Ronnie Celebre — the original owner of Celebre’s Pizzeria in Packer Park — invented this hyperlocal pie in the 1970s as a means of grilled cheese-ifying pizza, layering beefsteak tomatoes and a sprinkle of banana peppers atop slices of white American cheese. The Pizzazz remains one of Celebre’s best sellers, according to current owner Michael Spina, who believes the American cheese adds a sharpness and creaminess that’s worth some skepticism. “When people come in and ask about our best pizza and we say Pizzazz, they look at me and say, ‘American cheese? No, I don’t wanna try that,’” Spina told The Inquirer. “Afterwards, they say it’s one of the best pizzas they ever had.” The Pizzazz remained a South Philly secret until recently, with newer school versions at Northeast Philly’s Cafe Carmela and University City’s Tempo opting for Cooper Sharp to add an extra dose of Philly. Not that the Pizzazz needs it. The pizza is a perfect metaphor for the city: underdog-ish, Italian-ish, and so much better than you expected. — Beatrice Forman

Philadelphia’s broad awakening to the wonders of Georgian cuisine has finally taken root as that country’s distinctive khachapuri — sometimes simply called cheese boats — sailed into the Center City spotlight at Saami Somi in the Reading Terminal Market and charming Kinto in Fishtown. Northeast Philadelphia is the epicenter of the region’s growing influx of immigrants from that former Soviet republic, and sprawling Gamarjoba remains a drive-worthy destination for the best khachapuri in town. The famous canoe-shaped Ajaruli, named for its home region, is notable for the delicate snap and thinness of its crust. Its dough is enriched with enough yogurt and eggs to hold a boatload of blended Georgian cheeses which, when mixed tableside with the raw yolk and butter on top, turn into a luxuriously golden pudding. The Kubdari khachapuri is a double-crusted meat-lover’s beauty filled with cumin-laced minced beef seasoned with garlic salt from Svaneti. The dough for the round Imeruli khachapuri, meanwhile, is completely different, and so is its cheese, a blend of brined sulguni with younger Imeruli, the cheese for which the pie is named. It is essentially a dreamy cheese pizza, but with Georgia’s trademark swagger and tang. — Craig LaBan

The zep is Norristown’s great sandwich flex: hyperlocal, fiercely defended, and absolutely not a hoagie. It may look like one from a distance, but locals know the rules. A proper zep starts on a specialized Italian roll — longer, wider, and squatter than the usual hoagie roll — and is built with one meat (cooked salami), an onion-tomato-oregano balance, and never, ever lettuce. Its origins are murky, with one story tracing the name to zeppelin-shaped rolls after the Hindenburg disaster. What is clear: the zep proves Philly food culture does not stop at city limits. — Michael Klein

The Schmitter is Philadelphia sandwich logic pushed to its most lovable extreme. Created at McNally’s Tavern in Chestnut Hill, it piles sliced beef, grilled salami, cheese, fried onions, tomatoes, and special sauce onto a Kaiser roll, landing somewhere between cheesesteak, burger, deli sandwich, and bar-food fever dream. Our old colleague Steve Lopez once described it as “a steak and salami sandwich that comes with cheese, tomatoes, fried onions, a secret sauce, and a paramedic.” That about covers it. The Schmitter – named after a regular customer’s favorite Schmidt’s beer – made the classic Philly leap: neighborhood tavern oddity to ballpark staple. It is excessive, specific, faintly absurd, and impossible to mistake for anything from anywhere else. In other words, very Philadelphia. — M.K.

Everyone knows it’s peak tomato season in Philadelphia when Middle Child’s beloved BLT, served at both Center City and Fishtown locations, emerges from hibernation. What makes a really good BLT sandwich? Ask owner Matt Cahn, and he’ll tell you it’s the heirloom tomatoes oozing with red juice. The sandwich is made exclusively with tomatoes from Urban Roots Farm. At their peak, the heirlooms are big, plump, soft, sweet, and super juicy — Cahn salts three-quarter-inch cuts and stuffs them in Merzbacher’s rye bread with four to six slices of bacon, arugula dressed in a salted tomato juice vinaigrette, and Duke’s mayonnaise. It’s the sandwich that may have set the trend for the city’s BLT love. “I don’t think I invented the BLT. But I do think that I hyped it up in Philly,” he said. — Hira Qureshi

Georges Perrier put Philadelphia on the national dining map when he opened Le Bec-Fin in 1970. His luxurious galette de crabe was its signature dish. It was inspired by an American crab cake he’d eaten on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, but reimagined through a French haute cuisine lens, suspending jewels of sweet lump crab in a pedestal of ethereally creamy seafood mousse that came glazed in a mustardy mayonnaise over haricot verts arranged in spokes across the plate to recall crab legs. It’s a presentation detail missing from modern tributes like the one currently at Parc, but the dish also lives on elsewhere with Le Bec-Fin alums such as Richard Cusack at June BYOB. The recipe from Perrier’s cookbook is famously finicky for its rigorous attention to temperatures and technique. But its legacy endures in the DNA of Philly’s restaurant scene. — C.L.

Diner culture is vanishing in Philadelphia. We still have the Country Club, which Jack and Miriam Perloff opened on Cottman Avenue in Northeast Philadelphia in 1956, as the area surged amid the postwar housing boom. Operating round the clock for its first several decades, the Country Club was indeed Rhawnhurst’s country club. One of the gifts of membership, if you will, is the cheesecake: dense, smooth and almost fudgy, its outer edge dusted in graham cracker, and not cloyingly sweet. There are always several varieties besides plain (the standby) and chocolate chip (every kid’s favorite). The Perloffs sold the Country Club in 2004 to diner magnate Michael Petrogiannis, who still maintains the bake shop and its case up front between the counter and dining room. The world may be changing, and the diner’s hours are now shorter, but the cheesecake offers the reassuring possibility that no matter when you walk in, something good and familiar will be waiting. — M.K.

The Milan salad has survived on local menus for three decades after its namesake creator closed. It’s a retro chopped salad – a bowl of lettuce (iceberg, of course) with peeled shrimp, bacon, hard-boiled egg, and tomato, tossed in more than enough creamy dressing. The DiBattistas – Jimmy and son Jimmy Jr. – served untold thousands of them at Jimmy’s Milan, the old-school supper club and politico hangout whose 45-year run on 19th Street near Chestnut ended in 1995. Nostalgists say the key was the dressing (equal parts Russian and Italian, according to insiders). The version at D’Angelo’s in Rittenhouse has direct ties to the original because Milan's longtime chef was Tony D’Angelo, brother of owner Sal D’Angelo. You can also order one at the Happy Rooster in Center City (to name another oldtime saloon) and Ryan Christopher’s BYOB in Narberth. Further, Ann Conlin, whose late husband was Jimmy Jr., said she plans to bring her bottled version of the dressing back to supermarket shelves after a few years’ hiatus. — M.K.

There’s matzo ball soup. And then there’s the Famous Chicken Soup at Famous 4th Street Deli, a giant bowl of Jewish comfort that is four soups in one. A planet-size matzo ball enriched with schmaltz comes bobbing in a half gallon of broth steeped from whole chickens and parsnips, along with housemade kreplach dumplings, pasta bowties, and kasha, the toasted buckwheat groats that lend this combo an earthy shtetl note that sets it apart. The bowl is big enough to feed four and has become every bit as iconic as the mile-high pastrami sandwiches that typify the bigger-is-better aesthetic cultivated by Famous’ previous owner Russ Cowan, who, over nearly two decades of stewardship, elevated this century-old deli’s food to a level of quality that puts it on the map as among the best in the country. Cowan sold the deli in 2024 to open Radin’s in Cherry Hill (where he still makes arguably the best version of this mish-mash soup). But Cowan’s legacy and recipes persist here and no doubt played a role in Famous earning a Bib Gourmand from Michelin. The ownership transition has not always gone smoothly, but a promising recent visit felt like the new management was finally bouncing back. This majestic soup was as restorative as ever. — C.L.

