first time

For those of you outside the Philadelphia area, Wawa is a chain of convenience stores that, more recently, have focused on their sandwich, coffee and take-out foods business. With very few exceptions, most Philadelphians love Wawa and visit them often.

There are at least nine thousand Wawas within five minutes of the place where I work. Several times a month, I will stop at one of them to pick up hoagies for Mrs. Pincus and myself. (That might be the most Philadelphia sentence I've ever written!) Last Monday was one of those times.

I usually choose the Wawa at Route 73 and Remington Avenue, just down the street from Pennsauken High School (home of the still politically-incorrect "Indians"). A few years ago, Wawa introduced a convenient touchscreen system to make ordering sandwiches, salads and other prepared foods a breeze. The system is great. It's fast, accurate and requires little-to-no interaction with any other human being. Each step in the ordering process is given its own screen from which a hungry customer can select the type of sandwich, the type of bread, the type of ingredients, the type of toppings and even the amount of said toppings. (Although, the choice of "a little bit of mayonnaise" is still totally subjectable, leaving the customer at the mercy of a hair-netted, name-tagged, minimum-wage earner.) When the order process is completed, a little box spits out a barcoded receipt. The customer takes the receipt to the cashier to scan. The customer pays and returns to the order area to pick up the tightly wrapped sandwich, usually ready and waiting. Regular customers of Wawa are used to the whole procedure and engage in it often. I know I do.

The whole touchscreen system is very intuitive, even for the most technology-fearing customer. This past Monday, while I punched out my selection for two hoagies, I overheard a guy at another touchscreen terminal. Actually, everybody in the place overheard this guy. He was screaming. 

I have noticed that people who insist on talking on their phones everywhere they go, love to scream. They have no issues with discussing personal issues — at top volume — while casually walking down the street, sitting on a bus, standing in a checkout line at Target or just about any public place. Well, this guy in Wawa was screaming into his phone. As the conversation unfolded, it became clear that he was ordering hoagies for someone who had never eaten a hoagie before. It was not clear (but it was a distinct possibility) if the person on the other end of the conversation had ever seen a hoagie. Perhaps these two — the guy at Wawa and his unseen conversation partner — were new to the area. Perhaps they just moved here and were unfamiliar with the local delicacy known as "the hoagie" and how Philadelphians place it in the same esteem as soft pretzels, "wooder oice" and — yes! — Benjamin Franklin and the "Liverty Bell." I would have given this pair the benefit of the doubt — except the guy was sporting a Phillies cap and an Eagles "Super Bowl Champions" t-shirt.

The conversation went a little like this...

GUY IN WAWA: What size hoagie do you want?

VOICE ON PHONE: Size? What do you mean "size?"

GIW: Size! Six inch? Ten inch?

VOP: Well, how big is the ten inch?

GIW(rolls his eyes and stares at the phone): TEN INCHES! Y'KNOW... LIKE TEN INCHES LONG! Y'KNOW BIG!

VOP: Um, then, six inches, I guess.

GIW: What kind of hoagie do you want?

VOP: Well, what kinds do they have? Do they have chicken salad?

GIW: They have the regular kind that everybody has.

VOP: Do they have Italian? Can I get an Italian, but with chicken salad?

GIW: What? No, they don't have chicken salad! You just want an Italian hoagie, then?

VOP: Well, what's on an Italian hoagie?

GIW: I don't know! I guess the regular stuff that's on an Italian hoagie anywhere!

VOP: Do they have cheese? Can I get cheese? Do they have Swiss cheese? Can I get Swiss cheese on my Italian hoagie? You say they don't have chicken salad? I really wanted an Italian chicken salad hoagie.

At this point, the GIW walks — no! stomps! — away from the touchscreen area and ducks down one of the merchandise aisles. After a minute or so, he emerges, still speaking into his phone at the very top of his voice.

GIW: ... you can can get lettuce, if you want. Yes, and tomatoes. What? No, they don't have chicken salad.

The number on my receipt was called and my hoagies were ready. I picked them up and left.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

nobody does it better

See that thing? I don't know what they call those things where you come from, but here in Philadelphia, we call 'em "hoagies." Growing up in Philadelphia, I ate a lot of hoagies. A lot of hoagies. From a lot of different places. Some were good. Some were not so good. The good places received multiple return visits from the Pincus family. But for some reason, despite being satisfied by the offerings of a particular hoagie place,  we often sought other places to fulfill our hoagie hunger.

