The Italian was originally invented invention in Portland, Maine. By a baker named Giovanni Amato some time in the early 1900s. But THIS Italian was born in a deli in Miami Shores, Florida some time in the late 90s. The deli? Norberto’s New York Style Deli. Eating one from Publix now, a decade after the deli closed its doors, an entire lifetime’s worth of memories comes rushing through my head. All connected to this one locally made sub.
I think now’s a good time to present to you all the ingredients it takes to create this Italian sub. As you’ll see, almost every item will come from a different person. The bread itself came from one family. I would pick that up. The ham, salami, and provolone came from another person. The homemade Italian dressing was from my boss’ wife. The spicy mustard you spread across the bottom piece of a slick of bread, that came off a Boar’s Head truck. And don’t forget the boss’ son bringing in out fresh vegetables everyday.
Pull out the ham, pull out the salami, pull out the provolone and you’d be meeting Orlando, our delivery guy for all things ham, salami, and cheese. Big cheeses. A Latin singer’s hair style. But a linebacker’s body. You could hear his dolly squeaking through the back door before hearing him greeting everyone. Orlando’s always an occasion to whip up a colada and get in some great talks while my boss made his order. We’d talk about everything. Sweet dude. Really helped us in leaner times. Still in touch.
Every morning it was my job to drive over to what was this German bakery. They called it Ness Kondetori (which basically means “pastry shop”). A mother and son ran it. The son stepped up when his father passed They were so sweet. They freshly baked our French bread every morning. At one point, the son married. And none too soon later his wife took of with their kid. Not long after that they closed their doors. I loved going there though. They had the coolest, tastiest items. And also these weird German magazines. Their French bread was the very foundation for this Italian sub.
Now it was my boy Nayo’s job to drive over to Eden Market. Cuban-run, family owned. And they had everything. Plus our veggies. Their cafeteria counter was the best. You’d bump elbows with all walks of life. You’d know their first name or their profession or some teacher you shared. Best. Fucking. Cafe con leches. Nayo, former breakdancer/current honorary Wu-Tang member, would throw back a colada shot, put all the veggies in his car, and get ‘em to the deli minutes after opening. These veggies are what made the lettuce and onion coupling status public. They provided the crunch for the bite, but also the net for the dressing.
That would be our homemade dressing. Nayo’s mom Teodora, short, short hair, pretty, she was a culinary badass. Back in New York, she used to cook for diplomats. Now to be honest, I don’t remember exactly what she used. I know there was garli, vinegar, olive oil, and something else. Dammit. Maybe black pepper. Whenever I was out of the stuff, I took the bottle back to the kitchen, and after enduring Teodora calling me a pendejo, she’d take the bottle. Only to return with it full again. A homemade elixir worthy of royalty.
I’ve left out the last two ingredients because I didn’t outline this article. However, they both do come from the same place. So we can bring this thing home together. I’ve already mentioned Boars Head’s criminally overlooked spicy mustard. How I ever thought to spread that stuff across the bottom half of the bread, I’ll never know. Did my boss, Norberto, a dashing mustached man, suggest it? Did Nayo? Teodora? Maybe a customer?
I really wish I could remember. But something about the collision between the dressing and this mustard transcends taste. And the final meat to be applied right under the provolone? Capicola!!! The gnarliest lookin slice of meat in the whole lot. It almost looks like it’s gonna attack you. It crumbles. It has sharp edges. And it’s always a pain in the ass to clean the slicer after using it. It sort of sticks to everything. I know I’m not selling it right, but it is, what I think, that which makes the Italian a real Italian wherever you go.
So while I try to defrag and buffer by eating my Italian, the idea that almost every part of it came from somewhere else with a story behind it. So many of the places and people aren’t around anymore. For various and usually sad reasons. But when I smell this thing, when I bite into this thing, memories fly through my mind like a spinning Rolodex. Sad is right. These days, there is no local deli. No place where people can commiserate, bs about anything, no risk of offending anyone, all the while they wait for their order.
Not many things contain the kind of power that this sub possesses. In the words of Indiana Jones, “It belongs in a museum!” Well, I think I can end this article with one question: Who knew an entire lifetime could be wrapped up in deli paper?