A mere $36 buys you a veritable feast at Vietnam Restaurant in Chinatown (which also has a presence in West Philly with Vietnam Cafe). There are crackly fried pork spring rolls (some of Philly’s finest), delightfully rich beef wrapped in grape leaves, grilled meatballs, and chicken dusted with a handful of crushed peanuts. These are all anchored by a cool avalanche of tangled rice vermicelli noodles, fresh lettuce, and mint, and served with chili vinegar and hoisin sauce for dipping. The legendary BBQ platter masquerades as an appetizer sampler for two diners, but good luck saving room for anything else on the menu if you order it. — Kiki Aranita

Dubbed an American Classic by the James Beard Foundation in 2022, Corinne Bradley-Powers’ soul food joint on Haddon Avenue “puts the ‘C’ in Camden,” at least according to Bradley-Powers herself. To hear Bradley-Powers, now 81, tell it, no one wanted to come to Camden when Corinne’s Place opened in 1989. But they did, lulled by her tender ribs and no-nonsense fried chicken, with crackly skin and wings so juicy you can’t help but lick the bone clean. There’s no secret to the fried chicken, Bradley-Powers said, “besides me, the [salt-and-pepper] rub, and the prayer” kitchen staff say after every batch. Devotees know to pair the chicken with a side of collard greens, baked mac-n-cheese, and a complimentary piece of warm cornbread for a timeless Southern plate, but what makes Corinne’s a classic are the stories held inside the dining room’s pink walls. A children’s counselor before becoming a chef, Bradley-Powers preferred to staff her restaurant with neighborhood kids who could use an escape from home. “When those children succeed … when they come up out of here and become doctors and lawyers, that’s my true James Beard award,” Bradley-Powers said. — B.F.

The banh chow salad at Mawn started as a memory. As a child, Chef Phila Lorn had difficulty eating the large coconut milk and turmeric yellow crepes with his tiny hands, so he’d break them up into pieces. This translated into one of the best items on Mawn’s stellar menu. Crunchier than most any banh xeo found in Philly, Mawn’s grown-up version is stuffed with ground chicken and shrimp, topped with peanuts, and served alongside herbs and fresh lettuce. Break the crepe up into salad croutons, like little Phila once did. Its refreshing textures are all different types of crisp and crunch. The salad is just one of the reasons Mawn has become one of the city’s hardest reservations. — K.A.

In Philadelphia, there are Cafe Cuong’s banh mi and then there are all the rest. Don’t get me wrong, the rest are excellent, thanks to waves of Vietnamese immigration to the city. But Cafe Cuong’s are simply in their own solar system. This is a sandwich that could only have been born in Philly, with a crusty, soft Sarcone’s roll, then its smear of secret-recipe mayo. Meatyshredded roasted chicken (or whatever meat you choose — but the chicken banh mi is the best) is tucked into its roll with slivers of pickled daikon and carrot, fresh cilantro, cucumbers, and jalapeno. When the chicken juices meet fresh mayo, the result is ethereal. — K.A.

Once upon a time, Fountain Porter’s burger was the best $5 deal in town. It is now the best $6 deal in town. The bar’s wine and beer lists are esoteric and interesting. It's a precursor to every “listening lounge” in town, an effortlessly cool, unpretentious neighborhood bar. But its cheeseburger makes Fountain Porter one of the most enduring and beloved bars in South Philly. It tastes like a loving dad grilled the burger in the backyard just for you. It has a salty char, and the cheese is melted just enough. It’s served with lettuce and tomato on a potato bun that’s neither too small nor too unwieldy. This is the simplest, most satisfying, and most straightforward burger in the whole city. — K.A.

You can smell the dreamy campfire aroma of garlicky kielbasy slow-cooking in a haze of Jersey fruit wood smoke from blocks away before you get to the low-slung brick facade of Czerw’s in Port Richmond. That’s because one of Philly’s last great kielbasa artisans still makes its all-natural links in the 88-year-old brick smokehouses Jan Czerw built on Tilton Street in 1938. Last year, Czerw’s suffered the death of its third-generation owner, John Czerw, but the shop is still bustling and the sausages are as good as ever, with a bold, deep resonance that’s far superior to mass-produced sausages found in most supermarkets. The smoked and “extra garlic” are the standards, although the Cajun-spiced links and jalapeño-cheddar poppers are ideal for heat-seekers. A fridge case of housemade pierogies and pickles makes Czerw’s a one-stop shop for a proper Polska party. Swiacki Meats just a few blocks to the northeast, is another outstanding traditional Polish butcher with comparable kielbasy. — C.L.

Santucci’s upside-down pizza is one of Philadelphia’s clearest arguments for having its own pizza identity. The formula is instantly distinctive: square pie, cheese first, sauce on top, with a thick, chewy crust built for crisp corners and loyal devotion. It is the sort of pizza locals grow up with and outsiders sometimes need explained, part of its power. This is not Philadelphia imitating New York or Naples. This is Philadelphia doing Philadelphia. Santucci’s, which launched in 1959, became the standard-bearer for the style, turning a Juniata Park specialty into a regional touchstone. Its importance lies not only in flavor, though the brightly sweet sauce and sturdy structure do plenty of work. Upside-down pizza is proof that Philly pizza culture is broader and more self-defined than people elsewhere often realize. — M.K.

This 1920s-themed ice cream parlor in Old City is so historically accurate that tourists and tour guides alike mistake Franklin Fountain as the country's oldest continuously operating soda fountain. In reality, Media-born brothers Ryan and Eric Berley opened Franklin Fountain in 2004 with an eye for restoration; the building and its penny tiles date back to the 1890s. Still, Eric Berley told The Inquirer that he doesn’t mind the misconceptions. For years, people have likened Franklin Fountain’s iconic takeout ice cream and sundae receptacles to Chinese takeout containers. They’re actually replicas of the Progressive Era oyster pails Philadelphians used to carry wet foods in — ice cream included. Berley said Franklin Fountain went through roughly 104,000 of those iconic 8-ounce takeout containers in 2025. The most popular way to fill them is with a junior hot fudge sundae: a single scoop of ice cream topped with whipped cream, hot fudge, and a cherry. The fudge — made in batches three times a week with 63% dark chocolate — and the takeout containers are the most important parts. “The pituitary gland in the brain lights up for cute and small things,” Berley said. “And with the takeout pails, we got lucky that a lot of people think they’re cute.” — B.F.

There are as many variations of Jollof rice as there are home kitchens in West Africa. That diversity is on vivid display in Southwest Philadelphia, where as many as 40,000 people have emigrated chef from the 16 sub-Saharan countries of West Africa, and where I joined locally based Nigerian chef Shola Olunloyo for a Jollof rice crawl through nine restaurants around Woodland Avenue and into Delaware County. At its most elemental, Jollof is rice stewed in flavorful tomato broth, but variations range with types of rice, heat levels, textures, and garnishes. We tasted Mauritanian Jollof with tomatoey tripe stew at African Small Pot and versions in the distinctively red Nigerian style that reminded Olunloyo of home at both Suya Suya and WaZoBia in Collingdale. A standout was found at Lè Mandingue, a longstanding takeout on Woodland Avenue since 2005, where chef-owner Fanta Fofana serves her Liberian-style Jollof in a big aluminum pan seasoned with sumbala (fermented locust beans) that radiates a lasting glow. Order it topped with the restaurant’s grilled lamb dibi, which Fofana deliberately cuts into bony little chunks, “because the bones slow you down and make you take your time.” — C.L.

The fragrant Central Asian rice dish known as plov is the national dish of Uzbekistan, but you can find it at dozens of restaurants in Northeast Philadelphia and nearby suburbs, from the 24-hour Plov House off Bustleton Avenue to Sarmarkand in Feasterville. One of my favorites is still served at Uzbekistan Restaurant, the 20-year-old Uzbek standby where the charcoal-fired kebabs, samsa pastries, and manti dumplings draw crowds to its glassed-in front porch, and a heaping pile of cumin-scented rice plov (or “pilaf” as the menu calls it) anchors virtually every table. The rice steams in layers atop the meat, carrots, and broth bubbling in a kazan (cauldron), where the oil is infused with waves of onions, the rendering of well-marbled lamb breast, a generous helping of cumin, and whole heads of garlic buried deep into the pile. When the plov is done, every grain of rice should be glossy and distinct. There will be tender chunks of slow-braised lamb (or sometimes beef) perched atop. But those meats are mostly tokens of the savoriness they’ve already imparted to the dish. The real treasure are the shiny batons of soft, sweet carrot where all the flavors are steeped into one tender bite. — C.L.

