Single-handed Submarine

I was visiting a friend in my old hometown when we decided to have a sub for dinner. Submarine sandwiches can be found anywhere; national chains have standardized the product so that now a sandwich bought in Seattle is identical to one from Miami. But Jack and I grew up in a different era. When we were boys one sub shop distinguished itself from another by the freshness of its bread, the selection and quality of its cheeses and cold cuts, the ratio of ingredients, and the order in which they were stacked to build the finished sandwich.

We wanted a sub like the ones we grew up with. Whether those were “authentic” subs was a difficult question to answer. Traditional subs featured Italian ham, prosciutto salami and provolone cheese, along with lettuce, tomato and onion. Regional variations might include various other meats, cheeses and condiments. The history of the submarine sandwich is cloaked in legend. Some called it a derivative of the hoagie, a favorite of Italian immigrants in Philadelphia. Others insisted that both sandwiches were identical to the hero of northern New Jersey. My favorite origin story relates how Dominic Conti gave the name “submarine” to the sandwich he made and sold in his Patterson, New Jersey grocery store in the early 1900’s.

We decided to go looking for an old-fashioned sub shop. If such a place were still to exist we would not find it on a main thoroughfare or even in a strip center located on a side street. The shop we wanted would be in the original location it had occupied since opening decades earlier, built on a corner in an ethnic neighborhood of row houses. We didn’t know just where that original 1950’s style neighborhood sub shop might be hidden, but we would know it when we found it.

The city had changed much in the decades since our childhood. Some of the old neighborhoods were hardly recognizable. Former corner groceries had been converted to video rentals stores. Restaurants that once had featured manicotti and baked zitti now offered Mexican, Chinese or Vietnamese menus. We abandoned the streets we knew and ventured into areas that had been too distant for two boys on bikes to explore. After an hour we nearly gave up and were about to settle for burgers when we happened upon a scene out of the past.

At the intersection of two quiet residential streets, a single business occupied a corner, bathing the sidewalk in a red glow from the neon letters that filled the plate-glass window. They flickered ever-so slightly, almost hypnotically, “Francetti’s Italian Deli”; and painted just below the neon tubes in gold letters, “Since 1947.” We had found it.

A bell on a coiled spring above the door announced our arrival. Inside familiar smells, Italian bread, spiced salami, oregano, garlic greeted us. “I’ll be right with you,” called the young woman behind the counter. We gazed about the room, lost in nostalgia. Along one wall ran three wooden booths, above each a framed picture of a village square with its cathedral. Three small round tables provided additional seating. Two refrigerated glass cases stood to the side of the cash register. One was filled with meats, cheeses and containers of fresh salads and slaws. The other held eight round containers of assorted Breyer’s Ice Cream. On the other side of the register was the cutting board where the clerk built sandwiches behind a glass shield.

On the back wall was a menu and price list, above it a sign that promised, “Meats and Cheese Sliced to Order, Salads Made Daily, Fresh Baked Bread.” Below were a soda fountain dispenser and three electric mixers for milk shakes. Missing were coolers filled with soft drink bottles and racks of potato chips and pretzel bags. The shop was like a comfortable, working museum.

We made our choices from the menu and waited for the clerk to take our order. As she turned toward us the sound of Jack’s gasp told me that we had noticed it together, she was missing a hand. The left arm was severed above the wrist, leaving a slender forearm that tapered to a blunt point. I struggled to hide a puzzled expression as I wondered how she could manage to slice the meat, cheese, tomatoes and bread and then assemble them into a sandwich.

“Do you know what you want?” she smiled.
“I’ll have a special Italian with oil and vinegar and hot peppers, a Coke and chips, for here.”
Jack added, “Make mine the same, no peppers.”
“Have a seat anywhere, I’ll bring it right over.”

Jack and I stayed right where we were. We watched in fascination as she lifted a block of ham and placed it in the meat carver. In seconds she had a stack of slices and reached for the salami, then the cheese. She worked as quickly as anyone I had seen working a deli counter. After adjusting the thickness setting she sliced a tomato, then an onion, removing the dried outer skin afterward. She carried the stack to the sandwich board and selected two rolls from a bin. Steadying each loaf with her forearm she sliced them quickly with a long knife and spread them open side by side. By now we were staring as she quickly continued.

A splash of olive oil then a layer of cheese, then the meat spread evenly; the subs were coming together rapidly. Now some ground pepper, then tomatoes, onions, a hand full of shredded lettuce from a hidden plastic container, hot peppers on one, oregano and vinegar sprinkled on both, and then a final layer of salami spread across the lettuce. They looked delicious, my mouth watered as I watched them completed.

She positioned two dinner plates to the side and dropped a handful of chips on each. Then she turned back to the sandwiches. I saw the challenge at once; how would she manage to single-handedly fold those split rolls piled high with cold cuts, cheese and vegetables into submarine sandwiches. The difficulty lay in making a crease across the top of the layered ingredients then holding them in place as the two bread halves were brought together evenly. A simple solution would be to rest the back of a knife across the top and press down while folding the sandwich around the knife, but that required two hands. Jack and I stole an expectant glance toward each other.

And then she did the unexpected. Without a moment’s hesitation she laid her bare, narrow forearm lengthwise along the stack of cold cuts and, in one fluid motion, folded the roll around her arm, then pulled it smoothly out the end; first my sandwich, then Jack’s. We stood in stunned silence, our mouths gaping, as she looked up, winked at us, then wiped her arm clean with a paper towel.

We sat in the booth and ate in silence, too embarrassed to begin the conversation that eventually would last the entire drive home. We were amazed, impressed, filled with respect. A young woman had shrugged off a misfortune that might have left a strong man bitter for life. To her it seemed hardly an inconvenience. I wondered if I was capable of such strength of spirit, to continue my life and live it in full after my future had been altered forever in an instant.

Decades have passed since Jack and I met the brave Italian girl in the corner sub shop. I can remember every detail of the evening; the pattern of the tablecloth, the buzz of the neon sign in the window, the smiles we shared instead of words as we enjoyed our dinner. I’ve eaten plenty of subs since that one; many were just as good but none as memorable.