The Schmitter- The Greatest Sandwich Nobody Ever Copied

If the Schmitter was invented in any other city in the country, I'm convinced it would not only be the most famous sandwich in town, but it would be copied by every neighborhood deli, restaurant, and bar throughout the area.

But it happened to be invented in Philadelphia.

Trying to become Philly's favorite sandwich is like trying to become the star guitarist in a band that already has Hendrix, Clapton, and Eddie Van Halen.

And yet, for more than sixty years, McNally's Tavern in Chestnut Hill Philadelphia has been serving a sandwich that has all the makings of a legendary foodigenous: top round steak, cheese, fried salami, onions, tomato, all dripping with a special sauce on a Kaiser roll.

Somehow, it never grew outside of its restaurant's confines. And that by itself makes The Schmitter extraordinary.

What You Thought You Knew

If you knew about the Schmitter before reading this article, I'm willing to bet that at some point, like me, you assumed it was named after Phillies Hall of Famer Mike Schmidt.

A cheesesteak. Philadelphia. Schmidt.

Seems rather obvious, right?

Only, we're all wrong.

The sandwich was actually named after Dennis Krenich, a longtime McNally's regular affectionately known as "Schmidter" due to his reluctance to drink anything other than the locally brewed beer bearing the same name.

One random night in the mid-1960s, Dennis asked barkeep Hugh James McNally to add tomato sauce to his steak sandwich. Fresh out, McNally improvised, mixing relish, mayo and ketchup over the grilled meat instead.

Dennis loved the impromptu hodgepodge and kept ordering it on purpose—and soon other diners did too.

They anointed the sandwich The Schmitter in honor of its most enthusiastic supporter, and just like that, a neighborhood legend was born.

And that's where this gets really interesting to me.

A Foodigenous Conundrum

Everything about the Schmitter screams "copy me." But no one has. Not really.

It has all the makings: a delicious, half-century-old sandwich with a fiercely loyal following and an interesting origin story. A recipe distinctive enough to be memorable, but simple enough to be recreated by any competent cook with access to a flat top.

One explanation could be the fact that it's trademarked. But that wasn't until the 1990s, decades after its creation. And besides, a little thing like intellectual property has never stopped an ambitious restaurateur from bending a rule or two. Just Google Garbage Plate synonyms in Rochester.

So where are all the copycats?

Where are the Yuenglingers?

The Sloppy Krukkers?

The Cheesy Schwarzsteakers?

After meticulous research, I finally found something I thought coud be it, so I hightailed it to The Greeks in Narberth, another neighborhood bar founded by a former McNally's regular in search of The Narb— according to their menu, a cheesesteak with salami, Russian dressing...

But when I got there...

"Yeah, we stopped making that sometime before I got here. At least five years ago," the bartender told me. "They just stopped making it."

At this point, I couldn't shake the feeling that the Schmitter's lack of imitators wasn't an accident.

Which raises a bigger question.

What's more impressive?

Creating a food so beloved that it spreads across a city, a state, or even the country?

Or creating one so singular decades later there's still only one place to get the real thing?

With the exception of the occasional sighting at an Eagles game at the Linc, there is only one spot to get a Schmitter: 8634 Germantown Road, Chestnut Hill

I get the sense McNally's knows exactly what they are doing.

Over 60 years. No chains. No franchises. No imitators. No Need.

Old World Charm

Maybe the Schmitter never escaped because McNally's was never really selling a sandwich. It was selling a place.

Tastykake who?

Chestnut Hill feels more like a village than a neighborhood in the country's sixth-largest city.

That feeling doesn't stop when you walk into McNally's.

It's the kind of place where the bartender knows the regulars by name.

"Another pint, Stove?"

The Schmitter may be the reason you make the trip, but it won't be the only thing you remember—especially if you order a slice of the unexpectedly phenomenal chackalate cake. Cash tips even get you entered into a weekly raffle for an entire cake.

In a world obsessed with expansion, franchising, and social media marketing, it's kinda refreshing places like McNally's still exist—even if that means you'll never see a Schmitter in a Singapore airport food court.