“I’m here for the cheesesteak. I don’t care about him!” I hear the men surrounding me repeat like a mantra as they wait in below-freezing weather to try the only item on the menu at Danny and Coop’s, Bradley Cooper’s newest venture. 

Cooper first cooked cheesesteaks for the masses in December of 2023, serving eager customers out of a food cart in the East Village with his business partner and famed Philadelphia restaurateur Danny DiGiampietro. A year later the duo secured a brick and mortar storefront bordering Tompkins Square Park and have been operating sporadically since. Every week, the Danny and Coop’s Instagram account updates their profile bio to include their schedule for the week — typically opening at  5 p.m. on Friday and noon on the weekends. An hour before they begin serving, like clockwork, a line gathers outside the storefront, curling around the block and up 10th Street regardless of their shifting schedule. 

I arrived at 12:58 p.m. on Saturday, Feb. 1 — roughly an hour after opening as per the advice of several Reddit posts on how to beat the line. Almost like it was choreographed, I went from first standing in line to taking my first bite of my very own Danny and Coop’s cheesesteak in one hour — to the minute. At 1:58 p.m. my teeth crunched through the freshly baked sesame-seed hoagie, meeting the hefty portion of tender meat, creamy cheese, and grilled onions inside. After my first taste, I squinted my eyes, leaned back on the chilly bench in Tompkins and said simply: “Huh.” For a shop so confident in their product — they offer no substitutions and no other menu items —  I must admit I was expecting more. Now, in all fairness, this was my first time trying a cheesesteak, and frankly, I am not sure it was the sandwich for me, but I still had high hopes for an A-lister-backed meal. All this to say, the blandness of my first bite caught me by surprise. 

One thing about this experience was undeniable: the bread was fantastic. The crust had the kind of crunch you can only achieve when the loaf is fresh out of the oven, the crumb was pillowy, so light it melted in your mouth, and the sesame seeds scattered atop the bread only added a needed nuttiness and depth. The filling, on the other hand, (which, again, for all I know, is standard for a Philly Cheese Steak) disappointed. It didn’t taste much like anything. The cheese lacked the bite of the classic provolone, almost too melted over the thin strips of beef. The chopped onions were so translucent it was like all the flavor was left behind on the grill. The overall taste could only be described as milky — the main note to come through was heavy cream, the kind you might recognize from a microwavable white-sauce pasta meal. 

Despite not accepting substitutions, Danny and Coop’s graciously offers its customers a side of either hot or sweet peppers for no extra charge. To make the most of the $17.40 ($20 if one factors in tax and tip) spent on the sandwich, I accepted both. The role of the peppers could be equated to mustard on a hot dog. They were vital to the cheesesteak experience. The sweet peppers had the umami tang of a relish, while the hot peppers brought some necessary excitement to my cheesesteak. Part of me wanted the option to incorporate the peppers into the sandwich when ordering, but I can understand the draw of an establishment with such confidence in their product that they do it one way, and one way only. 

The specter of Bradley Cooper loomed heavy over the line that obstructed the sidewalk on Avenue A. To passersby, we probably looked like a herd of cattle. Onlookers whispered to each other: “Do you think he’s in there?” The man standing in front of me, wearing Paul Mescal-length shorts and a North Face puffer, vehemently proclaimed to his girlfriend that he was not sharing a sandwich with her, no matter how big it was. “I heard that sometimes he’s, like, making the cheesesteaks,” someone else mutters as they walk past. The air is filled with the charge of celebrity, yet the men surrounding me refuse to acknowledge that’s part of the reason they’re here, even as they pull out their phones to take a sneaky picture of the neon sign.

When I am the first in line to enter Danny and Coop’s, eager to finally be a part of the indoor queue, a flash of primary colors comes from 9th Street and walks through the door. Wearing a blue and white letterman’s jacket, a red baseball cap, and his signature scruff, Coop himself is in the building. Cheers erupt, loud enough to hear over the rap blasting from a speaker inside, before being muffled by the closing door. Outside, people whisper: “It’s him, it’s really him!” Those of us still in line look at each other conspiratorially and pull out our phones, preemptively texting a myriad of group chats: “Bradley Cooper cooked my cheesesteak!!!!”