The Hill Sandwich Crawl

Growing up in St. Louis, I can’t say that I truly appreciated The Hill neighborhood. “You gotta go to the Hill” was something oldsters told naive tourists. The classic red sauce Italian places felt content to coast on reputation. Charming, sure, but on the expensive side for Italian food you could find better versions of elsewhere. 

It was only later that I came to see the true magic of the neighborhood. By that, I mean the neighborhood itself. Also, sandwiches, but I’ll get to those. Despite Interstate 44 lopping off its northern section like a bad haircut, The Hill escaped the worst of urban renewal that decimated other historic neighborhoods in the City. St. Louis’ drowsy real estate market means it hasn’t been subjected to the market pressures that turn quaint little stretches into homogenous playgrounds for well-off millennials. It is blessedly short on gastropubs, Edison bulbs, and places where you order on an app. Instead, it has pedestrian-oriented retail that actually serves a neighborhood. Marconi Ave, the Hill’s commercial backbone, features a bookkeeper’s office, a market, a cutlery store, and a few bakeries that have been around longer than I have. 

It’s a shame that, for so many people, the Hill is a place where you drive in and park at Rigazzi’s or Mama’s. It’s a neighborhood best understood and enjoyed on foot. That’s when you appreciate the diverse businesses, the shotgun houses wedged in between corner storefronts, the narrow streets that slow car traffic. Through walking you’ll also encounter plenty of one type of business that the Hill might do better than anywhere else in the country: the Italian deli. I’m not using the term “deli” in the strictest sense of the word: not all of these places sell meats, cheese, or deli salads by the pound, although several do. All of them share a couple characteristics: counter service, and a menu dominated by sandwiches. If you’re cringing at my expansive use of the term, please note that Wikipedia traces the etymology of “delicatessen” back to the Latin word “delicatus,” which means “giving pleasure, delightful, pleasing.” So that settles it: they’re delis. 

Although I did Duolingo for three weeks before a trip to Italy, plotted entire days in Rome around the 4-5 meals I would fit into them while only stepping into museums long enough to catch my breath and let the gelato digest, and embraced side-eye as I wolfed down a final pizza meal in the boarding line at the Venice airport, I am not an expert on Italian food. I am, however, a food enthusiast. I have completed no courses on the dogmatic purity standards of particular cuisines, but I have enjoyed many sandwiches. In fact, my stance on food is staunchly anti-dogmatic. “Authenticity” is a loaded term when it comes to food, so I’ll just say this: a lot of energy is wasted on the question of whether some foodstuff is “pure” or “authentic,” when that energy could be better devoted to the much more important question of whether that food is tasty. 

Now, a digression. I used to live in Kansas City, one of the BBQ Meccas of the world. One day I sat down with a tray of Oklahoma Joe’s burnt ends, one of the single best pieces of bbq (or food) our sorry species has dreamed up. I snapped a quick pic of my bounty to text to an old college buddy because I’m an asshole. His response: “What’s that white sauce? Real bbq doesn’t need sauce.” The white sauce in question was Oklahoma Joe’s BBQ Mayo. If the idea of mayo going on top of burnt ends repulses you, I am sure you’ve never been to Oklahoma Joe’s for your burnt ends. It pairs amazingly with the tender burnt ends, and is also great for dipping fries (as long as you’re not one of those people who thinks you need to “balance” fatty food with something light or acidic, as opposed to more fat). The point being: my friend thought he was being cool and smart by dropping some tired BBQ dogma instead of appreciating the thing for what it was. The second point being: huff my shorts, Matt. 

Now I promised to talk about sandwiches. While I am prepared for some schmuck from the BIG CITY to rain condescension on my affection for these little old Midwestern delis and tell me I’ve offended his Nonna, the fact remains: there are a lot of Italian delis on the Hill, and they all make sandwiches that taste good when you eat them. The Old World has been mixed with a healthy dash of blue-collar Midwestern practicality, and the result is a murderer’s row of blissfully unhip, utterly delicious sandwich joints. 

