Korean Deli Offers Post-Hangover Potato Rx

Lee’s Deli Since 1993
4700 Baltimore Ave.
Philadelphia
April 23, 2024

The hungover in need of buttered toast and bacon might be searching for comfort and carbs with their swollen eyes rather than culinary excellence — but we found both at Lee’s Deli Since 1993 in West Philly.

The 30-year-old corner store institution is acclaimed for its cheesesteaks and Korean twists on American classics. But I found myself eating a typically boring eggy breakfast at their counter this week. It turned out to be the best melange of homefries, eggs and meat I’d ever tried.

I had been holding out on testing the spot, which is located right up the street from my Baltimore Avenue apartment in West Philly, until I was in just the right mood to enjoy one of their famous staples, like the “Game Over” chicken cheesesteak filled with shrimp and spinach or the Korean BBQ steak made up of smoked bulgogi and greens.

But when a pal visiting from Connecticut woke up with a gnarly hangover from the night before, I caved and led him to the local spot for what I thought would be a simpler, starch-filled meal of fried potatoes and grease-drenched bread. It was conveniently close and, despite its star status within the city, I’d never noticed a line or even a crowd inside the deli’s close-knit quarters while strolling by.

Plus, I knew I could grab a Yerba Mate at the Vietnamese mini market, Fu-Wah’s, nextdoor, or a quality cold brew down the way at vinyl-obsessed coffee shop Milk Crate, since I doubted a deli would have the maximally potent caffeine I crave.

Eyeing the long and layered menu available to us, we still opted for basic diner breakfasts, eager to eat cheap and fast before facing the day. I ordered a bacon, egg and cheese on a kaiser roll while my friend got the “Good Morning Special” — you know, two eggs over easy, a couple slices of sausage, potatoes and toast.

Unlike my friend, who had had a few too many beers before waking up headachey and dehydrated with the sun already high in the sky, I was feeling peppy, having abstained from liquor in exchange for a good night’s rest.

I sang along happily to 1960s hits I heard drifting through the restaurant’s speakers, like the Cascade’s “Rhythm of the Rain,” while we waited for our food. The musical landscape reminded me of the familiar songs I never think to sit down and listen to — overplayed, like eggs and toast, but so satisfying to revisit when the mood and place are right. Plus, there were no other customers inside the deli/ diner to annoy with my too-cheerful harmonies — except my friend, who, perched on the stool next to me, stared outside the window with apparent hatred.

When our food arrived, looking unusually vibrant for the typically monochrome-tan American morning diner fare, I was astonished and excited. My friend, more of a gastronome than I, merely declared with a sense of defeat and despair: “That’s a lot of food.”

My sandwich was straightforward, but came with a fun twist — a side of sweet chili sauce that leveled up the meal by playing up the salty goodness of perfectly crisped but still fatty bacon.

But it was my friend’s plate that really pulled me in. As he gingerly dipped white bread into runny egg yolks, I used my homie-status to stab what I thought I was owed: A single homefry.

As someone who grew up romanticizing diner breakfasts, bonding with my dad over Sunday morning eggs fried outside of home as a post-laundromat delicacy, I didn’t need much to be satisfied from the deli’s most basic menu option. That’s why it was so surprising when I bit into, as ridiculous as it sounds, singular potato perfection.

“Yum!” I declared, hurting my friend’s head and drawing attention from the man from whom I’d ordered at the front counter.

“How did you get here?” I asked the hunk of potato curiously, as I scooched my chair closer to the counter to make room for produce shipments wheeling towards the deli’s back room. It tasted like the potatoes had been stewed in a bright broth until cooked, then rubbed up in butter before fried ever so softly on the grill beside some delicate, orange-yolked eggs. It had taken only minutes before the hot meal hit our table, but the potatoes had a kind of depth of flavor akin to a well-aged cheese — sans the stink.

The man at the counter, who had been so quiet and watchful, took note of my joy and offered an instruction: Try the brown sauce on the side. Like with my sandwich’s chili oil, my friend’s toast came with a special accessory. Once on toast, it was not a sauce, Ii realized but a delightfully cinnamon‑y spread.

The man, who I only later realized was Scott Lee, the founder and owner of the 1993 Korean-fusion deli, explained that I was eating home-churned apple butter, boiled down in-house every day.

The food was indeed all too much to finish in one-go, but I kept the leftover chili and apple sauces to keep my fridge company. And my friend left the restaurant revived rather than heavy from the filling food.

Upon researching the deli at home, I realized it was this time last year that Lee’s was totally destroyed by a driver who barreled a U‑Haul into the side of the restaurant. “Should I even come back?” Lee recalled asking himself at the time in an interview with The Philadelphia Inquirer.

One year later, Lee’s Deli is definitely back. And I’ll be back many more times, I’m sure — not just to sample the adventurous hoagies, but to find renewed joy in the basics.