The McDonald's Philly Cheesesteak Sandwich

Were it not for an aged driver cutting me off I would never have tried the McDonald's Philly Style Cheesesteak.

Okay, that's not true. I'm a sucker for advertising and against my better judgement – and the wishes of loved ones – have tried such fast food fare as the Cajun Filet-O-Fish, McGriddle, Burger King Grilled Baguette, McDLT and other "limited items" but only after being bombarded with ads.

But on a trip up to NJ, I was forced past the Wawa (an East coast chain of convenience stores with great hoagies and the world's best lemonade iced tea) and had to find the closest eatery before my stomach actually started eating itself.

The result? The Golden Arches. Passing up usual faves like the Quarter Pounder with Cheese, Cheeseburger Value Meal or the go-to Filet-O-Fish I ordered a McDonald's Philly Cheesesteak wondering aloud, "How bad can it be?"

Answer? Pretty damn bad.

I knew I was in trouble the moment I pulled the cardboard container from the bag and a steady stream of grease poured out the bottom and onto my hands, jeans, driver seat and steering wheel. Desperate attempts to control the grease spill were disastrous and only succeeded in spreading the oil slick around the car.

I finally pulled over into a shopping center and examined the offending food item. Filled with chewy, grisly meat, limp onions and slabs of pasteurized processed "American" cheese food product, it barely had a passing resemblance to a true South Philly Cheesesteak. (Sort of like Don Swayze. You know there's some relation, but it's just, well, off.) The roll – key to any real cheesesteak – pretended to be of the Amoroso's variety, but was completely missing the bite of Delaware Valley water that gives Philly-area bread its distinct flavor and texture.

After quickly wolfing down the sandwich in an attempt to contain the greasy odor permeating the interior of the car, I found myself unable to eat more than a handful of the accompanying fries. Within a few exits, I was less concerned about the giant grease stain on the front of my jeans than with the sharp pain that was stabbing and jabbing its way around my guts. "This," I thought, "must be how it feels to be filled with black stuff and about fifty Slim-Jims."

While the dogs at my niece's house loved my new cologne – resulting in the hopefully short-lived nickname "Uncle Cheesesteak Pants" – it took two washes and an overnight soaking with Shout! to remove the memory from the front of my jeans. Now, if it only worked so well on my brain...

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