The regional table / Pennsylvania
Philadelphia Roast Pork with Broccoli Rabe and Sharp Provolone
Pork, bitter greens and sharp cheese in a roll, and the bitterness is the point rather than a fault to cook out.
This sandwich is usually introduced with a line about how it is older than the cheesesteak and how Philadelphia knows it. The first half of that could not be verified for this article and the second half turns out to be wrong. Visit Philadelphia, the region's official tourism agency and not the city government — phila.gov refuses automated requests outright — writes that the roast pork sandwich is as old as the cheesesteak but less known, and that it has gained acclaim among in-the-know locals. As old as, not older than. The same agency dates the cheesesteak's origin to 1930 and, a few paragraphs away, puts a South Philadelphia caterer's riverside shack in that same year. So the two sandwiches are contemporaries in the only account the city's own body has published, and the fashionable claim that one predates the other is not something this site is going to repeat on nobody's authority. What that agency does say about the descent is worth having: roots in the cuisine of the Abruzzese region of Italy, whose people emigrated to Philadelphia in numbers, and a pork rubbed with garlic, salt, pepper, rosemary, fennel and a little wine, laid with sharp provolone and cooked greens on the same crusty roll the other sandwiches use. That is an origin story told by a marketing body, and it is printed here as exactly that.
The parts, on the other hand, are documentable to the gram. The cheese first: sharp provolone is a trade description and not a legal one. The federal standard at 21 CFR 133.181 defines provolone as a pasta filata or stretched-curd cheese, prepared by matting and cutting the curd, immersing it in hot water and kneading and stretching it until it is smooth and free from lumps, then molding it, firming it in cold water, salting it in brine, drying it and giving it some additional curing. It fixes the minimum milkfat at 45 percent of the solids and the maximum moisture at 45 percent, and it requires cheese made from unpasteurised milk to be cured at not less than 35°F for at least 60 days. It permits smoking. What it never does is grade the cheese by age or use the word sharp at all — so piccante provolone is the cheesemaker's promise, not the government's, and the only way to buy it is to ask the counter how long it has been hanging. Then the greens, where the folklore is that bitterness is a cooking fault. It is not: it is bred in. Broccoli rabe is not broccoli. It belongs to Brassica rapa, the turnip species, and the 2022 survey of B. rapa metabolic diversity in Frontiers in Molecular Biosciences, which profiled 102 genotypes across fourteen subspecies groups, files broccoletto among them alongside turnip, pak choi, caixin and mizuna. Its bitterness rides on glucosinolates, and how much of them a plant carries is a varietal property. Padilla, Cartea, Velasco, de Haro and Ordás measured 113 varieties of B. rapa greens grown at two sites and published the result in Phytochemistry in 2007: sixteen glucosinolates identified, gluconapin and glucobrassicanapin dominant, and total content ranging from about 12 to 74 micromoles per gram of dry weight at one site and about 8 to 57 at the other. That is a six-fold to seven-fold spread between varieties of the same species, and they found the differences in bitterness ran with it. The same authors are honest about the limit of their own finding — the sensory panel told them glucosinolates and their breakdown products are not the only determinants of the flavour, and other compounds are probably involved. Which is the useful lesson for a cook: you can blanch a little of the bitterness out, but you cannot cook your way out of the bunch you bought.
Why this version works
The greens are cooked twice. A short boil in well-salted water, then a hard sauté in garlic oil. The boil takes the coarse edge off and, incidentally, leaches out some of the water-soluble glucosinolates that carry the bitterness; the sauté puts back the fat and the garlic and drives off the water the boil put in, so the greens do not flood the bread. Skip the boil and the sandwich is aggressive; skip the sauté and it is soggy.
Sharp provolone against bitter greens. This is the balance the sandwich is built on. Aged provolone is salty, lactic and faintly piquant — the standard at 21 CFR 133.181 allows a lipase-driven piquancy to be developed during that additional curing — and it is the only element with enough edge to stand next to the rabe. A mild provolone disappears; mozzarella turns the whole thing into a wet mistake.
Low oven, long time, no browning at the start. The shoulder is roasted at 325°F to an internal temperature around 185°F, which is well past done and exactly where the collagen has gone to gelatin but the muscle has not yet dried to floss. Searing it first would build a crust that has to be carved off anyway, because this pork is sliced thin across the grain and the crust would only tear the slices.
The jus is made of the roast, not added to it. Wine and stock in the pan from the start, the lid on for the first two hours, and the fat skimmed at the end give you a concentrated pork liquor that the slices are dropped back into. That warm bath is doing two jobs: it re-wets meat that has lost a third of its water, and it carries the garlic and fennel from the rub back into the middle of the slice, where the rub never reached.