First, let’s get the nomenclature straight. A Reuben is a grilled corned beef sandwich on rye with sauerkraut, while a Rachel – its newer cousin – substitutes turkey or pastrami and coleslaw. Both are topped with Swiss cheese and Russian dressing. Not to slight Hershel’s East Side Deli’s corned beef or pastrami, but its turkey Rachel earns its place in Philadelphia’s food conversation because it takes classic Jewish deli sensibility and plants it squarely inside one of the city’s busiest public stages: Reading Terminal Market. Line up to watch the counter person in action, piling carved-to-order roasted turkey atop the rye, adding cheese, slaw, and dressing in a frenzied burst, and placing the creation on a press. What you’ll get is a sandwich that is rich, tangy, hot, and gloriously overbuilt, and feels like something that requires both appetite and commitment. That is part of the appeal. Philadelphia is a place where hand-carved meat still matters. — M.K.

The menu at this Norris Square institution revolves around the plantain. El Cantinflas goes through 20 pounds of plantains a day, according to head chef Ingrid Ortiz, split between sweet caramelized maduros, deep-fried tostones, and bird’s nest-shaped arañitas made with shoestring-thin shreds of the fruit, among other Puerto Rican snacks. But nothing is more quintessential than El Cantinflas’ staple mofongo, which uses a buttery garlic mojo gravy to keep the mound of mashed and fried plantains incredibly moist. You can order the mofongo on its own or with a side of one of seven meats, including a steel crock of garlicky shrimp and compulsively snackable pork chicharrones. Owned by Migdalia “Daly” Morales, El Cantinflas has stood on the corner of West Dauphin and Hope Streets for more than 21 years, enduring as its neighbors turned over from working class Latino families to luxury apartments, trendy coffee shops, and at one point, even an upscale, short-lived French restaurant from George Sabatino. But if you stick around for a Phillies game, it feels like nothing has changed as reggaetón plays from a jukebox asregulars sip rum and cokes while bemoaning what’s become of Johan Rojas. — B.F.

Beer lovers might know Monk’s Cafe for the impressive selection of craft brews — they’re the farthest east that you can obtain offerings from cult favorite Russian River Brewing, for example. But Monk’s isn’t just an excellent Belgian beer bar, it's also a steadfastly good restaurant. An unassuming spot just two blocks east of Rittenhouse Square, here you can get the best moules frites in town. The mussels come steamed in your choice of five aromatic broths, including Thai curry, a golden ale sauce with chile de arbol and garlic, and a caramelized leek, blue cheese, bacon, and Ommegang Hennepin concoction. It’ll soak up whatever you’re drinking. — Margaret Eby

Philadelphians embrace octopus with an enthusiasm that defies the logic of geography or historic foodways. But one man — Dmitri Chimes — can take credit for jumpstarting this city’s steady craving for the cephalopod in 1990 when he opened Dmitri’s, a tiny Greek seafood grill that became one of the city’s first hit BYOBs. Its Mediterranean simplicity resonated in a big way until its three locations ultimately closed in 2020. But Dmitri’s culinary legacy lives on with the octopus he perfected in Queen Village, where it was simply grilled, sliced into thin rounds, and splashed with olive oil, herbs, and lemon. That accessible presentation had a lasting influence as Philly’s gateway octopus, says Stina chef Bobby Saritsoglou: “If it had been just one big tentacle with suckers all over it, people might have been turned off. ” Stina’s rendition, which is in fact one big tentacle with suckers, gorgeously garnished, is emblematic of the next level of octo-cookery that continues to shine here, from the octopus and beans at Friday Saturday Sunday to the wood-fired whole octopus that’s a modern Mexican showstopper at Amá. “Dmitri’s octopus laid the groundwork for it all,” says Saritsoglou. “That version was the beginning of a love affair.” — C.L.

When married entrepreneurs Marcie Turney and Valerie Safran opened their Mediterranean and wood-fired pizza restaurant Barbuzzo in 2010, it was a single dessert that cemented the Gayborhood spot as an early icon. Enter the salted caramel budino, a not-quite-trifle composed of four layers: a brown butter-and-dark chocolate wafer cookie crumble, caramel pudding, gooey caramel, and a sweet crème fraîche flecked with Maldon salt. Hailed as “arguably one of the best desserts in Philadelphia,” the budino is inspired by Turney’s Gen X childhood when pudding everything — prepackaged cups, poke cakes, pudding pops — was all the rage. “We were looking for something craveable,” Turney said. “And pudding is nostalgic for people.” To date, the budino is Barbuzzo’s best-selling item, according to Turney. The restaurant sold 12,000 of them in 2025 alone. And while the recipe has remained the same, Safran and Turney have played with form over the years. There were dalgona coffees during the pandemic, the cruffins that caused lines around the block, and the fudgy pudding pops, Turney’s favorites. None of them quite topped the O.G. in its cute glass cup. — B.F.

Much has changed in Port Richmond in recent years, where anchors of this historic epicenter of Philadelphia’s Polish community have begun to disappear. But little has changed at Stock’s, a century-old institution that still draws the faithful back with long lines at Christmas for the city’s definitive pound cake, the 2 1⁄2-pound loaves wrapped in white paper the bakery refers to as “bars.” This fifth-generation bakery was founded by Josef Stock in 1924, but the pound cake actually made its debut in 1940 when Stock’s son, Frank, introduced a tweak to the standard recipe that took this icon of home baking to the next level of density and richness. I’m partial to cutting thicker slices of the marbled loaves, whose buttery crumb toasts nicely in a cast-iron pan, as the ideal pedestal for seasonal fruit and whipped cream. Stock’s is still cash-only and does not ship. It also sells one of the best examples of another Philly tradition, the gooey-centered butter cake, which is yet one more reason to pay a visit in person. — C.L.

While some argue that water ice is just rebranded Italian ice (and they’d be very wrong), gelati is a truly Philadelphia treat, sandwiching water ice between custard or soft-serve ice cream. The last sheet of water ice is always topped with a perfectly-coiffed soft-serve swirl, and you’re supposed to eat it straight down the middle to get a little bit of everything — never in layers, or you’ll be hit with a cup of a melted, muddled mess. At most classic cash-only takeout windows, like Pop’s and Jimmy’s and Morrone’s, you’ll have to choose between vanilla or chocolate soft serve, but some newer-school joints are switching things up. At South Philly Ice on East Passyunk Avenue, their bestseller is black cherry water ice topped with bright blue hard Cookie Monster ice cream from Leiby’s Dairy in Schuylkill County, according to co-owner Nikos Antonogiannis. And at Cherry’s Ice Cream & Water Ice in Cherry Hill, three different soft-serve machines are spinning nine different flavors of ice cream, from toasted coconut to a creamy pistachio that pairs well with cold brew water ice for a gelati that’s a Dubai chocolate dupe. Regardless of how you take it, the creamy and fruity treat always tastes like summer. — B.F.

Marinated in garlic sweet soy sauce, the satay at Hardena has been on the menu since its inception. The beloved, late Ena Widjojo would offer the dish at the many bazaars and street fairs before she opened the South Philly restaurant. It was a number one seller back then, and remains as such to this day at the restaurant, which is now run by her daughters. Folks can order chicken, lamb, or tempeh tofu satay topped with their housemade peanut sauce — a recipe that was passed down through generations of the Widjojo family. The satay is just one menu item that demonstrates how Hardena has paved the way for Philly’s recent boom of Indonesian restaurants serving both traditional and fusion items on their menus. — H.Q.

Nothing beats the electric green slush in a cup from Bishos. It’s been on the menu since Zohra Saibi and Bishara Kuttab opened their Palestinian cafe in 2017. Nana in Arabic translates to mint — so the slushie is made from lemon and mint leaves crushed with a housemade simple syrup and slushed together in a machine. It’s a popular drink throughout the Middle East, and at Bishos, it takes the form of a slushie to bring forth the full force of this mixed drink. The husband-and-wife duo added a new flavor last year — strawberry — alongside the original. Whether you’re sipping on the original or the new one, the drink is the perfect companion for perusing the neighboring marketplace filled with Arab spices, nuts, candies, oils, and more. — H.Q.