So, if you’ve got a Saturday to kill and a(n) (un)healthy disregard for your own personal wellness, I present a method for appreciating The Hill for its neighborhood feel and tasty sandwiches: The Hill Sandwich Crawl. Consider this an inspiration more than a prescription. While there were certain places I had to include on his list, there are plenty of great places that got left off. Same with the sandwich recommendation. While there are some true heroes who’ve eaten every sandwich on The Hill, I am not they. Everything I recommend is good, but it might not be the best. And for your sake, please find some friends/hostages with whom to split these sandwiches. Ready, set, crawl!

Stop #1:: Gioia’s Deli

The Sandwich: The Spicy Daggett. “Hot salami, hot coppa & capicolla (sic?) toasted on garlic cheese bread and smothered in giardinera.” 

Are you sitting down? Good. Gioia’s deli is a damn fine sandwich joint, but I’m a bit of a contrarian when it comes to its fame. Gioia’s has pulled away from the peloton (deli-ton?) and established itself as the sandwich place to visit on the Hill in popular perception. I understand why. It’s been around for over 100 years. Its calling card is a single iconic ingredient: delicious hot salami. If you were writing an article and had to feature one sandwich place, there’s a strong and tidy case for Gioia’s. I am not saying that Gioia’s is undeserving, but I do think the attention it receives casts a shadow on some equally worthy locations. 

I also have a second quibble: I think any delicious sandwich place should tell me how my sandwich should come dressed. You, queens and kings and nonbinary royalty of sandwiches, are the experts! I am but a loyal and hungry subject. Curate my vegetables and condiments to maximize my pleasure. Offering “blank slate” customizability feels like a cop out. Any sandwich place should at least have standard recommended toppings for each sandwich. If I wanted to have it my way, I would go to Subway, where I can put raw bell peppers on a ham sandwich and nobody would call me a sociopath. 

This might be why my go-to sandwich at Gioia’s is one that already has a lot of decisions made for the consumer: they don’t ask if you want the Spicy Daggett on garlic cheese bread. That’s how it comes. You don’t decide between giardiniera and tartar sauce; it’s giardiniera. And it’s good. 

Stop #2: Joe Fassi Sausage and Sandwich Factory

The Sandwich: Aunt Jennie’s Salsiccia Stinger. Homemade Italian sausage topped with melted Provel, roasted red peppers, onions and tomato sauce. 

(Zomato.com)

Gaze upon this picture I borrowed from the internet. Even though it looks like it was taken on a Motorola Razr that has just lost a boxing match, you can still tell that Joe Fassi’s has a quintessentially Italian-American pizza parlor vibe. The glass brick. The linoleum floor, the green laminate table tops. The faux marble glued onto the top of the green laminate table tops so you know exactly where to place your plate and your drink (ok that’s a uniquely Joe Fassi innovation, but still amazing). The Mexican flags (that’s a joke). This is a factory of both sandwiches and sausages, so that’s the order here. The salsiccia is tender, with just the right amount of snap. The provel goos into the rest of the sandwich in the way only provel can. 

Stop #3: Eovaldi’s Deli

The Sandwich: The Extra Special. “Roast beef, ham, mortadella, Genova (sic) salami, pepper cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles onions, pepperoncini, mayo, and house dressing.”

Here is where I likely lose any readers who’ve hung with me past my profession of love for mayonnaise on BBQ or my calling Gioia’s overrated: I have a “take it or leave it” attitude towards the classic Italian deli sandwich. I’m talking about a sandwich with a few layers of cured meats, served cold. Cold sandwiches are a high floor/low ceiling food for me. Generally, they’re pretty good. Rarely are they great. I also think most classic Italians from most delis taste basically the same. So this is a good one, but if you swapped it out with one from Urzi’s or Southwest Market or wherever else, I probably wouldn’t be able to tell. Halfway through the crawl, we’ll call a cold sandwich a palate cleanser. 

Pit Stop: Milo’s

The Drink: Bucket-uh-Busch

You deserve a break. Play a little bocce. We’re almost done, I promise. 

