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.