Freddy & Tony’s has been the center of Centro de Oro since Tony Santiago and his wife, Dhamla, opened up shop on Allegheny Avenue in 1980, serving up platters of piping hot pernil alongside thinly cut tostones and piles of sweet maduros. (The Freddy in the name comes from Tony’s onetime best friend). “We do it old school,” said manager Rob Santiago. F&T’s goes through about 700 pounds of roast pork shoulder a week, he estimated. It’s slow-roasted for 10 hours at a time and seasoned with homemade adobo, its aroma and the sizzle of crackling skin circulating through the dining room to create a slice of Puerto Rico right in North Philly. Philly’s Puerto Rican population grew to become the second largest stateside in the 46 years after F&T’s opened, bringing with it chefs like Bolo’s Yun Fuentes, who have translated the island’s staples into fine dining recipes that sing with local ingredients. But for out-of-towners, there’s simply no place like Freddy & Tony’s: When former Vice President Kamala Harris hosted a roundtable at the restaurant before the 2024 election, they sent her on her way with a plate of pernil and arroz con gandules that she praised in an email sent to staff. Still, said Santiago, pleasing the hometown crowd matters more. “It means a lot to the community,” he said, “to have a place where you can get a taste of what an abuela used to cook.” — B.F.

One of Philadelphia’s most essential dishes, pepper pot, has become nearly extinct in 2026. But it was synonymous with the city in the 18th and 19th centuries, a hearty stew of vegetables and mixed meats, frequently including tripe, glowing with spice from the cauldrons of female street vendors from the West Indies immortalized in engravings chanting “Pepperee-pot! All hot!" Pepper pot shares Afro-Caribbean roots with New Orleans gumbo and was a reflection of colonial Philadelphia as a haven for free Black communities and the tropical foodstuffs that arrived in the port — allspice, habaneros, sea turtles, and pumpkins — on trade ships from the Caribbean. The stunning diversity of recipes, says historian William Woys Weaver in his book, Pepperpot City, is emblematic of Philadelphia’s status as a focal point of the New World melting pot, where the confluence of Black, white, and Creole foodways began to define this newly founded country’s culinary identity. By the time Campbell’s Soup discontinued its canned version in 2010, pepper pot had almost completely disappeared. A recent boost in pepper pot revivals by the chefs at Elwood, Honeysuckle, Studio Kitchen, and Friday Saturday Sunday, however, reassures this Philadelphia birthright is not dead yet. — C.L.

Philly’s snack powerhouse is Herr’s Potato Chips. Sure, they aren’t made in Philly, but you’d be hard-pressed to find a deli or sandwich shop that doesn’t have the bags of salty snacks on offer alongside your meal. The first flavor, BBQ, debuted in 1958 and was followed up by other staples like salt and vinegar. The chips are produced at a potato chip plant in Nottingham, Chester County, where softball-sized potatoes are whittled down into paper-thin chips. For 76 years, Herr’s chips have been a signature brand found across the city. — H.Q

Served on a bed of rice in a plastic pint container, Royal Izakaya’s “industry chirashi” bowl has given those longing for a taste of Jesse Ito’s nearly-impossible-to-get-into omakase a tiny sampling. Composed of off-cuts from that omakase, famous for its extremely high-quality fish, the bowl is a mere $20 and available for delivery on DoorDash (now you know my secret to obtain it). The exact lineup of items and fish changes, of course, but expect odd-shaped pieces of tamago and a symphony of wonderful misfits. — K.A.

The best sandwich in Philly might just be Saad’s chicken maroosh way. It’s unanimous among neighborhood residents, college students, the local Muslim community, and everyone in between that a visit to the West Philly mainstay requires an order of the chicken shish tawook, better known simply as the chicken maroosh. The icon comes together with juicy pieces of grilled chicken, tomato slices, sautéed onions, and snappy pickles packed into a long hoagie roll — the namesake “maroosh way” — then generously drizzled with creamy garlic sauce. — H.Q

This tiny cafe in deep South Philly makes excellent versions of a great many Vietnamese dishes, from banh mi to fried chicken wings to pho, but you, along with most of Philadelphia’s service industry workers, are here for the bun bo hue. Owner Nhan Vo’s bun bo hue is like no other version of the noodle soup in the city. It’s richer, spicier, deeper, perhaps more lemongrass-inflected. Spiked with shrimp paste and fish sauce, it’s got irresistible funk. The rice noodles are bouncy, soaking up the juices of intermingled cubes of pork blood, pigs’ feet, beef brisket, and steamed pork roll. Crowned with slices of raw white onion and fresh scallion, it will warm you from deep within your bones. — K.A.

Few dishes land with the wow factor of the lamb shoulder at Zahav, a massive hunk of bone-in flesh so tender it practically melts when you reach for it with tongs. But the wave-like complexity of its flavors — the deep wood smoke, the sweet-and-sour gloss of chickpeas in pomegranate molasses, the earthy depth of lamb stock — renders it magnetic. It also reflects why chef Michael Solomonov’s modern Israeli cooking has become a national draw. The starring ingredients show off the international collage of flavors that contribute to Israeli cooking, including the Persian influence of crispy turmeric rice. But the dish was born of Solomonov’s formative experiences as an American chef, wood-roasting baby goats during his early days at Vetri, followed by an eye-opening encounter with a bo ssam pork shoulder at Ssam Bar in New York. The notion of such a messy large-format centerpiece was novel in 2008 when Zahav opened. But, accompanied by a parade of seasonal mezze, silky hummus, and fresh-baked laffa bread, it unlocked the whole concept of Zahav’s multi-course “mesibah” sharing experience and marked a major shift in Philadelphia restaurants away from fussy fine-dining to something far more rustic — and also so much fun. — C.L.

Receiving the bread basket at Parc feels like one has struck gold. In recent months, it has made national headlines by the simple virtue of being free but excellent. It’s piled high with generous slices of house-baked baguette, squishy and crusty sourdough, that now viral cranberry walnut bread, and ramekins of cold, salted butter. The cranberry walnut bread is simultaneously tartly sweet, soft, and textured. It, in itself, contains multitudes. The bread beautifully soaks up the gently sweet, beefy broth of Parc’s excellent onion soup gratinee. Use it to swipe the lingering sauces left by pastas.The bread basket has fed veritable generations of Philly’s impoverished artists. — K.A.

The Mink family’s Oyster House earned the distinction as an “America’s Classic” by the James Beard Foundation this year, in part for its role as a final guardian of the fish house tradition that once defined Philadelphia to the world. Among the most iconic of those specialties is snapper turtle soup. This dish has roots in Philadelphia’s colonial past, when 70-pound live green sea turtles would step off ships carrying all manner of tropical produce and spices from the West Indies. Smaller snapping turtles are the norm for the soup now, but you can still taste the echoes of that Caribbean spice trade — a heady current of allspice and clove — swirling through the mahogany broth the restaurant steeps with whole turtles for nearly four hours. There are some other differences in Oyster House’s current snapper soup, served only during the cold months there, and the style that was once standard across Philly in places like the (now long-gone) Bookbinder restaurants. It’s nowhere near as sludgy as the thick brown soups of yore. But the flavors of tradition shine through even more, as well as the velvety softness of the tender meat, helped along by a generous tableside splash of sherry. — C.L.

A few things precede Kalaya, starting with its reputation: the staggering number of national accolades bestowed upon the restaurant and its chef, Chutatip “Nok” Suntaranon; the airy elegance of its sophomore space in Fishtown; and the now-iconic photos of their tiny bird-shaped dumplings and floral electric-blue dumplings, dotted with a bright red chili navel and set atop a tiny slice of cucumber. Kanom Jeeb Nok, the bird-shaped dumplings, a nod to their creator’s nickname meaning “bird,” have bellies stuffed with preserved radish and caramelized cod, little eyes made of black sesame seeds, and beaks of Thai chili. Shaw Muang, indigo dumplings tinged with butterfly pea flowers, are just as intricate and lovely, stuffed with chicken. These dumplings may have their ancestral roots in the royal Thai court, but they are now just as emblematic of Philly’s excellent Thai cuisine. — K.A.

