Rick Olivieri was working the grill yesterday, just as he'd been for 25 years.
The third-generation crown prince of cheesesteaks was wielding his spatula with the usual speed and grace. He was flipping skin-thin slices of meat, shoveling deep into the translucent mountain range of diced onions, and, with a flick of the wrist as practiced and precise as Paul Newman's in The Hustler, delivering the salty, juicy, greasy goods into a cradle of warm bread.
His dimples showing, he palled around with the regulars, explained the meaning of "wid" to first-timers, and high-fived his fellow tenants in the Reading Terminal Market. And if you didn't know that today is the end of a nasty landlord-tenant battle that cost Olivieri $310,000 in legal fees and resulted in the eviction of Rick's Steaks from the spot where he first started working with his father in 1982, you'd never have guessed. For nothing in his demeanor revealed the truth that he was bitter and sad and leaving a place that's as close to his heart as a place can be.