls are similarly attracted to Penguins hockey players because they remind them of Pittsburgh itself. When female Pittsburghers see the Penguins, they also see the best of their own hometown — even though most of the Penguins hail from Canada.

I admit, my theory is a little far-fetched, but hear me out. The Penguins share a lot of attributes with the Steel City: this season, they were the underdog, the dark horse that no one expected to win the prize. (And who ever expected Obama to choose Pittsburgh to host the G-20 conference?) They’re energetic and enterprising. They’re humble, unassuming and a little awkward. And most of all, they work harder than anyone else and refuse to give up, even when victory seemed impossible. Time after time during the finals, they came back from behind to become the champions, in a manner completely reminiscent of Pittsburgh’s transition from a fallen industrial center to a hub of prominent universities and cultural institutions.

Okay, so it’s a stretch. And yes, I just compared Game 5 of the Stanley Cup finals with the decline of Pittsburgh’s steel industry. Still, I maintain that the key to the Penguins’ sex appeal is emotional, and not physical — we love them because, despite the French-Canadian accents and weird Russian names, the Penguins are true Pittsburghers at heart.

But perhaps I’m overanalyzing this. Another possible reason behind the Penguins’ sex appeal? Sidney Crosby’s GQ spread.