There are a number of newer destinations for Korean barbecue, but none hit the spot like Kim’s Restaurant, Philly’s original Korean tabletop grilling extravaganza in Olney. Kim’s, which opened in 1982 in a converted Silk City diner, is one of the last places in the Philly area diners can still experience galbi grilled over live charcoal flames, not the gas-fueled grills that are now the fire marshal-mandated norm. Kim’s Special Combo for two ($101.99) is the best way to experience the difference. A generous platter of chuck flap, pork belly, and marinated short ribs are sizzled to perfection over a blazing screen inset in the table by an attentive server, who will also make sure you’re fully stocked with lettuce leaves, ssamjang sauce, and watercress salad for wrapping the warm meats into crunchy fresh bundles. A dozen banchan of kimchi-spiced cabbage, cucumbers, daikon, and sesame-splashed tofu add to the parade of bold flavors while two hot stone bowls — one a souffle of steamed egg; the other a bubbling doenjang-jigae soybean soup —- assure no one goes hungry. Kim’s also has an impressive selection of sojus and craft brews, including the unfiltered Korean rice beer called makgeolli, to wash it down. — C.L.

Caphe Roasters completely changed Philadelphia’s coffee scene in three notable ways. First, its Kensington cafe is perpetually busy with a constantly changing menu of drinks that shake up their small-batch roasted coffee with Southeast Asian flavors like Thai tea, tropical fruits like guava and coconut, and even specialty teas. Second, they roast the coffee for cafes and restaurants’ drinks programs around the city. And third, they paved the way for a renaissance of Asian-inflected cafes. All this aside, their coffee beans are simply delicious. They roast beans from Vietnam specifically for ca phe sua, or traditional Vietnamese coffee, bringing out the beans’ almond-esque, chocolatey notes. They also have dark robusta roasts and a medium roast of beans from Sumatra. — K.A.

For a town associated with meaty sandwiches, Philadelphia has a robust and ever-evolving vegan scene, thanks in part to trailblazing chefs Rich Landau and Kate Jacoby, who opened Vedge in 2011. For the past 15 years, Vedge has been serving show-stopping vegan food with many seasonal tweaks to the menu, but the rutabaga fondue has been a staple throughout. Infused with miso, vegan sour cream, potato, and dry white wine, the fondue has a sweet, nutty profile, as complex as the cheese-based kind. Like all the best vegan food, it doesn’t taste like a substitute for an animal-based product or a compromise, but a dish that’s worthy of its own spotlight. — M.E.

Few people talk about roast beef in Philadelphia, even if it was always a traditional staple on the steam tables of local Italian-American banquets. It is the roast pork from those events that has lingered and flourished as a more steady presence, while Philly’s beef sandwich energy has been almost entirely diverted into the cheesesteak. But a few tempting relics of that history remain. None are juicier than Old Original Nick’s Roast Beef at 20th and Jackson, a classic South Philly corner tavern opened in 1938 where massive sides of prime-grade beef are still carved to order. Get the “combo overboard on the out,” with long hots, provolone, and extra trimmings from the roast’s outer edge loaded onto a kaiser roll followed by a thorough drenching of juice. Try to devour it before it dissolves in your hands. It’s so profoundly good that it’s enough to make one believe Philly could have been a great roast beef town if it had really wanted to. A revival of excellent new versions made in Nick’s image, including at Meetinghouse and Wine Dive, suggest it might not be too late.

The best place to buy watermelons during the scorching Philadelphia summer isn’t the local Acme, or even your farmers market. It’s a truck in West Philadelphia, where the Carter family has been selling the choicest, juiciest fruits of the season for 75 years. From April to September, the family sells melons seven days a week, and they offer a variety: orange meat, yellow meat, sangrias, and sugar babies. The family patriarch, Dover V. Carter, a civil rights activist, began the business in 1950, starting in Mantua. They’ve recently expanded to a second spot on 52nd and Pine, and even deliver melons right to your door. — M.E.

There’s one dish at Abyssinia that makes the restaurant a beloved West Philly staple among the plethora of Ethiopian mainstays — including Amsale, Doro Bet, and Gojjo — in the neighborhood. A plate of aromatic tibs — sautéed, bite-sized meat (beef, lamb, or goat) seasoned with herbs, garlic, and onions — served on a fresh blanket of chewy injera brings loyalists back inside the intimate, casual setting time after time. Nothing stops Tedla Abraham's long-standing neighborhood restaurant and bar from being the neighborhood spot — not even a truck ramming into the restaurant's front entrance. — H.Q.

We didn’t know how good we had it. Dollar Dogs are Philly’s entry to 27 Club, suffering an untimely death in 2024 when the Phillies top brass suddenly decided that it was rude to throw hotdogs on the field. To that, I say: How else are you supposed to tell the team to play better? And more importantly, how else are we to enjoy a baseball game now? With full-priced food? Gross. Devised at Veterans Stadium in 1997 as a way to get spectators in stands when the Phils weren’t at their best, Dollar Dog night outlived slumps and victories alike to become a time-honored Philly tradition, complaints about long lines and cold wieners be damned. It was practically a rite of passage to test the limits of how many $1 glizzies you could consume in nine innings, and a way for vibes-focused fans like myself to feel like they finally had their own reason to be there, cheering as loudly as the diehards who keep score by hand. BOGO dogs just don’t hit the same. — B.F.

While the Italian Market may have begun life as an Italian enclave, its demographic has seen seismic shifts over the years, to the great boon of anyone seeking out some of the city’s best Mexican food. Its pinnacle, at least in terms of barbacoa, is South Philly Barbacoa, now housed in Casa Mexico. South Philly Barbacoa has long been deceptively humble, focusing on lamb barbacoa and pancita (a spicy lamb offal sausage). Chef Cristina Martinez is a master and champion not only of impossibly tender, slow-cooked lamb and its rich accompanying consomme, but of corn. South Philly Barbacoa’s masa is made from indigenous corn and pressed into elastic, fragrant tortillas, both at Martinez’s hands, and those at other spectacular Mexican restaurants in Philadelphia, like the conjoined Tequilas and La Jefa. — K.A.

An Italian American specialty in Philadelphia and South Jersey, crab gravy is a red sauce imbued with the subtle brininess of whole crabs. You can find it all over the Jersey Shore when crabs are at their peak, usually in the summertime. The version chef-owner Joey Baldino serves at the Palizzi Supper Club, called simply spaghetti and crabs, is an homage to the classic dish: pasta piled high and topped with whole crab shells, as is tradition dictates. It’s one of the restaurant’s most popular dishes, with gravy finished with brandy, anchovies, wine, and clam juice, an irresistible combo of marinara and the heady flavors of the ocean. — M.E.

Panzarotti have always felt like the Philly region’s answer to the question: What if pizza were more dangerous and more fun? Fried dough stuffed with sauce and cheese sounds simple enough until you bite into one and realize it is basically a hand grenade of molten filling. Back in Puglia, they have roots as a peasant dish. Around 1960, Pauline Tarantini of Camden began frying dough pockets filled with sauce and mozzarella, first selling them for 25 cents. By 1963, she and her family had opened Pizza King in Camden and trademarked the name “panzarotti.” Cherry Hill-based Tarantini Panzarotti sells these crisp, cheap, and portable snacks to the local pizzeria community, where they’ve become a staple at even hip, new shops like Paffuto. The difference between panzarotti and calzones? Panzarotti are smaller, crescent-shaped, and usually deep-fried, while calzones are generally larger, baked (though sometimes fried), and are often filled with ricotta cheese. – M.K.

