It all started with a Spanish IV project my freshman year at UNC. We had to make a poster about something we enjoyed — anything at all — and speak about it in Spanish for five or ten minutes.

My project: El Philly Cheesesteak. “No es un bistec con queso de Philadelphia,” I said. (“It’s not a steak with cheese from Philadelphia.”) “Es un Philly Cheesesteak.” (“It’s a Philly Cheesesteak.”)

Fast forward to this year in Spain: One of my roommates, Kris with a “K” (Kris con ‘ka’), has lived all his non-Spain life in the city of Philadelphia and went to college at Temple University. For my part, I was born and first lived in the city, have lived 25 minutes outside it since childhood, and both of my parents worked there practically my entire life. Suffice it to say that Kris and I have more than valid credentials to discern the difference between a steak and cheese sandwich and a legitimate Philly Cheesesteak.

And Kris with a K can kook — oops — cook. We like to say that he’s the Top Chef (his favorite show) of our apartment and that I’m the Sous-Chef. We cook a lot, our specialties being a variation of pulled pork and — drum roll please — El Philly Cheesesteak.

Kris first cooked them a few months back, and since then we’ve done five-to-10 cheesesteak nights for ourselves and our friends. Our friend Alli works as an au pair, and three nights ago we cooked them for her host mom, Carolina, and Carolina’s two children. Nary a bite was left un-bit.

But “El Gran Philly Cheesesteak Experiment” began one night at our favorite local bar, Las Hoces del Duratón. It’s basically the Spanish version of Cheers. (Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your nombre.) That fateful night, we were rapping “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air” theme song for the bartenders and regulars, and we started discussing other typically American stuff. I told the bar’s owner, Álvaro, about Philly Cheesesteaks and how we enjoyed cooking them here.

“You know what —” I said in Spanish, “We’re gonna cook them for you guys.”

“¿Qué dices?” (“Huh?”)

“Kris and I can get the food one night and come here and cook them in the kitchen for you. You’ll love them.”

“And we can serve them as tapas!” Álvaro said.

“¡Sí!”

I told Kris of the plan, and he did one of his famous dances — something that looks like someone riding a bike in a tornado. We arranged to do it the following Monday.

Monday rolled around, and at about 8:30 p.m., Kris and I loaded our Carrefour supermarket bag with our go-to bread, white onions, mushrooms, green bell peppers, a type of Spanish cheese reminiscent of provolone, and a couple packs of thinly sliced beef. We admit that the bread and cheese fall short of authentic Philly Cheesesteak standards, but come on — we live in Spain.

We got to the bar, and Álvaro led us to the kitchen were we met Ivón, their resident cook. By herself, she pumps out tapas and rations for the almost-always-busy establishment. (Tapas, f.y.i., are mini-portions of food that often come free of charge when you order a glass of beer or wine. It is, without a doubt, one of the best aspects of Spanish culture — or any culture, for that matter.)

We hijacked Ivón’s grill, cutting board and stove. Ivón asked if we needed knives. Kris shook his head and unrolled his personal set of chef knives. “These are my babies,” he explained.

We set to work. I diced veggies and started sautéing them while Kris prepared the steak. This was our first chance to create greasy cheesesteak goodness on a proper grill, and our mouths watered as the first batch plopped off Kris’s spatula and onto the plate.

“Álvaro!” I called. “¡Ven aquí!” (“Get your butt in here now and try this!”)

He took the first bite while we watched his often stoic face for a hint of a reaction. “Mm!” He gave a thumbs-up. “¡Está buenísimo!” (“It’s frickin’ delicious!”)

The taste-test passed, we cut each steak into four tapas, and Álvaro served them . The first two customers surveyed the steaks with slight trepidation, but after nibbling on them, they scarfed down the rest. It was official: El Philly Cheesesteak was a hit.

Old guys loved ’em. Young guys loved ’em. Chicks loved ’em. Álvaro even asked us to save two whole steaks for his family.

Here we were, across the Atlantic, cooking Philly Cheesesteaks for people who speak a different language and who are as adventurous when it comes to cuisine as someone who’s allergic to everything … and they licked every plate clean. It was awesome.

The only annoying part was when people asked, “¿Se llama un bistec con queso de Philadelphia?” (“They call it a steak and cheese from Philadelphia?”)

“No,” we’d say, “Es un Philly Cheesesteak.”

“El Philly Cheesesteak — sí. ¡Está buenísimo!”

— Contact Sam Rosenthal at samrose24@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter, @BackwardsWalker —

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