Sorry, Baltimore, but Philly still rules the cheesesteak world

The big picture: Philly is the cheesesteak capital of the world — but we heard a rumor from our Axios D.C. colleagues that Baltimore is making a case to overtake us.

• Inarguably, here are three reasons why we're still No. 1 — and none of them have to do with how our sammies taste. That's too subjective, and not the best way to settle this debate.

It's no mystery; we've got the history.

Cheesesteaks are more American than apple pie, Uncle Sam and the Fourth of July. You can nom on them at Citizens Bank Park, watching America's pastime.

Flashback: In their purest form, cheesesteaks predate the founding of this country, Philly historian Celeste Morello tells Axios.

• Peggy Mullen, the gumptious wife of the proprietor of Tun Tavern, was slicing and grilling up steak sandwiches in the mid-1700s. The joint became a favorite hangout spot for some of our Founding Fathers, who loved Mullen's sandwiches.

What they're saying: "There was a beef steak society, a supper club," Morello says. "So the tradition was here way before Pat's steaks started."

Zoom in: She was talking about Pat's King of Steaks, the place often credited as the birthplace of the Philly cheesesteak.

• Technically that's right too, since Pat Olivieri took Mullen's steak sandwiches and basically said, "hold my lager," juicing them up with seasonings and a dash of onions while hawking them from his hot dog stand in South Philly starting in 1930.
• Third-generation owner Frankie Olivieri says the cheese didn't come until the 1940s, cementing Philly's lore.

It's not just technical; we've got the spectacle.

Today, some of Philly's most famous cheesesteak-makers — Jim's Steaks, Geno's, et al. — are teaming up, Captain Planet-style, to create the biggest cheesesteak known to mankind, a 1,200-foot sammy, in a made-for-Instagram event that's being livestreamed at Philadelphia International Airport.

• A drone will hover over the snaking train of tables, capturing all the action. It took organizers about a year to plan out the logistics of the attempt, which is being officiated on site by Guinness World Records — part of a weeklong slate of festivities piled higher than an overstuffed sammy.
• The attempt is drawing Super Bowl-like buzz from national and local media, and a bevy of food influencers, Dana Krawchuk, PHL Food & Shops marketing manager, tells Axios.

"We wanted to really do something iconic," she said.

The intrigue: Philly restaurateur Rene Kobeitri helped Philly eclipse the world record for the first time in 2021, when chefs from all over helped create a 510-foot sammy, requiring about 500 pounds of meat and a couple of hours of prep.

By the numbers: This new attempt requires 990 pounds of meat, 1,200 rolls and 225 pounds of Cooper Sharp cheese sauce.

• Cheesesteak connoisseur Jim Pappas — who has eaten at nearly 1,300 cheesesteak establishments and runs an annual March Cheesesteak Madness bracket to crown a new regional champ every year — tells Axios that Balty can't top that.

"If Baltimore wants to try and make a great cheesesteak, God bless them. Good luck," he says, adding they can carve out their own lane by perfecting a surf-and-turf sammy.

• Which leads us to our last point.

We're often imitated, never duplicated.

Salon argued a couple of years ago that Baltimore's cheesesteak is better than Philly's. They complained that ours are too greasy.

• Look, I'm not a greaseball, so I'm not going to begrudge anyone their own personal preferences.

Yes, but: This goes deeper than taste buds.

• There are a lot of impersonators, but there's only one Elvis. Philly is the standard-bearer for great sammies, inspiring chefs from Tacony to Tokyo to create their own concoctions.
• For goodness' sake, we've got a Mafioso-style cheesesteak war raging in the city.

The bottom line: Our sammy has left the building.

• "They should stick to crab cakes, " Krawchuk says of Baltimore. "We own the cheesesteak."