Stop #4:: John Viviano & Sons Grocers

The Sandwich: The Soprano. (As far as I can tell, no description of this sandwich exists online,which is kind of wonderful.  It’s a breaded eggplant sandwich with fresh mozzarella, tomato, and pesto, on muffaletta bread). 

You open the door to a quaint italian market. Narrow aisles overflow with the bounty of the Old Country. You squeeze past a cornucopia of pasta shapes and more types of olive oil than there are over-served grandparents at the St. Ambrose trivia night. You reach the open counter window in the back. Likely, nobody is there. The employees elsewhere in the store seem surprised you want a sandwich. One of them throws on an apron and hops behind the counter. You order the Soprano. After ordering, you pass through a doorway to take a seat at a booth that’s kind of in the kitchen. You watch them pan fry your eggplant. You have a good view because you’re kind of in the kitchen. Pretty soon, a behemoth of a sandwich is placed in front of you: layers of thinly sliced and breaded eggplant, thick chunks of fresh mozzarella, sliced tomatoes, and a smear of pesto, all on muffaletta bread the circumference of a soccer ball. It’s wonderful. There is no meat, so this counts as a light lunch. 

Stop #5: Adriana’s 

The sandwich: Big Jack. “Mortadella, an Italian lunchmeat, on Provolone Garlic Cheese Bread, topped with Olive Relish.”

I conclude with one more spicy take: Adriana’s is the best sandwich place on The Hill. And the Big Jack is their finest sandwich. It’s a sandwich that’s not afraid to have only  a few things going on. Read that sandwich description again: three things. Also, is there anything more endearingly Midwestern Italian than recognizing the need to define Mortadella further, and then deciding the description that will tantalize people into buying the sandwich is “an Italian lunchmeat?” It’s like bologna, but more ethnic! Mortadella is a fatty meat, but we’re not gonna get precious five sandwiches in. That’s why the sandwich comes on garlic cheese bread. Truly though, the ingredient that makes this sandwich sing is the olive relish. It’s briny, slightly sweet, and provides a wonderful contrast to its heavier counterparts. Mortadella is not a meat--sorry, Italian lunchmeat--I seek out, and I generally feel ho hum about olives, but together on this sandwich they work in beautiful harmony. The Big Jack meets the truest definition of a sandwich: the parts are good, but the whole is decidedly greater than the sum of those parts.

Hey look, you made it! You’ve walked almost two miles, roundtrip, which should help make up for the 4,000 calories worth of sandwich you just consumed. Take a moment to reflect on the decisions you’ve made in your life. 

Happy Mother's Day

I have a memory that constantly disappoints. I know there is nothing particularly special about this problem. I also know a slowly eroding memory is a fact of life. Neither of these truths bring me much comfort. While, ironically, I have a great brain for trivia--facts and tidbits that are, by definition, useless--the things I truly want to hold onto, the sound of a loved one’s laugh, the moments of truth and joy and love that make a life significant, slip away from me like sand between my fingers. Maybe it’s because, unlike trivia, those truly significant things are significant because they touch something beyond the concrete. Brushing up against these raw and eternal forces gives us a glimpse of what feels like capital-T Truth, but they elude being tied up into a tidy box for convenient recall.

I think this is why I’m really into quotes. A good quote can capture the essence of those special moments, and can carry so much weight on the frame of a few words. They aren’t memories, but they can serve as an anchor that brings me back to inhabit specific moments that “rhyme with God,” when things feel real and true. A bite-sized antidote to my leaky memory.

I’m sitting in a hospital room when I come across this one from the poet Mary Oliver:

“Ten times a day something happens to me like this - some strengthening throb of amazement - some good sweet empathic ping and swell. This is the first, the wildest, and the wisest thing I know: that the soul exists, and is built entirely out of attentiveness.”

I am in a hospital room because my wife is about to give birth to our son. I have time to read and discover that quote because she has just been induced and we are blissfully unaware of how painfully early in the birth process we actually are. I even have time to text the quote to my sister.

