Only In... Our credo on cuisine: For the real thing, don't stray far fromnthe source.
By Rathe Miller

(FORTUNE Small Business) – Most of the soggy bread comes from Jersey. They're known for that," explains Joe Vento as he picks up an Italian long roll. Vento is the proprietor of Geno's Steaks. "There's something about Jersey," he adds. "I don't know why they can't make a roll."

But directly across the river from New Jersey, in Philadelphia--South Philly, to be exact--they make a roll just right. A Philly roll has "color," it has "body," it has "life," Vento specifies. But the roll is only the beginning of what he needs to produce a genuine Philadelphia cheesesteak.

Some people (maybe from Jersey) might call Joe Vento picky. Others might hail him as a purist. Either way, Vento's Philadelphia cheesesteak sandwich stands as an example of distinctive regional cuisine, one of the few pockets of resistance to relentless culinary homogenization. Across the fruited plain, American food has become as standardized as, say, American clothing. In many locales, your options run just as far as from McDonald's to Houlihan's. (Oh, did someone say Starbucks?)

Yet like the Philly cheesesteak, there are still eats that can be imitated but never duplicated. At the risk of arousing the passions of many who will not find their favorites listed here (please, write in!), we've chosen just a few mouthwatering specialties with which to make our point. And we went right to the source for details, consulting with the local artisans who keep the faith.

Let's return for a moment, to the cheesesteak. It had its genesis in 1932, when Pasquale "Pat" Olivieri and his brother Harry started Pat's (now across the street from Geno's, at the corner of 9th and Wharton streets). Let your local diner pretend it has an "authentic Philadelphia cheesesteak." Let Californians tone it up with ostrich meat or Georgians slather it with mustard. There's a reason that the likes of Michael Jordan and Bill Clinton line up at three in the morning: for the real thing. To blend in with the locals, assume the famous legs-spread, bent-over stance to keep the juice from dripping down your shirt.

Cincinnati has been a chili mecca for decades. Natives even have their own language: You can order it two-way (with spaghetti), three-way (add grated cheddar), four-way (add chopped onions), and five-way (add kidney beans). This is not the classic Texas or Carolinas variety. It's got something those other chilis don't: a slightly sweet taste derived from "secret spices," rumored to be cinnamon and cocoa.

These days, the unwary traveler might run into something calling itself Cincinnati chili anywhere in the U.S. But only in the Cincinnati region (and Florida) can you go to Skyline Chili, one of the top names. Now in its 51st year, Skyline serves up an estimated nine million pounds of chili annually, thanks in part to the dish's addictive qualities. "It's definitely something people crave," says Skyline's Susan Wiegele. "I know people who eat it four, five times a week."

So after cheesesteak and chili, you're looking for something a little lighter? Sorry. The foods heavy in American tradition are, in fact, heavy. We promise to end with one refreshing selection. But first, our remaining main course is the Wisconsin bratwurst. The brat (rhymes with hot) is a sausage of German origin made from ground meat, garlic, ginger, nutmeg, coriander, caraway, and a certain je ne sais quoi. As a Ford Pinto is to a Lexus, so a hot dog is to a brat.

You cannot really prepare brats properly unless you have a six-pack of beer next to the grill," advises Karen Gottsacker of the chamber of commerce in Sheboygan, Wis., the epicenter of wurst. Once you've opened your six-pack, the rules get a little trickier. When grilling, use your fingers to turn the brats, because tongs might pierce the casings. And watch those condiments. "We don't even advocate sauerkraut," says Gottsacker. "We're purists."

And now for dessert. Halfway down the intercoastal highway that runs the length of the Florida Keys, traffic can grind to a stop. A Hemingway sighting? Maybe. But more likely, it's a crowd lining up for the best lime treat next to a margarita: Key lime pie.

Manny Ortiz, of Manny and Isa's Kitchen at mile marker 81.6, Islamorada, has been making Key lime pies for 35 years. He can sell as many as 50 a day. Ortiz starts by picking limes from his own stand of 90 Key lime trees, which yield the thin-skinned, yellowish fruit grown only in warmer climes such as Southern Florida. It has a distinctive taste, tangier than the traditional Persian lime. And cognoscenti like Ortiz can tell the difference in a heartbeat. "If you use the green limes, then you got to use more juice, but you still don't got more taste," he says.

At least on that point, Dorothy Rowe agrees. The owner of Key West Lime Pie Company, Rowe will ship pies--or the ingredients to make them--anywhere in the country. "Even in the Keys," she warns, "you're not always getting real Key lime juice. There are a lot of pies on the market now with a green tint. They make it green from food coloring. Maybe they think people are stupid."

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