A Philly original, LaSpada's, brings the hearty beef sandwiches and other regional fare to Dunedin.
By CHRIS SHERMAN
Published September 4, 2003
[Times photo: Douglas R. Clifford]
Philly cheesesteak goes with Tastykakes, Herr's potato chips and Hank’s soda pop.
A colleague once proposed a law that would prohibit diners from eating food that originated outside their area code. Severe and impractical, this harsh judgment was understandable from a Baltimorean fed up with puny impostors masquerading as "Maryland crab cakes."
His reaction, however, distills the dilemma of beloved regional foods, aggravated by the migration of a mobile society. Is the spread of foods from home a matter of pride or embarrassment? Are we pleased when faraway places discover the joys of a local treat or forced to compare it to the cheese-covered standard in our hearts?
Buffalo, N.Y., still owes the Anchor Bar for turning chicken wings into decades of good ink. New York pizza and creole gumbo fall in the abused category, just as the crab cakes of Chesapeake Bay. Yet homesick fans of North Carolina barbecue, Cincinnati chili and loose-meat sandwiches are delighted when anyone gives them a try. And some of the true treasures of American eating, spiedies, salt potatoes and gooey butter cake can still only be found in their home area codes, which may be among the best reasons to visit Binghamton and Syracuse in New York and St. Louis.
Ultimately we would probably rather have our bagel - and trash it, too. Acceptance and criticism give us two opportunities for hometown pride: the former because the locals know our specialty is worth duplicating, and the latter, because the original remains best.
But even imitation feeds emotional hunger.
Where to place Philadelphia's noble cheesesteak in this spectrum? Or a sandwich shop like LaSpada's?
A place where that kind of question is as out of line as "Who's Larry Bowa?" One innocent in line asked that one while looking up at the Phillies game on TV.
His pal's first reaction was disbelief. "No cheesesteak for you," he mocked before reciting Bowa's stats as skipper and one-time shortstop.
"I just don't follow the Phillies, I didn't mean any disrespect to this place," his buddy said.
None taken. You can ask if this is the best Philly cheesesteak in town, but then they argue about that in Philly, too. If you decide the answer to that question in Philadelphia is Pat's, Geno's or Jim's, then LaSpada's may not be your perfect cheesesteak. But if you focus on Pennsylvania's Delaware County and say LaSpada's in Aston or Parkside, then LaSpada's in Dunedin is as good as you'll get.
And that's very good by my standards. The Dunedin shop serves a big sandwich with a heap of beef on a roll of thin crust and dense interior perfect for catching all the grease.
There may be the quibble. LaSpada's may not always be juicy or, let's be honest, greasy enough. Myself, I think the sandwich is best made for takeout; wrapped up tight, forcing the bread, cheese and steak to get to know each other better. There's more on the menu, even salad, although I'm not sure why. Fries are crisp and best spiced with Old Bay, and hoagies, by which Philadelphians mean something like Cubans, are good. I can vouch for the Italian special and, get this, the Nigerian, a protein-loaded roast beef and turkey hoagie that probably did not come from a sub shop in Little Lagos. (Inquiring culinary linguists want to know.)
A good cheesesteak is made with love and a hunger for home that tries to honor, if not replace, a taste that's been lost.
More important, it has the requisite Amoroso rolls, beef and cheese goo trucked down from Philly along with Herr's potato chips, Hank's sodas and Tastykakes (lots of butterscotch krimpets but no coffee cake) for dessert. The last cupcakes won't win over fans of Little Debbie's sweet nothings-but-calories, yet that's the point. In the days before homogenized national brands, every region had its favorites.
Maybe the taste varied only slightly, so's only a homeboy would know, but cities and regions did have their bread bakers and cookie makers, potato chip factories and pop bottlers. Pennsylvania was fortunate in chips and soda; indeed it invented root beer. Hank's is a touch too minty for me, but it has a head that would outlast a keg of Guinness and a creamy texture that shows up even better in birch beer and Wishniak Black Cherry (don't squirm, you'll love it). LaSpada's has most of them, but sadly not Hank's creme soda and orange cream.
The hometown foods we love, by the way, aren't home cooking. Chicago dogs, Carolina barbecue, New York egg creams, Montreal beef and cheesesteaks were made in restaurants, not by Mom or Dad. They were lunchtime food for working people or afternoon snacks, simple, inexpensive and often for big appetites, eaten in humble places and served in large quantities, often meat and potatoes you can eat with your hands.
Enough cheesesteak fans have found LaSpada's to keep the doors open seven days a week and a crew busy delivering brown bags stained with nostalgia.
The place itself sits in the strip-sprawl spreading west from U.S. 19 where small entrepreneurs are often lost amid the chains. (Look closely and you'll find Anna's Polish Deli across the street.) But then, there's nothing glamorous about Rust Belt suburbia, either.
LaSpada's Original Steaks and Hoagies
1737 Main St., Dunedin
(727) 738-4700
Other locations: Delaware County, Pa.
Hours: 10 a.m. to 9 p.m. Monday through Saturday; noon to 6 p.m. Sunday
Details: No alcohol, no credit cards; wheelchair accessible