I am not as dumb as I look, so I will not complain about how hard the birth of our child is for little old non-uterus-having me. Except maybe one thing: I have never felt so profoundly inadequate as a human being as I do at my wife’s side during the birth of our son. There are certainly things you can do wrong as the father at the bedside, like describing anything you’re witnessing as either “easy” or “gross.” There is very little you can do right. You are there, but this is not your show. At best, your presence is noted and appreciated. So in between fetching cups of vegetable broth or half-heartedly trying to distract Sarah with the crappy crossword book that I bought from the hospital gift shop (which unforgivably reused clues from puzzle to puzzle, and maybe I’m still salty about that), I have little to do but be attentive. Attentive to the woman who had already done so much, and is now wringing every ounce of strength from her body to bring a new life into the world. Attentive to the fear in her eyes as we try to navigate confusing conversations with a rotating cast of medical professionals. To her determination as she just keeps going, somewhere past exhaustion and despair. And eventually, 40 (!!!) hours later, to the tiny, amazing, oh-so-nerve-wrackingly fragile creature that is our son. Hi, Paul.

The trials and exhaustion of new parenthood make attentiveness feel like an unattainable luxury. Like the New Year’s resolution I once made to run a mile in under six minutes, the idea quickly gets placed on the shelf where I keep my other naive aspirations.I grow to accept the paradox of being bombarded with profoundly amazing moments but being uniquely unable to appreciate them between diaper blowouts and “are you sure he’s eating enough?” After days spent just trying to keep the dang boy alive, and nights of waking up every 30 minutes to obsessively check his breathing, I have little motivation to reflect and steep in amazement. Maybe I should be writing poetry, but instead I appreciate the rare minutes I can steal to zone out next to Sarah on the couch, both of us flipping through our phones.

And then one night, a few months in, after another long day, I watch Sarah rock our son to sleep in her arms. Tightly swaddled and snug in her arms, he begins to drift off. I am extremely ready for him to fall asleep. With his bedtime would come our roughly 30-minute window to approximate relaxation and feign normalcy before we crashed ourselves. But going down quickly is not part of his plan. Just as his eyelids start sliding downward, he glances up and seems to suddenly remember where he is. Seeing the beautiful, enraptured face of his mom staring down at him, the realization dawns on him: “Wow! Mom’s here!” His eyes pop open, followed closely by a broad toothless smile unfurling across his face. Not ready for bed yet. Mom’s here. After this burst of excitement, drowsiness creeps in again, eyelids droop, his face relaxes….oh wait! Mom’s here! Wow! And the eyes pop open and the smile unfurls and here we go again.

And so they go for several minutes, mother and son lost in each other’s eyes, love drunk. Both tired, but not so tired that they are willing to take their eyes off each other. Sleep can wait. This mom, who had given so much, who wasn’t sure she was ready to be a mom, who is such a mom, smiling down at our son as tears stream down her face. Right there.

And I feel a good sweet emphatic ping and swell--and know, in a way I have never known before, that the soul exists, and is built entirely out of attentiveness.

Community, Covid, and Off-Street Parking

 For a couple months this fall, my default answer to the various forms of “What’s exciting in your life?” was “well... we’re building a garage.” It is a testament to both the monotony of Covid times and the lowered expectations of old age that I was able to deliver this answer sincerely. This was a project we knew we’d undertake at some point when we moved into our house 5 years ago. The final third of our postage stamp backyard was occupied by a mishmash of messiness: a gravel parking pad with wildflowers and weeds as high as an elephant’s eye,  part of a retaining wall, a “shed” that the previous owners crafted out of spare parts and wishful thinking, and the piece de resistance: a massive wooden gate, bowing precariously out toward the alley at a 30-degree angle. The gate was held closed in the middle by two wooden crossbeams that slid into slots. This is the type of gate they would bar at a lonely frontier fort in an old western movie, if that gate was also drunk and tired. 

