To Say Nothing of the Sangwiich
Growing up in an Italian-American family, where things like prosciutto, calamari, braciole, and mozzarella were pronounced PRO-JOOT, CAL-A-MAR, BRAD-JOEL, and MOO-ZAH-RELL, there was much emphasis on meals revolving around Italian-American classics as staples and treats. When we went out to eat, we went to a local mom and pop Italian joint, where the table items exclusively (because Italian-Americans can be painstakingly traditional) consisted of a cold antipasto (AHN-TEE-BAST) made of pickle-cured vegetables, known as Giardiniera (GAR-DIN-EAR-AHH), provolone, pecorino, and fresh mozzarella cheeses, and a medley of cured meats, like the aforementioned prosciutto, salami, capicola (Pronunciation), and another spicy cured meat, probably soppressata (SO-BREH-SAAT); fried calamari; chicken parmigiana (PAR-MEE-JOHN); veal saltimbocca (SAL-TIM-BOOK); and copious amounts of pasta with red sauce (errrr gravy, rather)--we were a ziti family.
No matter where we went, and we had about three places in the rotation (here; this place, where I actually cooked for a short period of time; and this one) including two rival spots reserved solely for special occasions (Vincenzo's and Carpaccio's). The meals were always the same. Always damn good, but with little to no variation. The only variation being that the latter two were more expensive. This is an important characteristic to note when it comes to Italian-American cuisine (not unlike American Chinese food): if you’ve seen one menu, you’ve seen them all.
My favorite part of these meals, though, was the cold antipasto plates. This is because I’m a pure junkie for cured meat, cheese, and bread, which leads me to the point of this whole thing: the Italian Sandwich. You can probably imagine that if dinner out (or in) consisted of either pizza on Fridays (Catholicism) or the parmigianas of the Italian-American world, then the lunches were similar, just more handily between bread and featured either the items found on a cold antipasto plate or entree favorites alike.
The Italian sandwich (SANG-WEECH), properly contains capicola, soppressata, salami, provolone cheese, shredded iceberg lettuce, sliced tomato, giardiniera, olive oil, and red vinegar. The variation that I’ve come across rarely messes with the meats, with maybe prosciutto added to the mix at a premium, as well as slicing mozzarella (processed) or sliced fresh mozzarella. Maybe you’ll find marinated olives or marinated sundried tomatoes here or there, but the standard is cheese, meat, pickled and unpickled veg, and a soaking of oil and vinegar.
While I don’t eat the type of Italian-American food discussed earlier that much anymore (couple times a year max), I love a good cold cut sandwich, particularly with cured italian meats. So when I moved to Jersey City two years ago, I was pumped for all the Italian-American culturestill lingering, especially the snacks.
Enter Second Street Bakery and “The #5.”
I’d heard of this joint through the internets, mainly food review sites of the area, but Second Street Bakery itself has no traditional internet presence, so I really had no idea what they fully offered. I did know, however, of a particular sandwich that reviewers online raved about: the “Sausage Bread Sandwich,” #5 on the cold sandwich menu. So my girlfriend and I went one Sunday for lunch to check it out. The sun shone brightly that day.
The #5 is righteous: Genoa salami, prosciuttini, fresh mozzarella (in house), roasted red peppers with balsamic on sausage bread. If you’ve never had a stuffed bread before, it’s a giant loaf of bread with other foods baked into it, like pepperoni, eggplant, sausage, meatballs, cheese, chicken parm, and the like. I’ve only had stuffed breads on their own, because a stuffed bread is a food event on its own, but THESE GUYS MADE A SANDWICH WITH IT. Sausage-stuffed bread as vessel.
The bread is soft and puffy on the inside and crusty and dense on the outside, which on its own makes a hell of a venue for the killer concoction of goods it holds together. But the bread also has the glory of chunks, HUNKS, of sausage and sausage essence throughout.
