Patrick Kavanagh's, Carl's Steaks

497 3rd Ave. (33rd St.), 212-889-4304

507 3rd Ave. (betw. 34th & 35th Sts.) 212-696-5336

What was your favorite when you lived there?" my pal asked.

"The place that used Cheez Wiz," I answered.

"They all use Cheez Wiz, you fucking idiot."

"Oh."

Truth is, though I lived in America's most hostile city for more than a year, I can count the number of authentic Philadelphia cheese steaks I've eaten on one hand. I don't understand why that is-so delicious, so greasy, they're the perfect hangover meal. Considering the frequency of my hangovers during my time there, you'd think I would've eaten twice my weight in the damn things.

Last week, a friend invited me to join him for dinner at his favorite cheese-steak spot, Carl's on 3rd Ave. First we were to meet for drinks at an Irish pub just down the road at 33rd St. I hate to say anything bad about Patrick Kavanagh's; it's a fine place, the kind of dark-wood, dimly lit Irish bar that's perfect for a few drinks when you're still wearing work clothes. It's not doing anything wrong. Its only sin is being absolutely perfect for the neighborhood that hosts it: Murray Hill. Home to grown-up keg-standers and the pointy-shoed girls who love them, the rectangle bound by 34th and 42nd Sts. and 1st and Park Aves. rivals only the Upper East Side in hateability. It has a bland, lifeless quality that makes my monthly trip to Kalustyan's a precision-strike operation: in; stock up on Turkish coffee, feta cheese and flat bread; out.

That a great cheese-steak joint would thrive in Murray Hill makes sense. Like gravity bongs and beer balls, the cheese steak is by and large a post-collegiate comfort food. I imagine the late-night crowd that invades the modest, 10-seat space at Carl's to be a horrible affair of khakis, power-blue shirts and woven-leather belts-and the girls who love them.

Though rare, my Saturday-morning hangover trips to south Philadelphia for a Pat's or Jim's or Geno's cheese steak are forever installed in my memory, if only by way of smell. And there it was at Carl's: that heavy, delicious scent of an Everest-sized pile of chopped sirloin cooking unapologetically in its own fat. I'd almost forgotten.

A proper cheese steak, as originated in 1930s Philly, is topped with onions-peppers optional-and your choice of cheese: American, provolone or, more traditionally, "whiz." (It's no accident that a true Philly cheese steak must come with a fake cheese that lives in envy of the real thing, much like the city itself.) I ordered mine with provolone, and it was everything I remembered. One of my companions mumbled something about the bread not being as good as Amoroso's, the local Philadelphia favorite, but a short time later she granted that it was, after all, up to snuff. And it was-soft and chewy, but not rubbery, the bread at Carl's soaks up the grease without falling apart.

The following Saturday, I returned to Carl's-sober-with my girlfriend. This was to be her first cheese steak, ever. She asked for provolone, no onions; I went "American, with." We got them to go, chowed them down while watching a movie at home on the couch. Then we took a nap, the weight of the meat pulling us down. We didn't quite recover for the night that followed, and found ourselves excusing ourselves from a party and back home by midnight, the taste of Philadelphia repeating on us.

That's when I recalled a few more instances of hangover helpers. Back in Philadelphia, after eating a cheese steak on a rough Saturday or Sunday morning, I went home and napped the afternoon away. And then erased the meals from memory.

Okay, so maybe I've had fewer cheese steaks than can be counted on two hands. Still, that doesn't seem like many over the course of my 18 months in the town that gave them their name.