Pittsburgh

July 2026

We rolled into Pittsburgh in the dead of night to find a city blanketed by the haze of Ontario wildfires. The first order of business was to find dinner. Though overhyped, clichéd, and touristy, it’s hard to argue with a Primanti’s capicola, cheese, french fries, and egg sandwich after midnight. Surely better and less-commercialized sandwich shops abound in Pittsburgh, but Primanti’s is where NFL broadcasts get their B-roll for Steelers games, and most importantly, is the only one open til 2am.

The sandwich itself was fine, if dry and in dire need of the conveniently-placed bottle of hot sauce on each table. Nevertheless it hit the spot and allowed us to focus on the second order of business, which was to crash in our hotel after a full day’s work and a half-night’s drive.

We needed the rest before Picklesburgh, the impetus for our 36-hour visit to the Iron City. I’m not sure how we learned of the country’s premier regional pickle festival, but we knew we had to attend. Pittsburgh has been on our list of cities to visit for a while, and our love of pickles provided the push to finally book a trip.

Our day started with a walking tour amongst the iron and aluminum giants of downtown. The skyscrapers are imposing, impressive, and distinctly evil when obscured by wildfire smoke. Breakfast was at La Gourmandine, where I had the best almond croissant of my life, on the way to Point State Park.

Next we crossed Fort Pitt Bridge to reach the Duquesne Incline, a 150-year-old funicular that provides sweeping views of the city, its confluence of rivers, and the bridges that cross them. Again the haze made the vistas all the more dramatic.

We crossed back over the Monongahela River to join the pickle festival on the Roberto Clemente Bridge. Here all manner of pickle-themed foods were on offer, from pierogi, to pizza, to cocktails, not to mention the dozens of varieties of actual pickles, available whole, sliced, deep fried, or breaded on a stick like a corndog.

On the other side of the Allegheny River, the Andy Warhol Museum provided respite from the sun and smoke. Though I am the modern art lover and my wife is the cynic, I found nothing compelling by Warhol himself in the museum. Meanwhile my wife adored his commentary on and exploitation of the business of the art industry. I much preferred the gallery containing Sharif Bey’s massive busts over any Warhol exhibits. We agreed that the highlight was the screen printing demonstration, where we applied a riff of Warhol’s banana (featuring a pickle, of course) on a tote bag.

We then rejoined the festival on the Andy Warhol Bridge, at which point the blue skies gave way to a massive downpour. Returning to the hotel, we enjoyed some local brews at the rooftop bar before taking the bus to dinner. FET-FISK has found its way onto just about every list of best new American restaurant (NYT, BA, James Beard, etc), and for good reason. The Nordic menu is wonderful, diverse, and honest. The standout dishes were the pickled mackerel, mushroom cavatelli, and roast chicken. When leaving I noticed a humble neon sign advertising “Fine Food” on their window. Accurate.

On our way home the next morning we stopped at Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater. We made the mistake of seeing it up close before finding the famous vantage point. A classic case of never-meet-your-heroes, at short distance the water damage and flaking Bandaid-colored paint betrayed Wright’s occasionally difficult relationship with the practicalities of otherwise gorgeous architecture. From a distance, though, Fallingwater was everything the textbooks say: Perfectly suited to its environment, timeless, the epitome of modernism.

Between wildfire haze, torrential rain, an inexplicably excellent pickle festival, and one unforgettable meal, Pittsburgh provided the perfect weekend getaway. Like Fallingwater, Pittsburgh rewards stepping back to appreciate the whole picture: a city that has rough edges, but provides delight in the wonderfully unexpected. Thirty-six hours was enough to convince us we'll be back.

Recipes: Classic Cuban Negative.

Artistic Direction: My Wife.