It took a homegrown canned cocktail to turn Philadelphia away from being Twisted Tea country. Launched in 2021 by the Kensington distillery Stateside, Surfsides are a crushable can of 100-calorie, 4.5% ABV vodka soda and lemonades that taste crisp enough to feel almost hydrating. The cocktail was a recipe for near-immediate success. Stateside went from selling 200,000 cans in 2022 to 11.1 million in 2025. Forbes deemed it the fastest-growing beer or ready-to-drink boozy beverage, but fame has not made Surfside any less Philly, according to co-owners Matthew Quigley and Clement Pappas. The drink is in part inspired by the half gallon jugs of Wawa iced tea Quigley would mix with vodka growing up, and its marketing consistently pulls from our city’s ethos as a hard-partying sports city. Pappas said he knew Surfside made it when he saw hawkers at Citizens Bank Park selling the sunshine-y cans at Phillies games. Now, Surfsides are as ingrained in our culture as Crabfries, thanks to a 15-year Stateside Live! licensing deal in the sports complex, a new Center City headquarters, and the rows of empty cans that litter our stadiums after seemingly every game. Repping Philly “isn’t charity work,” Pappas said. “This is where we live. And it’s where we want to be.” — B.F.

Not all roast duck in Philly’s Chinatown is roasted equally. In the past two years, we have seen an expansion of duck styles, as newer restaurants introduced different approaches to Peking duck and older ones like M Kee kept making Hong Kong-quality Cantonese roast duck. But what makes roast duck so special to the Philly region is that the majority of the ducks come from right nearby, from the Jurgielewicz farm, a fourth-generation family farm that has been in operation for almost a century. These are ducks that have led happy lives, nurtured and pampered, right up until slaughter and transport to Chinatown. — K.A.

Gusts of wind frequently waft trash around South Philly and nary a breeze goes by that doesn’t contain wrappers from Goldenberg’s Peanut Chews candy. Despite this being a somewhat vintage candy — they were born in 1917 — consumption rates in Philly are still very high. Peanut Chews are a mystical union of chocolate (either dark or milk), peanuts, and molasses. They’re sort of like Snickers but crunchier, flatter, and less chewy and cloying. Originally a military ration bar for U.S. troops in World War I, the full-size bars were shifted to small pieces, able to be consumed in a few bites, in 1930. Nearly 100 years later, these little candies are still going strong. — K.A.

A fish hoagie is, technically, chopped fried whiting, melted American cheese, and crunchy vegetables stuffed into a long roll. But it's also the “intersection of the cheesesteak, the hoagie, and the Nation of Islam,” according to writer Max Johnson Dugan, who had his first one at Sister Muhammad’s Kitchen and Bakery in Nicetown. Owner Sister Sharon Muhammad and her late husband, Brother Abdul Rahim Muhammad, ran the institution from 1999 until 2022, where the sandwich reigned supreme. The Muslim fish hoagie, an adaption of the Italian American classic sandwich, is part of a long tradition of Black and Muslim dishes in the city — from salmon cheesesteaks to navy bean pies — that stretches back decades. Sister Muhammad traces the sandwich back to the pita-based “fish in a pocket,” a sandwich that was popularized by Nation of Islam establishments in New York City, later taking on its Philly form with Muslim chefs in Philadelphia innovating the sandwich by adding raisins and rebranding the special sauce as “Muslim sauce,” Dugan explained. While it is no longer available in Nicetown, the legend persists with variations found across the city such as the ones at Saad’s Halal and Jordan Johnson — H.Q.

Philadelphia has become all the more flavorful thanks to the arrival of 35,000-plus immigrants from Mexico over the past quarter century, and no dish tells that story — and the emergence of “Puebladelphia” — more vividly than mole poblano. Most of this community has origins in the state of Puebla and, in particular, the tiny village of San Mateo Ozolco, where this intricate pre-Columbian stew of chilies, fruits, nuts, and chocolate is essential. Every family-owned restaurant has its own rendition, but my favorite remains the sublimely balanced version at appropriately named Mole Poblano. One of the original anchors of Calle Nueve, it was launched in 2012 by brothers Pedro and Javier Ríos as a platform for their parents, Ines Sandoval-Pérez and Pedro Ríos-Hernandez. The parents have since returned to San Mateo, but Ines still crafts the base regularly in Puebla and ships it to Ninth Street, where it’s blended with fresh stock and simmers whole chickens until tender, and glazes enchiladas, tamales, and fluffy eggs. Try the sauce at some other favorites, including Tlali in Upper Darby, and South Philly standbys such as El Chingon, Tamalex or San Miguelito, each of which has its own story to tell. — C.L.

In Philadelphia, Zitner’s Butter Krak Eggs do not simply show up before Easter; they announce it. Generations have hunted for the familiar boxes, homing in on them as if spring depends on them. Butter Krak is dark chocolate enveloping a fluffy center of buttercream, long-shredded coconut, and toasted coconut. Rich without being heavy, it lands somewhere between a Cadbury egg and a Mounds bar, with the toasted coconut adding an almost caramelized finish. Their temporary absence stings while the century-old Zitner’s sets up its new factory in Montgomery County. But the attachment is bigger than one missed Easter. When Zitner’s returns, Philadelphia will know exactly what to do. — M.K.

Marc Vetri was raised on the Italian Market classics of meatballs and eggplant parm. But when he returned to Philadelphia in 1998 to open Vetri, he was determined to showcase dishes that better reflected what he’d eaten and cooked in Northern Italy. His spinach gnocchi, perfected just before opening in the storied townhouse at 1312 Spruce St., still exemplifies that spirit. These airy orbs of puréed greens just barely bound with ricotta — far lighter than the usual potato — are so delicate they melt away like a dream. There are other notable signatures on Vetri’s menu, including boar ragù, baby goat, and his sweet onion crêpe. But none carry the game-changing surprise factor of texture, richness, and intensity of flavor these gnocchi deliver. They are also the ultimate vehicles for the sage-infused brown butter sauce that also immediately set Vetri apart from Philly’s red gravy roots and helped launch Philadelphia’s modern Italian era. You’ll find similar ricotta-based dumplings across town these days referred to as “gnudi,” including at Vetri’s more casual pasta bar, Fiorella. But none surpass the original spinach beauties that launched Vetri’s star as one of the city’s most influential chefs from day one. — C.L.

Philadelphia’s historic Fish House Punch is patient zero of all the best fruity and boozy mixed drinks — Surfsides, Fishtown Iced Teas, and homemade Jungle Juices included. The historic punch was created in 1732 at the State of the Schuylkill, a secretive members-only club for the Quaker elite in what’s now Bensalem’s Andalusia neighborhood. No one quite knows the original recipe, but historians say it boils down to something like this: sugar, lemon peels and juice, Jamaican rum, cognac, boiling water or black tea, and a splash of brandy mixed together in a big punch bowl over ice with a garnish of grated nutmeg. The citrusy concoction was reportedly so good it once caused George Washington to go on a three-day bender. “He who sips for the first time imagines that he has been made immortal by the ambrosia of the gods,” the New York Times wrote in 1896. You can still get modern adaptations of Fish House Punch in Philly today, like during happy hour at historical cocktail bar 1 Tippling Place or as an off-menu drink at Oyster House, a Philly icon in its own right. — B.F.

Pete Ciarrocchi certainly was not the first person to sprinkle crab seasoning over an order of crinkle-cut fries, as he started doing in 1982 at his parents’ corner bar in Tacony. But he was the first to trademark “Crabfries,” and woe betide the restaurateurs who crib that name for their menu. Crabfries are less about crab seasoning than about attitude. People eat the salty snack from Chickie’s & Pete’s locations all over — stadiums, concerts, the airport, casinos, down the Shore — swiping them through little plastic cups of molten white cheese. Crabfries may not be heritage food in the old, Philly immigrant-neighborhood sense, but they are one of those rare dishes that instantly scream “Philly.” Mention them anywhere in the region and people know exactly what you mean, what they taste like, and where they first fell for them. — Michael Klein

Irish Potatoes, in the Philadelphia context, are neither Irish nor made of potato, both surprising facts to those unfamiliar with the seasonal regional candy. Rather, around St. Patrick’s Day every year, boxes of these truffle-like confections — made of coconut, sugar, and cream or cream cheese, then rolled in cinnamon to resemble a russet potato — start popping up in Philly-area grocery and convenience stores. Their history is murky. Irish potatoes started appearing in Philadelphia in the mid-1800s or early 1900s, alongside waves of Irish immigration to the area. Whatever their roots and rough aesthetics, they’re delicious — and a uniquely Philadelphian treat. — M.E.