This sandwich is revelatory (just ask our fearless editor, Emma). The glory of this item is about the subtle pleasantness of the contents, because, frankly, when I first unwrapped this beast, I thought easily about how it looked to be “over-the-top.” It’s actually surprisingly soft and lighter, a lot lighter, than it seems--this is largely because everything is homespun. The flavors of the sandwich are complementary without too much sweetness, fattiness, or acidity, which, let's face it, would most definitely present itself as too powerful and robust if put together using items that were canned. AND IT’S $5.95.
A year in, and I was eating this thing once-a-month, sometimes more. I thought: “I’ve found the best sandwich I’ve ever had.” I made that discovery, which, as sandwich lovers alike know, is no small feat. And it delivered every single time. Total sandwich bliss. That’s where I was.
But then I met Frankie Antipasto and “The Sandwich.”
This piece is about these two sandwiches, but you cannot talk about this one, “The Sandwich,” without talking about its creator, Frankie. First, I’ve never met anyone that embodies Italian-American food culture more than this man. Secondly, and most importantly, I’ve never met a person more passionate about food in my entire life. And I don’t mean esoteric, Mark Bittman, Pellegrino List shit. I mean true, deep Americana food passion.
I met Frankie at a weekly farmers market in Jersey City a year or so ago, the site of my first “The Sandwich” experience. To call Frankie a showman is like calling Houdini a magician. The man may practice in a seemingly similar arena as others, but he’s doing something of which no one else could even conceive.
We met, because Frankie spotted my Mets cap and instantly engaged. I believe the way he caught my attention, from some ten yards away, was blurting “SON! DO YOU KNOW WHICH TEAM WAS BETTER THAN THE ‘86 METS?” Rhetorical probably, I thought, but I was just hoping that I wasn’t going to get a lecture on how much better a franchise the Yankees were than the Mets. “THE ‘88 TEAM WAS SENSATIONAL! MADDONE. WHAT A TRAGEDY!”
He had my attention.
We rapped about Doc, David Cone, and how absurd it was, though I was barely online in 1988, that they lost to the Dodgers, especially when they were 10-1 against them during the regular season. We were talking Mets so specifically and voraciously, that I hadn’t noticed his table, which was jammed with long, thick tubes of homemade hot and mild sopressata, a bin filled with homemade ricotta, aged provolone, and pecorino cheeses, coolers filled with homemade sausage, and a large area with rolls and the makings of sandwiches. I snapped to.
He, again, had my attention.
The genius of “The Sandwich” is two-fold: the medley from top layer to bottom and the OMGarlic, which the gorgeous roll absorbs in brilliance. The top layer of salty, sweet, acidic eggplant, tart sundried tomatoes, and soppressata are immediately experienced as one union, but when that union meets the provolone and fresh mozzarella (the mozz with barely any salinity), the combination is as pleasant as any marriage of flavors that I’ve ever had in a sandwich. It’s an amalgamation of both flavor interplay and textural bliss, particularly from the cooling consistency of the fresh mozzarella. And the bread, of course, is utterly perfect. It’s insanity.
The other insane part about “The Sandwich” is that it’s $14 with probably $20 worth of ingredients on it (for the record, I’d pay $30). The man takes a loss with each build. Furthermore, to say that it’s laborious is an understatement, as each facet of “The Sandwich,” aside from the roll, from the meat to the cheese to the eggplant, is Frankie-made. The man’s a saint. A saint.
When I say that I’ve never had sandwiches as good as these two, I really mean it (self-hyperbole is frequent in food speak). The surprise subtlety and vessel-novelty of the “#5,” and its value, is unparalleled. But “The Sandwich” is a sangwiich on steroids--without the rage. It’s the best sandwich I’ve had.
I’d love to call these two “throwbacks” to Italian-American food culture, but they’re actually throwing-back to their own invention in interpretation of the culture (especially “The Sandwich”), which at this point for me is a totem of a very particular culture that’s been relegated to a punchline and, especially in Jersey City’s current homogenous makeover, is disappearing in front of my own eyes.
Pat Marino appreciates flying too close to the sun on the wings of pastrami.