Philly: Expensive Menu, No Credit Card

Everything in this blog is just my opinion, not fact. The views here are mine and not those of any organization, person, or sentient cat. If you take this seriously, that’s on you—proceed with caution and maybe a sense of humor.

So there I was, walking into a pub in Philly—a city where no matter what cheesesteak you went out for it was the wrong one—and asked to see a menu. Seemed like a normal request, right? Wrong. This is Philly. Nothing is normal. A friendly bartender named Mallory handed me a menu, and let me tell you, it read like the pricing strategy of a dystopian Whole Foods. Frozen pizza? $83.12. A bowl of noodle soup? $52.43. Chili? A cool $62.78. And a hot dog—A HOT DOG—$45.17. At this point, I’m starting to wonder if I stumbled into a pop-up restaurant run by the Federal Reserve.

Naturally, my first thought was, “Wow, inflation is way worse than I realized.” Eggs are expensive, sure, but this was next-level. It made me question everything—my finances, my life choices, whether I should trade my non-existent Cyber Truck for a lifetime supply of ramen. But before my existential crisis could spiral any further, Mallory assured me that I wasn’t insane or, worse, that guy. No, apparently some archaic Philly law requires all bars to serve food, and the menu was more of a suggestion than an actual edible offering.

I wasn’t exactly their target demographic at that point—hungry, sober, and mildly terrified of a $45 hot dog—so Mallory, in a display of true Philly grit, sent me down the block to the Race Street Café for dinner.

Race Street was everything you’d want in a neighborhood joint: good food, root beer that makes you feel like a sophisticated 7-year-old, and the kind of vibe where they don’t judge you for forgetting you’re an adult. In a moment of sheer life chaos, I did something I’d never done before: I accidentally left my credit card behind. Because, obviously, I thought my life needed a little more plot twist.

Fueled by carbs and caffeine (not sure if the root beer had any [that's usually only Barq's...] but I was fueled up on coffee too), I headed back to Paddy’s, the pub where this saga began. If you’re wondering what brings a Philly neighborhood together on a Monday night, let me assure you, it’s not love or brotherhood or even the Eagles. No, it’s rooting against the Cowboys, and for whoever they are playing, with the kind of passion usually reserved for revolutions (it’s the historic district after all). This crowd was gritty—and yes, I really thought that to myself, only to have the duh moment of realizing this is the city of Gritty. Philadelphia, thy brand is strong.

For the next couple of hours, I soaked in the jukebox tunes, the banter, and the general vibe of a neighborhood bar that could’ve been the setting for half of Cheers. They even played a couple of Chicago Transit Authority songs just for me, which was either a thoughtful gesture or their way of saying, “We’ll let you have this one, tourist.”

The night ended on a high note—until breakfast the next morning, when I realized my credit card was still at Race Street Café. But in true Philly fashion, the fine folks there casually returned my card, like it was no big deal. They even made me feel like it wasn’t entirely my fault, which is the kind of kindness you don’t expect from a city famous for booing Santa Claus.

To my new friends at Paddy’s and Race Street Café: thanks for the laughs, the tunes, and reminding me why Philly is one of my favorite chaotic corners of the universe. And hey, the Cowboys lost, so it’s a win all around. See you soon, Philly—you quirky, wonderful, gloriously gritty place. You're my kind of town.