Pop Goes the Eagle

All photos by Dan Monick, except "football" by Reanna Evoy

I’m walking to Heinz Field, home turf of the beloved Pittsburgh Steelers, dressed head to toe in the garb of the opposing team. It’s cool but bright, the sun slanting off the Allegheny River, illuminating all the yellow bridges that spear into the downtown – or as Pittsburghers say, “dahntahn” – core. I’m kind of worried about the potential abuse I’ve marked myself for as I head into the heart of Steelers country wearing New York Giants duds. I stroll past the legion of burly tailgaters heaving back Iron City Beer and through a thick screen of barbecued-kielbasa smoke. Sure, some people holler out allusions to my team’s colours recalling Richard Simmons’ workout attire, but most just wish me luck. One dude even shares some of his marinated venison steak with me – “fresh from the hills,” he says, telling me about the part he played in the hunt.

Pop Art began in things like the glow of the equitable gas sign that hovers over Pittsburgh’s South Side.

Brawny Pittsburgh – cradled in the nook of three rivers in western Pennsylvania – is a workingman’s town full of workingman imagery. That’s not to say it’s exactly the grimy Rust Belt city you might conjure up. Thrumming with a collegial vibe more often associated with Boston or Austin, Pittsburgh’s neighbourhoods take on a small-town air despite the size of the metropolis. Plus, the home of the Steelers and the Heinz ketchup HQ is the birthplace of the fictional character Rosie the Riveter and the almost-as-fictional Andy Warhol. It’s the pop-culture epicentre of America. Despite the fact that Warhol’s Pop Art innovations would ultimately be associated with society life in New York City, it’s easier to see the root of his art on the store shelves of his hometown than in the throbbing disco lights of the erstwhile Studio 54. Pop Art began in the lurid colours and enticing designs of commercial products – in simple things like the shape of a ketchup bottle or the glow of the Equitable Gas sign that hovers over Pittsburgh’s South Side.

The steel mills are all gone now, and though the city may have rediscovered itself in its throng of new martini bars, it’s still more Campbell’s soup can proper than Warhol’s interpretation of said can. Pittsburgh remains nestled in its unpretentious working-class roots and, as such, is the friendly hub of Americana in the raw. Past a place boldly advertising “the best Bloody Marys in the city” lie all the other good things in life: candy stores, toy shops, gyro stands and the certain knowledge that everything goes better with Heinz ketchup. I happily set out to discover the city George Washington dubbed Pitts-boro but that I simply call the best place on earth to get a one-pound fish sandwich.

How you feel about the Heinz ketchup display in the Senator John Heinz History Center depends on how well you tolerate Carly Simon’s “Anticipation” playing on a loop. I personally find the History Center nothing short of inspiring. Craving French fries like Warhol craved cookie jars (he was an avid collector of kitsch), I leave this shrine to the tomato on my first day in the city to walk its famous Strip District, where old warehouses and river loading docks form an impromptu market and restaurant area. I pick up a bunch of old Lassie comics at Eide’s Entertainment (a huge barn of vintage comics, books, music and collectibles) and sit down at the original Primanti Bros for a true taste of Pittsburgh.

Primanti Bros is a sandwich stand that long ago came up with the culinary innovation (well, okay, the Belgians have been doing it for a while) of putting the French fries in the sandwich. Unspeakably brilliant. As I mop up some of Heinz’s famous elixir with a few fallen fries, I plan my next meal. I’d been hankering for a visit to Wholey’s – a large wholesale grocery store famous for its fish sandwiches – for months before my arrival here. In the Ohio Valley, fish sandwiches have been a religion ever since the days when fish was a requisite Friday-night meal, and there’s really none better than the ones proffered at Wholey’s. Enter the appropriately named Whaler: the ginormous sandwich bun, overwhelmed by massive layers of fried fish, is enough to feed a family of four – or one Steelers fan. This, truly, is the land of simple pleasures.