PITTSBURGH IS NOT San Francisco, and when I politely pointed this out to my Pittsburgh friends, all of whom have lived in San Francisco, they unanimously agreed.

The Steelers are 10-1. The Niners are 1-10. There are other reasons, but they have too much to do with geography, physics, metaphysics, and parking spaces – subjects about which I know very little, compared to sports.

And food. Well ... what's for lunch, at any rate. Giordano Bros. would be one idea. It's a Pittsburgh-style sandwich shop in North Beach, corner of Columbus and Broadway. I watched a Steelers game there one Sunday with Binko and Mica, at which time sandwiches were eaten by us.

"Pittsburgh-style" means modeled after Primanti Brothers, the famous steel city all-night hangout, where the assumption is you're too drunk to count to three, let alone distinguish between french fries and coleslaw, so they slop it all onto your sandwich.

In other words, Italian sausage (or pastrami, cheese steak, turkey, eggs, or hot coppa), provolone cheese, french fries, and slaw – packed in between two big slices of Italian bread. They call it an all-in-one sandwich, and it tastes as great as it sounds.

Plus it's good for you. You know how I know? Because the fries are fresh-cut, and the slaw is dressed with olive oil and vinegar. No mayonnaise! Or: good for you. If it doesn't have mayonnaise, it's health food. In my book.

Now, I had never been to Primanti Brothers when I ate at Giordano's. I'm not from Pittsburgh. How many times do I have to tell you? I'm from Youngstown, which is a godforsaken cross between Pittsburgh and Cleveland. In Youngstown they put french fries on salads, but not between slices of bread. Nope, I had never been to Primanti's. Heard about it, plenty, but never been.

So, to better prepare myself to attempt a Cheap Eats assessment of Giordano's, I went. Strictly for educational purposes, you understand. It had nothing to do with being home for Thanksgiving, or being on tour, or finding myself in Pittsburgh with a day off, time to kill, an empty belly, and an old pal. Haywire! We meant nothing but bidness, me and him, plopping our skinny selves down on them big, blocky, made-for-fat-ass-trucker-butt counter stools.

Like Giordano's, Primanti's is a pretty small place, just the counter and a handful of tables. It wasn't Sunday so much as Monday, so instead of football there were soap operas on TV. A guy was in jail. A woman looked at another guy, and he sort of turned into someone else, with longer hair. Another woman looked worried. A guy in a hospital bed was asleep, and a nurse crept toward him with a syringe.

"Whatta y'ins want?" asked the guy behind the counter. Eventually.

I ordered a capicola sandwich and a root beer. Haywire got Genoa salami and – get this – a glass of water.

The guy looked at Haywire incredulously and said, "You know how to swim?"

To which Haywire responded, appropriately, "Huh?"

"Water! We don't serve no water," the fat lady down the counter growled, slapping together our sandwiches.

The guy, smiling, got Haywire his water. There was another woman working back there, and she seemed even meaner than the fat one. She looked like she hadn't slept yet in the new millennium, and might not have hummed or whistled since the '70s. Later, while we were eating our big messy lunch off of greasy sheets of paper, discussing Petrarch's poetry instead of sports, this woman looked over at us and said, and I quote, "Ah, fuck!"

I've been in some pretty rough restaurants, but I never in my life felt more likely to be beat up by a waitress. Which is of course a big part of Primanti's charm. That and the greatness and oddness of the sandwiches, and the colorful indoor mural of popular Pirates, Steelers, and maybe even a Penguin or two.

I'll tell you what: inasmuch as it is possible to bring a dash of Pittsburgh flavor into San Francisco, Giordano's succeeds. The game is on. Franco Harris is there. Clemente. The coleslaw is quite a bit better than Primanti's, you ask me, although the bread might not have been as good.

All that's wrong is that outside there's an outside chance, at least, that the sky will be blue. And inside everyone's all nice and friendly, smiling and shit.

And at $6.75, you're paying two dollars more – without the abuse. Well, what're you gonna do? San Francisco is not Pittsburgh. Giordano Bros. 303 Columbus (at Broadway), S.F. (415) 397-2707. Sun.-Thurs., 11 a.m.-11:30 p.m.; Fri.-Sat., 11-1 a.m. Beer and wine. Cash only. Wheelchair accessible.

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Dan Leone is the author of Eat This, San Francisco (Sasquatch Books), a collection of Cheap Eats restaurant reviews, and The Meaning of Lunch (Mammoth Books).