11 Pennsylvania Food Phrases Locals Use Daily (And Newcomers Only Get After A Hoagie)

In Pennsylvania, food and language share the same table. Every bite tells a story, but the way you order it says just as much. Locals have their own shorthand for flavor, a mix of rhythm, accent, and tradition that can turn an ordinary lunch into a regional ritual.

You’ll hear it in the quick hum of a deli line, on chalkboards outside corner shops, and in the confident tone of someone asking for “wiz wit” or “water ice.” These words carry history, humor, and pride, the vocabulary of appetite.

The list ahead gathers eleven phrases that shape how Pennsylvanians eat and talk about what they love. Learn them, use them, and you’ll sound right at home.

1. Wit

Walk into a South Philly steak shop and you’ll hear it: “One wit.” The word carries rhythm, part accent, part shorthand. It means onions, always onions, sizzling into shaved beef and molten cheese.

The smell alone wraps around you before the sandwich even hits the counter. The phrase itself is cultural grammar, born from speed. At Jim’s, Pat’s, or Geno’s, you say “wit,” not “with,” or you out yourself as a visitor.

I always go “wit.” There’s something grounding about that sweetness of onions cutting through the grease, it tastes like the heartbeat of the city.

2. Witout

The moment you drop the ‘h’ and say it right, the cashier’s eyes soften, you’ve learned the code. “Witout” means exactly what it sounds like: no onions. Simple, clean, direct.

The sandwich still crackles, warm roll, ribbons of steak, molten cheese binding it all together. Its origin lives in the same streets that perfected the cheesesteak. Locals shaved syllables like they shaved beef: fast, efficient, no nonsense.

Tip: if you’re ordering for a group, say “two witout, one wit.” You’ll sound local, and avoid the gentle mockery reserved for newbies.

3. Wiz Wit

Here’s where the ritual gets loud. “Wiz wit”, the order that launched a thousand photos. It’s the classic combo: Cheez Whiz and fried onions, a fluorescent marriage that defines Philly’s street food identity.

The sound of the grill sets the tone: metal scraping, steam hissing, the quick choreography of short orders flying. It’s unpretentious and glorious in its mess.

Personally, I think this version gets unfair hate. The Whiz melts into every crevice, and when you fold the paper just right, that drip of orange gold feels like victory.

4. Long Hots

At first bite, long hots confuse the senses, their name promises fire, but the burn arrives late, curling around the edges of your tongue. These green Italian peppers show up in hoagies, on pizza, or beside sharp cheese plates across Philly.

They migrated here through Italian-American kitchens, usually roasted whole until blistered, seeds intact. Locals treat them like punctuation: one long hot can change a whole sentence of flavor.

If you’re unsure, start with one. The slow heat builds character, not punishment, the edible version of local humor.

5. Water Ice

The sound comes first: the whir of machines, metal scraping ice, and the faint fruity perfume that floats down the block. Water ice (or wooder ice, if you’re truly from here) is Philadelphia’s frozen anthem, smoother than a snow cone, grainier than sorbet.

It dates back to Italian immigrants who brought the recipe for granita and adapted it for humid Mid-Atlantic summers. The mixture of fruit syrup, ice, and local slang has endured ever since.

Lemon’s the purist’s choice, but cherry stains your lips in a way that makes the experience impossible to fake.

6. Hoagie

A true hoagie is a study in layering: cold cuts, provolone, lettuce, tomato, onion, oil, vinegar, oregano, all on a firm roll that bites back a little. The smell hits before the paper’s even unwrapped: salty meats, sharp cheese, tang of vinegar.

Its story begins with Hog Island shipyard workers who packed sandwiches “on the hoag,” and the name never left. Now it’s the state’s most democratic meal, everyone has a favorite shop.

I like mine with extra pickles and long hots. It’s messy, sure, but it eats like a memory of every Philly summer afternoon.

7. Jimmies

There’s a certain nostalgia that hits the second you hear it: jimmies. Not sprinkles. Jimmies. The word itself feels like a smile you can eat. In Philadelphia and across much of Pennsylvania, they crown every cone of soft-serve like confetti from another era.

The tradition dates back to local ice-cream factories in the early 20th century, when small candy-coated bits were a novelty. Chocolate was first, rainbow came later.

You should order chocolate ice cream with chocolate jimmies, locals call it a “chocolate on chocolate,” and it’s the true summer handshake.

8. Red Gravy

A slow-simmered sauce that perfumes the kitchen with garlic, olive oil, and Sunday comfort. The deep, brick-red color hints at the patience it takes to get it right.

The name stuck among Italian-American families who wanted to set their tomato sauce apart from the jarred stuff. Every grandmother’s recipe has its own sacred secret: pork bones, basil sprigs, a pinch of sugar, or none at all.

My favorite version came from a South Philly diner, where the cook said, “It ain’t gravy till you eat it twice.” He was right.

9. Tomato Pie

It looks like pizza but eats like its own species, room temperature, thick crust, no mozzarella. The sauce is the star: sweet, tangy, and spread edge to edge like a painter who hates blank space.

Tomato pie traces back to Italian bakeries in Philadelphia and Trenton in the early 1900s, baked in sheet pans to feed factory crowds fast. Its genius was simplicity, dough, sauce, and maybe a dusting of Romano.

Grab a slice from Sarcone’s Bakery before noon. After that, they’re usually gone, and so is your chance at understanding why it endures.

10. Sharp Prov

The first bite always surprises you. Sharp provolone doesn’t melt politely, it snaps, releasing a nutty tang that wakes every other ingredient around it. The smell alone, buttery and faintly smoky, makes even the simplest sandwich feel deliberate.

Italian delis in Philly treat it as an identity marker: mild for tourists, sharp for those who know. The aging gives it that assertive edge locals crave.

I like watching people’s faces when they try it for the first time, that instant between confusion and surrender says everything.

11. Roll With Seeds

You can hear the difference before you taste it, the faint crunch as the knife hits sesame-coated crust. A roll with seeds is the default choice for any serious hoagie shop, each bite scattering tiny bursts of roasted aroma.

These rolls trace back to South Philadelphia’s long line of Italian bakeries, where sesame seeds weren’t garnish but signature. Bakers said they kept the crumb moist and the flavor deeper.

Visitor habit: always ask if the bread’s seeded. The best places don’t even need to answer, the seeds tell the story first.