East Passyunk on a Saturday Afternoon

The Singing Fountain at the triangular intersection plays Puccini over the traffic. A man in a Phillies cap eats a cannoli on the bench with communion-level reverence. East Passyunk: unashamed, well-fed, musically Italian.

The avenue cuts diagonal through South Philly's grid. Italian American community still here — red-sauce restaurants, market stalls, old men on lawn chairs — with new layers on top. Oaxacan restaurant next to a barber shop since 1963. Craft cocktail bar across from a social club with hand-painted sign and no visible hours. John's Roast Pork under the I-95 overpass: roast pork sandwich with broccoli rabe and sharp provolone that is — I will defend this with my dying breath — superior to any cheesesteak in Philadelphia. The pork is slow-roasted, the rabe garlicky and bitter, the provolone melts into the seeded roll like that's the roll's one purpose.

Sor Ynez mezcaleria: the bartender lined up three mezcals for me to taste blind and I got none right, which she found deeply satisfying. The bar is small, dark, decorated with papel picado and Christmas lights that are not seasonal but structural. East Passyunk is Philadelphia at its most Philadelphia. It will not explain itself.