All in all, this part of the yard represented what might optimistically be called an “opportunity for improvement.” Our beautiful 120-year-old home presented no shortage of projects, so this one languished on our “get to it someday” list. Then came a global pandemic. We suddenly found ourselves spending a whole lot more time at home, lucky enough to have steady employment, and valuing outdoor space more than we ever had. That unruly back third of our yard started to seem a lot more important. After several years of benign neglect, its time had come. 

So we had a garage built. That’s not totally accurate. We had a garage-port built. Also known as a California Carport (if you’re trying to sound fancy) or a hoosier gazebo (I made this one up), this was a covered structure that was open on three sides, much like a pavilion you’d see at a public park, but had a garage door on the alley side that totally enclosed the yard. It did what we needed it to and was a heck of a lot cheaper than a full garage. We’re not fancy folk, so we  fantasized about having it do double duty as a covered patio when we weren’t parking on it, a shaded refuge in which to enjoy a can of Busch on a humid July afternoon. Plus, the whole construction effort was therapeutic. During what felt like an interminable period of running in place, the project offered a refreshing sense of forward progress. 

And it was nice, for sure. According to Zillow, a site I definitely don’t check obsessively or anything, our house saw a bump in value as soon as the construction permits were awarded. More importantly, the project wrapped up just in time for the first really cold days of the year. It was a luxury being able to preheat the car and skip scraping before bringing our toddler son to daycare. Coming home from work and being able to see the light from the warm kitchen as I pulled in from the alley felt cozy, welcoming. The garage door closing behind my car definitively marked our space.  It was a comforting change of pace from fighting for a street spot and trying to remember street cleaning days. 

One day, I was pulling out to run an errand when our next door neighbor Linda flagged me down from the alley. Linda is a retiree grandmother who has lived in the duplex next door since well before we moved in. We have a good relationship with Linda, but we aren’t especially close. It’s a “have each other’s numbers and text occasionally about neighborhood happenings” relationship, not a “split a bottle of Chardonnay on the back deck” relationship (although I’m ready to take that step if you are, Linda). I was a little surprised to see her in my rearview standing in the alley and waving me down, but I stopped the car and got out. I feared this was some kind of emergency--her car wouldn’t start, or a break-in. Instead, I found her holding a wrapped present. “A Christmas gift, for your son.” Paul, our son, would always wave to Linda and her dog Free when our paths intersected out front. 

I thanked her profusely for the unexpected kind gesture and then hopped back into the car to complete whatever errand I was heading out on. Later that day I explained the sweet gift and the strange interaction to my wife. Her response: “That’s funny, Sam stopped me on the way to the park because he had a gift for Paul.” Sam, also a retiree, lives a few doors down from Linda. Sam is a fixture on our block. He can be found sitting on the front porch of his shotgun bungalow on any remotely nice day. He has a rotating crew of older gentlemen who often join him, pulling up lawn chairs or sitting on the front steps, enjoying a beer. We don’t even have each Sam’s phone number, but we always chat with him as we pass by on our stroller walks. 

Neither of these people have ever set foot in our home. I’m not sure they know our last names. Our relationship is one of hundreds of small moments--just waves on a walk or small talk while unloading groceries. No single interaction seems like much, but through all of them runs an undercurrent: I see you, I know you, and yes, I care about you. The accumulation of all these small moments is a pretty good definition of community, which is no small thing. It’s enough to make someone go out of their way to purchase and wrap a Christmas gift for the toddler who passes their house on the way to the park. It struck me that these were the moments I was now missing with my convenient few steps from garage to back door. Cozy, safely ensconced on my own property.  Separate. 

We had snow during the day today. I got home from work late and, seeing the couple inches of accumulation on our back path from the garage, felt terrible knowing that I hadn’t salted or shoveled the front sidewalk all day. As soon as our son went to bed I grabbed the shovel and headed out the front door. 

Stepping out into the crisp and quiet night, I found that an anonymous neighbor had already shoveled our front sidewalk. A straight band of cleared cement cut through the powdery snow, stopping, like a toddler on a walk, at each home along the way. It looked beautiful.