Like most big cities of comparable size, Philadelphia boasted a namesake publication that came out on a monthly basis. Philadelphia Magazine was established in the very early part of the twentieth century, but its heyday was - arguably - the 1970s. During the middle part of the "Me Decade," Philadelphia Magazine presented itself as a scrappy, snot-nosed, street-wise voice of the city. They published hard-hitting, investigative pieces, exposing corruption in city government, criticizing policies and mocking the stately "old regime" of the city. I remember they ran an extremely unflattering piece about a prominent suburban Philadelphia doctor who was accused of over-prescribing dangerous diet pills. (My mom was the recipient of a couple of those prescriptions.) Philadelphia Magazine's acerbic editorial staff were regular critics of overbearing police chief-cum-notorious mayor Frank Rizzo. He didn't like to be criticized, leading the magazine to "poke the bear" even more. Philadelphia Magazine also took pride in its annual "Best & Worst of Philly" issue that hit newsstands every spring. In this double-sized issue, they would print their smug opinions on dozens and dozens of categories from restaurants and services to local newscasters and athletes.... and they'd pull no punches. If a butcher shop or dry cleaner was worthy, the staff of Philadelphia Magazine would lovingly sing their praises. However, they would just as readily disparage an establishment that provided a less than stellar product or below average service. Philadelphia Magazine had the power to make or break a business or to turn an entire city against a particular local public figure. My parents, like most middle-class residents of the City of Brotherly Love, hung onto every printed word in Philadelphia Magazine like it was the Gospel.

During one of my years in high school, Philadelphia Magazine deemed Greenman's Deli as offering the "Best Hoagie" in the city. This caused something of a mild outrage, what with ethnically-uniform South Philadelphia literally teeming with Mom and Pop hoagie shops. You can't swing an aged stick of sopressata without hitting one. How could some corner delicatessen in — gulp! — Northeast Philadelphia compete with any number of authentic Italian sandwich-makers within spitting distance of Passyunk Avenue? But Philadelphia Magazine defiantly stood by its decision, describing the cold-cut and veggie-stuffed sandwiches being akin to ambrosia on an oil-soaked long roll. As a long-time supporter of the underdog, my father loved reading this. Too timid to do it himself, my dad relished hearing about some high and mighty big shot getting put in their place. After finishing the lengthy article about what was good and what was bad in our hometown, my dad made a plan to partake of Greenman's Deli's hoagies as soon as possible.

When the weekend rolled around, I went with my father to Greenman's Deli. Sitting in the passenger's seat of his Dodge Dart, I gazed out the window at the unfamiliar surroundings. I couldn't remember ever being in this neighborhood before. My father rarely — rarely — drove out of his cocoon-like comfort zone, never venturing beyond the invisible confining barrier that was Cottman Avenue (a ten-minute drive from our house  no exaggeration). At the corner of Brous and Levick Streets was the very unspectacular Greenman's Deli. An illuminated sign reading "Greenman's Deli" below the familiar Pepsi logo proclaimed its territory. Its two windows were topped with removable letter signs. The letters were arranged into the identifying statement: "THIS IS GREENMAN'S." These signs, in direct contrast to the one over the door, featured the equally familiar Coca Cola logo. My father's grin widened as he parallel-parked his car just a few feet from their entrance. Inside the cramped store, we maneuvered down the small, narrow aisles filled with staple groceries towards the deli counter that spanned the rear. After scanning the large menu board, my dad told his selections to an older man in a white apron who scribbled notes on a folded brown paper bag with a thick grease pencil. Then, he set to work building... constructing.... erecting a series of enormous hoagies that would be the Pincus family dinner that evening. He stuffed impossible amounts of sliced deli meat and cheese between two golden-brown surfboards that, upon closer inspection, turned out to be hoagie rolls. The gigantic heaps of processed proteins were supplemented by piles of shredded lettuce, peppers, onions and tomatoes, along with generous sprinklings of spices and glistening splashes of oil. When completed, the man wrapped each hoagie in a length of butcher paper with the deftness of a Cuban cigar roller. My dad paid and we headed home with our bounty. That night, the Pincus family feasted like cold cut kings. I think it took me several sittings to finish my hoagie. And I remember it being really, really good. We returned to Greenman's only a few more times after that initial trip... because after a while, the senior Pincus fell back into his old "limited traveling" habits and we found ourselves getting hoagies from someplace closer. Some place not as good.

Last year, I started a new job that takes me to Pennsauken, New Jersey. Every morning, I drive from my suburban home, on a route that snakes through Northeast Philadelphia, and right past Greenman's Deli. Before I began to take this daily commute, I hadn't seen Greenman's Deli in over forty years... maybe even longer. But now, I see it every morning.

And it's sad.

I pass Greenman's at approximately the same time every morning, give or take a few minutes. Sometimes it is open for business. Sometimes the protective security gate is down and locked tight in front of the entrance door.

The windows are dirty. A Dumpster overflowing with trash and flattened cardboard boxes sits just outside the door, next to an ancient ice machine whose painted graphics have faded and peeled over the years. When the security gate is up, the great neon-rimmed clock above the door displays the incorrect time. Sure, it's early in the day, but I have rarely witnessed a customer going in or coming out of Greenman's when sitting and waiting for the traffic light to change. 

I did a little online investigating of Greenman's. I found a bunch of reviews declaring new owners. Most went on to condemn the new management, some sadly and unnecessarily resorting to  a barrage of racist comments. Most also lamented over the steady and noticeable decline in the quality of their signature hoagies. Some cited stale bread, dry corned beef and a lack of vegetables. Others reminisced about the once-great product provided by the long-time, long-missed previous owners. A few reviewers touched on rude treatment from the current owners and staff. While there were some positive sentiment, the overall consensus was that the glory days of Greenman's Deli are gone and will, most likely, never return.

Luckily, there are still plenty of places to get a good hoagie.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com