It’s bitter. It’s brash. But it’s also hard not to love once you get to know it. Could there be a vegetable more Philadelphian than broccoli rabe? “It’s an acquired taste, for sure, but especially if you’re Italian,” says chef Joey Baldino of Palizzi Social Club and Bomb Bomb Bar & Grille, who grew up eating broccoli rabe sandwiches at his grandfather’s tavern. Baldino’s dad used to forage wild versions of rabe in FDR Park in the 1950s and sautee them in olive oil and garlic. (To blanch or not is the subject of endless debates.) An estimated 80% of the national crop is now grown in California for the Andy Boy brand by D’Arrigo Bros., whose 1940s patent renamed its “rapini” seeds as “broccoli rabe.” More than half of D’Arrigo’s crop is shipped to the Mid-Atlantic and its large concentration of families with Italian roots. But one can argue our sandwich culture takes broccoli rabe fervor to unparalleled heights. Broccoli rabe is part of the Holy Trinity of Philly sandwich toppings, along with long hots and provolone, and brings the perfect peppery note to counterbalance a roast pork, cheesesteak, or chicken cutlet. And as Baldino says, “the more bitter the better.” — C.L.

Everyone comes to Pho 75. Its customers are a cross-section of Philadelphia, coming for its robust, aromatic, beefy pho. It’s a favorite of local chefs, families looking for a quick and affordable meal, and soup enthusiasts of all stripes. The broth strikes a perfect balance of herbaceous and meaty, salty and sweet. Unlike other pho joints in the city, at Pho 75 there are no distractions. No appetizers, no banh mi, no rolls, just steaming hot pho. The beef is exceptionally tender, the tripe is bouncy and clean, and the piles of basil and bean sprouts are always fresh. Dive in and focus on this pho, and tailor it to your liking, whether you’re a meatball person, a simple pho tai person, or you want everything (order number 1). Sauce your always-perfectly portioned bowl to your tastes and remember to bring cash. — K.A.

In a city packed with Italian restaurants, Villa di Roma remains a red-gravy favorite for a reason. The Italian Market spot’s atmosphere is casual, the helpings ample, and the wine list an afterthought. Any local will have a favorite order, but the star of Villa di Roma’s culinary offerings is, without a doubt, the meatballs. They’re all-beef (sourced from Italian Market neighbor Esposito’s), tender, flavorful, about the size of a billiard ball, and served in the house’s signature gravy. I’ve ordered just meatballs, salad, and tiramisu at the bar, and it makes for a perfect solo dinner. You can even grab some to go, if you’re so inclined. —M.E.

La Colombe’s Draft Latte is a modern Philadelphia success story with a pull tab. It took frothy, stylish cold coffee — once the exclusive province of the cafe counter — and made it portable, branded, and endlessly copied. Todd Carmichael, who cofounded La Colombe near Rittenhouse Square in 1994, developed a draft system for the cafes in 2015 to end those “watered-down” iced lattes once and for all. He infused cold-pressed espresso and milk with nitrous oxide in a keg, mimicking the airy texture of freshly whipped milk on cold brew. A year later, he introduced the drinks in special cans and the drinks went national. In late 2023, he and partner J.P. Iberti sold La Colombe to Chobani for $900 million. The can speaks to today’s food economy: design-conscious, quality-minded, and smart enough to travel. In a canon crowded with sandwiches, snacks, and bakery loyalties, draft latte earns its place by proving Philadelphia can produce contemporary icons, too. — M.K.

Stromboli is the Philadelphia region’s great pizzeria workhorse: less glamorous than pizza and less argued over than the hoagie, but every bit as useful. It’s not to be confused with a calzone or panzarotti, another Italian delicacy perfected in the Philadelphia area. The stromboli goes back to 1950 when Nazzereno “Nat” Romano of Romano’s Italian Restaurant & Pizzeria in Essington rolled dough around ham, salami, cheese, and peppers — no tomato sauce within — and baked it. His future son-in-law named the turnover for the hot Ingrid Bergman movie that was shocking audiences at the time. The stromboli stuck because it solved a problem: cheap, filling food that traveled well, reheated easily, and fed a crowd. Other shops have picked it up over the years, but Romano’s still gets the glory, especially after winning Herr’s Flavored by Philly potato chip contest in 2024. The stromboli is unmistakably Delco — sturdy, shareable, and built to last. — M.K.

Pork scrapple is the meat equivalent of “No one likes us, we don’t care.” Sure, you can get it all over the state, but Philly is one of this meat medley’s biggest champions. It’s a particularly popular breakfast option. To make it, pork byproducts are blended with cornmeal into a creamy inner texture and like other mystery meats (say, SPAM), they come out really delicious when cooked properly — sliced and then griddled until crispy. This humble product even fascinates restaurant chefs, like Enswell’s Andrew Farley, who makes a stunningly delicious mushroom scrapple from local mushrooms that taste confusingly exactly like really good pork-based scrapple. — K.A.

It’s a Krimpet, not a crumpet, and if you didn’t know that, you are not a Philadelphian. Every city has its beloved snack cake. Philadelphia’s signature comes from hometown hero Tastykake, which unveiled them in 1927. A Krimpet is a soft sponge cake with crimped sides. They’re baked in long strips, topped with thick icing, and wrapped in plastic (it used to be waxed paper), engineered for lunchboxes, corner stores, school cafeterias, and late-night kitchen raids. The butterscotch version is the bestseller, though jelly-filled is a strong runner-up. Tastykake also deserves flowers for its Peanut Butter Kandy Kakes — a similar sponge cake, layered with peanut butter, cut into discs, and covered in chocolate.— M.K.

Is the 6-inch Wawa Shorti the best hoagie you’ll ever have? No. But it’s the one you’ll probably have most often: after a night out, before your kid’s soccer game, at the beach, or on road trips. Wawa is likely the biggest domestic exporter of Philadelphia culture, no matter how hard the Delaware County-based convenience store chain wants to distance itself from the city, between closing stores and letting employees in other regions call the sandwich — ugh — a “sub.” The chain has 1,200 stores across 13 states and Washington, D.C., but the Shorti launched in Philadelphia with a literal party. The sandwich was introduced in 1992, the same year Wawa started Hoagie Day by handing out free Shortis before the Fourth of July (former Mayor Ed Rendell even declared it a citywide holiday). Sure, some argue the quality of the sandwiches has gotten worse over time but a good Shorti is a Goldilocks: not too big, not too small, and just right when stuffed with all the Italian hoagie fixings. Even at its most mid, the Shorti has inspired songs and powered Phillies playoff runs. Schwarberfest makes any Wawa hoagie taste a little better. — B.F.

Pok! Pok! Pok! Do you hear the thump pulsing through the aisles of the Southeast Asian Market in FDR Park? That’s the sound of wooden pestles pounding shredded papaya salads into zesty submission with fish sauce, peppers, eggplants, and salted crabs. “How many chiles? How sour do you want it?” a vendor asks, customizing the heat, spice, and tang for each customer as a long line waits patiently. Few dishes are as emblematic of the diversity and bold flavors that fuel the SEA Market as papaya salad, known as bok lahong in Khmer, or som tum in Thai. That’s in part because this cold salad is prepared to order, but also because it is shared by most of the cultures represented here, albeit with a different balance of seasonings depending on whether it’s ordered in the Cambodian, Lao, Thai, or Vietnamese style. Heat levels can escalate swiftly, so first-timers can request some dried chilies on the side to modify their own spice — then head directly to a nearby stand for a quenching cup of fresh-squeezed cane juice. — C.L.

Cannoli are more than a pastry. They are one of Philadelphia’s edible heirlooms, embodying everything you want from an old-line bakery: consistency, craftsmanship, and the reassuring sense that some things do not need updating. To get to the center of this Sicilian-rooted treat, head to South Philly, where bakeries still pipe the bubbly, crispy shells to order with ricotta filling. Rivalries are fierce. Some swear by Isgro, where they’re still made on Mario Isgro’s original Carrara marble table. To others, Termini Bros.’ sweeter version is the standard. Others crave Rim Cafe’s maximalist versions dipped in pistachios, mini chocolate chips, or both, and still others head to Varallo Bros., which offers a variety including one in which the ricotta is blended with whipped cream and herbaceous Strega liqueur, and then piped into a chocolate-dipped shell. The only wrong answer is calling them all the same. – M.K.

