First, the elephants in the room: Pat’s King of Steaks and Geno’s Steaks, the South Philly titans facing off at 9th and Passyunk like prizefighters in a neon-lit ring. Pat’s, founded in 1930 by Pat Olivieri—the guy who accidentally invented the cheesesteak—claims the crown of authenticity. Order it “Whiz wit” (that’s Cheez Whiz with onions, for the uninitiated), and you’re tasting history: juicy beef, a roll that fights back, and that unmistakable orange glow. Across the street, Geno’s counters with flashier vibes and a knack for keeping the Whiz contained—no drippy messes here. Locals argue over these two like they’re picking a mayor, and while tourists flock to both, plenty of Philadelphians still swear by them. My buddy Sal from South Philly won’t touch Geno’s—“too showy,” he grumbles—but he’ll wait 20 minutes at Pat’s for old time’s sake. Me? I lean Geno’s for the tighter execution, but it’s a coin toss on a good day.
Step beyond the Pat’s-Geno’s orbit, though, and you’ll find Jim’s South St., a heavyweight in its own right. Tucked at 4th and South, Jim’s has been slinging cheesesteaks since 1976, and the line snaking around the block tells you it’s no fluke. The secret’s in the grill: they chop the meat finer, letting it meld with the cheese (provolone’s a sleeper hit here) into a gooey, cohesive bite. The vibe’s pure Philly—gruff counter guys, graffiti-scarred walls, and a mix of punks, hipsters, and old-timers chowing down. My cousin swears it’s the only place he’ll take his kids; says it’s “Philly 101 without the hype.”
Then there’s Dalessandro’s, up in Roxborough, where the locals guard their turf like it’s a state secret. Since 1960, this hole-in-the-wall has been piling obscene amounts of meat onto Amoroso rolls—seriously, you’ll need a strategy to tackle it. The cheese options run deep (Whiz, American, or provolone), and the onions get caramelized just right. It’s a trek from Center City, but ask any Northwest Philly native, and they’ll tell you it’s worth it. I once saw a guy drive an hour from Jersey just to relive his Dalessandro’s fix; he left with two, grinning like he’d won the lottery.
Don’t sleep on John’s Roast Pork in South Philly, either. Yeah, the name screams pork, and their Italian roast pork sandwich is a legend, but their cheesesteak’s a quiet killer. Sharp provolone cuts through the beef’s richness, and the roll’s got that perfect chew. It’s less greasy than the Whiz-heavy crowd, which makes it a go-to for folks who want flavor over chaos. My old neighbor, a retired cop, calls it his “thinking man’s cheesesteak”—high praise from a guy who’s seen it all.
For a curveball, hit up Ishkabibble’s on South Street. Since 1979, this quirky spot’s been serving cheesesteaks with a twist—think “Chicken Cheesesteak” or the “Gremlin,” a half-size roll for lighter appetites. The beef version holds its own, though, with a loyal following that swears by the quick service and no-nonsense vibe. It’s where the late-night crowd stumbles after bar-hopping; I’ve been that guy more than once, and it never disappoints.
And then there’s the wildcard: Gooey Looie’s, a deli counter inside Pennsport’s Pennsport Mall (not a mall, just a strip of shops—Philly logic). It’s the anti-tourist spot—no signage, no frills, just a counter churning out monstrous cheesesteaks that could feed a family. The meat’s piled so high you’ll wonder how the roll holds up, and the Whiz flows like lava. It’s a cult favorite among dockworkers and locals in the know; my uncle, a mechanic down that way, says it’s the only place he trusts.
Where Philly goes for a cheesesteak isn’t one answer—it’s
a mosaic. Pat’s and Geno’s get the headlines, but the city’s soul lives in the neighborhood joints: Dalessandro’s for the diehards, Jim’s for the vibe, John’s for the purists. Some folks stick to their corner spot—ask a Kensington guy about his local deli, and he’ll fight you over it. Me, I bounce between them all, chasing that perfect bite. The beauty of Philly’s cheesesteak scene isn’t the “best”—it’s the argument, the ritual, the grease-stained loyalty. So grab a roll, pick a side, and join the fray. Just don’t ask me to settle it for you.
William Zimmerman is a Philadelphia native, writer, and self-proclaimed cheesesteak connoisseur who’s still chasing the ghost of his first Pat’s Whiz wit.