Soft pretzels’ roots stretch back to German-speaking Europeans, who brought the tradition to Pennsylvania in the 1700s. But Philadelphia turned the pretzel into something different. They became an urban working-class staple — a cheap, filling snack you buy in multiples from a street cart, a Wawa, or some guy standing near traffic. Unlike the puffier, butter-drenched belly bombs from Auntie Anne’s, the Philly pretzel evolved into flatter, denser, figure-8 loops with a firmer texture and more salt. It just needs mustard, preferably yellow, and maybe a napkin if you’re feeling fancy. A good one has some pull to it. A bad one is still useful, which is more than you can say for most snacks. It can be breakfast, lunch, after-school food, office bait, or something to eat in the car while pretending you’re not getting salt all over yourself. It’s not elegant. It’s not precious. It’s ours. – M.K.

Sure, the City Wide is just a shot of liquor and a beer, but it’s the most efficient and cost-effective option to catch a buzz at just about any bar in Philly. The humble one-two punch’s origins trace back to the South Street dive Bob & Barbara’s, which has been serving a shot of Jim Beam and a PBR as a package deal since at least the mid-1990s. There, the duo is affectionately called the “Special” and prices have climbed from $3 to $5 over time. But the City Wide is called the City Wide for a reason: It’s ubiquitous. The pairing is also customizable, and a way to immediately sum up a bar’s vibe. At the newly 25+ Dirty Frank’s, you can order it with a can of Hamm’s. At heavy metal bar Doom, it’s an $8 Budweiser and a shot of tequila. And at fancier joints like Fishtown’s R&D and Little Walter’s, the combos are a $15 Guiness with a shot of small-batch Teeling Whiskey and a $16 can of Polish źubr lager with a shot of żubrówka rye vodka, respectively. The City Wide is also Philly’s version of the hemline index for the economy: When times are good, the combo hovers around $5 on average. When times are bad, it creeps up. Right now, the special averages just under $7. — B.F

The long hot pepper is the signature spice of the Phila-talian pantry. These slender, finger-like chilies are most commonly grown from a variety of cayenne and are rarely fermented, unlike equally ubiquitous pickled cherry peppers. The long hot’s appeal comes from the distinctive character of the fresh pepper itself, whose vegetal green notes turn earthy once roasted in olive oil. Adding one is the Philly equivalent of hitting the flavor volume boost button, dialing up a fiery liftoff for any roast pork, hoagie, or chicken cutlet sandwich, a prickle of heat to pizza toppings or simmering red gravy, or stuffed lengthwise with prosciutto and provolone. It’s always a toss of the dice when you lay a pepper on that roll, because sometimes it brings a whisper of heat, but more often a whipcrack of fire, with an inevitable reverb of uncomfortable penance a few hours later. I nonetheless find them impossible to resist. Now that the long hot has made the leap from its sandwich counter roots to mainstream condiment — as fiery pesto, cream cheese bagel schmear, Jawndiment mayo, and now a potato chip flavor — its impact as a Philly icon only grows. — C.L.

Philadelphia’s greatest hot sandwich? It isn’t the cheesesteak. It’s a crusty long roll stuffed with juicy roast pork, provolone, and greens. This isn’t a hot take. The pork sandwich came first. Steaming pans of roast pork fragrant with garlic and herbs were mainstays at wedding parties and banquets for the Italian immigrants who settled in South Philadelphia in the late 19th century, and that community adapted whole pig porchetta to a sandwich-friendly staple in delis across town. The advent of the steak sandwich in 1930, and the instant gratification of its short-order sizzle, overtook labor-intensive pork as the Philly street food with the broadest appeal. But the tradition persists as an underdog favorite at iconic destinations such as John’s Roast Pork, the 96-year-old shack that makes my platonic ideal of the classic shaved pork, as well as the wine-braised pulled pork variation at Tommy DiNic’s counter in the Reading Terminal Market. There’s been a surge of compelling new entries of late, at Dolores’ 2Street, a.kitchen, Meetinghouse, and Bomb Bomb Bar & Grill, whose chef Joey Baldino also recently collaborated with Mexican chef Frankie Martinez at Amá on an Italian roast pork and provolone tamale with long hot salsa. Is this century-old classic finally poised for its modern glow-up? It’s long overdue. — C.L.

Whether the tomato pie is ultra thin and forged in Cacia Bakery’s ancient ovens, airy and focaccia-esque like Brass Monkey Bread’s, or gorgeously almost-gelatinous like Pizzeria Beddia’s, it’s one of Philadelphia’s most defining dishes. Born in the early 1900s in Italian bakeries in South Philly, this square, cheeseless pie has now been served by the slice for over a century by bakeries like Iannelli’s, Sarcone’s, and Tacconelli’s. Its ancestor is the thick and spongy Sicilian sfincione (which unlike most tomato pies, is finished with a hard, dried cheese). Tomato pie is simple: tomato sauce and dough, sometimes with a smattering of dried oregano. But it is constantly being redefined by new school bakers like Downtime Bakery and Machine Shop. It’s a modern classic, like the pies sold retail and wholesale by Liberty Kitchen, with an optional topping of white anchovies. And yet, like pretzels, it’s an old stalwart, there to fill you up at any temperature, soak up the booze, and anchor the potluck. — K.A.

The cheesesteak, much like the city in which it was invented, is a working-class sandwich. Its rugged beauty is in its simplicity. Three simple ingredients that coalesce into a hearty, tasty answer to a blue-collar worker’s lunchtime quandary. It’s not expensive, it fits easily between the hands, and has traditionally supplied a lot of protein to roofers, electricians, and mail carriers. Along the way it became a symbol of Philadelphia, just like the broken bell that can’t ring. Over the years, lesser versions have become tourist fodder. But at its best, like offerings from John’s Roast Pork, Angelo’s, or Shay’s, it's an authentic taste of home: a fresh-baked roll worth its salt, tender meat with taste, and cheese that doesn't soak the whole thing into submission. In other words, a long-rolled reminder of life’s redeeming qualities. — Tommy Rowan

Nearly every culture has its version of ice, water, sugar, and syrup or fruit — Japanese kakigōri, Puerto Rican piragua, and Filipino halo-halo, to name a few. But only water ice captures the beauty of a Philadelphia summer. The treat traces its roots to the waves of Italian immigrants who landed in Philly in the 1900s and the granita recipes they brought with them. Over time, the texture became creamier and more stirrable, with adventurous flavors, from the electric Shirley Temple at D’Emilio’s Old World Ice Treats to the cantaloupe at Siddiq’s Real Fruit Water Ice and the seven-layer birthday cakes at South Jersey’s The Water Ice Factory. While nothing beats a classic cherry or lemon ice in a dixie cup at Italian-American joints like John’s and Pop’s in South Philly, there’s comfort in knowing you can walk along a boardwalk down the Shore or a strip mall anywhere in the U.S and get a sweet taste of home — even if it’s from a Rita’s. At least the Bensalem-based chain still uses the same formulas as it did when it was just a Philly thing. — B.F.

The hoagie is Philadelphia’s most complete food expression: humble but exacting, commonplace but deeply personal, mundane enough to seem simple until you realize everything that’s at stake. Bread matters. Oil matters. The cut of the meat matters. The proportion of lettuce, onion, tomato, and peppers matters. Everyone has a favorite shop, a preferred build, a strong opinion about who gets it right, and even where the name comes from. That is precisely why the hoagie is essential. It is not just a sandwich; it is a shared local language. Philadelphia claims it not because nobody else stuffs deli meat into an Italian roll, but because the region shaped the form, named it, and built a culture around it. The hoagie reflects the city’s Italian American roots, its corner-store economy, and its love of portable food that still deserves care and craft. But it has also become a template: something newer Philadelphians can adapt, reinterpret, and make their own. The fish hoagie, the Vietnamese hoagie — banh mi, by another local name — and countless other variations show how the form keeps moving as the city changes. That makes the hoagie more than a relic of old Philadelphia. It is a marker of the city’s evolving demographics, a sandwich sturdy enough to hold tradition and flexible enough to absorb new flavors. It is the order people miss when they move away. It is the order that proves where you are. It is Philadelphia in two hands. – M.K.