My father rarely drove us to school, he worked the second shift and usually was asleep when I left in the morning. But sometimes for whatever reason, he would volunteer to drive me and my friends. Of course, by this time I was used to my dad’s driving but my friends were often times terrified when we pulled up and saw my father behind the wheel. My father drove a delivery truck for a company called DHL. No matter where or when he drove he always did so like he was in a big hurry. Whether it was going to the grocery store or grabbing coffee at Dunkin Donuts, he drove like somebody was timing him. This was probably the result of driving around downtown Chicago all day trying to deliver packages as fast as humanly possible.
That early spring day he was behind the wheel of our maroon Ford LTD, complete with pine tree air freshener, driving my friends and me to school. I remember looking at him and thinking how focused he was on driving, he was leaning into the steering wheel, looking intently at the road, almost like he was at Indy or something. We were driving north down Halsted and we had just passed 18th street. There was a Streets and Sanitation garbage truck in front of us and he wasn’t going fast enough for my father apparently. He was driving really close to the truck and it was making me nervous. I looked in the back seat and I saw abject fear on my friend’s faces. But then my dad saw an opening. As we approached a viaduct there were no more parked cars, so my father swerved to the right and sped up to try and pass the truck. The thing is, as he sped up we were approaching the viaduct which only had one lane. Now we were driving right next to the truck and the viaduct was getting closer and closer and I could see that one of my friends had closed his eyes. I was trying to be calm, thinking that surely he would slam on the brakes soon but no, he floored it. Thank God that Ford had put a V8 engine in that thing because we shot past that truck and my dad swerved back to the left just avoiding smashing into a huge concrete pillar.
Then he laughed. He laughed. My father could be a rather stern man and wasn’t prone to showing much emotion, so when he laughed out loud it was unusual. I laughed too but more so the laugh of someone that has just escaped injury or possible disfigurement. When we got to school my friends bolted from the car and ran inside. Later I remember one of them telling me “Dude your old man is fucking nuts.”
I felt bad about that morning so I told my friends that if they wanted, I would treat them to an Italian beef sandwich for lunch. They both looked at me like I had lost my mind. “Didn’t I know that going off-campus for lunch was against the rules?” I did know but I didn’t care. I felt that if someone puts an Italian beef place behind your school, it’s a sign that you should be eating there. Al’s Italian Beef was so close to my high school you could literally throw a stone there. However, it was considered off-campus and this was not allowed during school hours.
However, there was a gravel-strewn trail next to the newly built outdoor running track subversively called the Ho Chi Min trail. Instead of supplying Viet Cong with ammunition and supplies, it supplied hungry students with Italian subs and pizza. I had heard from many upperclassmen that the worst that could happen if you got caught was JUG ( Judgement Under God, you have to love Jesuits). JUG was a form of detention that usually consisted of staying after school and copying the student rulebook by hand or something like that. I had been a few times and its biggest deterrent was that it was incredibly boring, but I wasn’t necessarily terrified of getting JUG. I felt it was most definitely worth an Italian beef.
When it came time I knew I had to find a way of walking through the parking lot, and behind the track without seeming obvious. Once I made it to the Ho Chi Min trail I would be golden, the view was obstructed by trees and bushes. I had tried to recruit a couple of people to join me throughout the day but they all said they already brought their own lunch. Chickens. When lunchtime finally arrived I pretended I left something in my car (I didn’t have a car) and walked casually and calmly through the parking lot, hugging the wall, until I had made it to the track. There was no one there so I picked up the pace a bit until I made it to the trail. My heart was beating hard and I could actually smell the beefy aroma of Al’s as I got closer. When I got there however I saw that every other working-class guy in the city apparently wanted a sandwich too and the place was packed. There were construction workers, truck drivers, garbage men, even a few suits. For some reason, I always thought it was cool to throw your tie over your shoulder as you ate your sandwich, not sure why. I pushed my way through and somehow made it inside but there was still a very long line. Now I was starting to get nervous, what if a teacher or worse one of the Jesuit brothers decided to grab an Italian beef today?
When I finally ordered, It occurred to me that I had no place to actually sit down and eat this thing. Also, the clock was ticking and I was getting more paranoid by the second that I would be spotted on my way back. But when my order came up and I grabbed the paper bag containing my beef and an order of fries, the excitement pushed away all those feelings of anxiety. I decided to just sit on the curb right outside, I was hungry and didn’t really care at this point. As soon as I opened the now greasy bag the smell of beef and garlic enveloped me and my mouth started watering. I always get sweet peppers and giardiniera on the side. Their giardiniera has just the right amount of crunch and heat, it’s a perfect foil to the braised beef. Giardiniera, to me, is an example of how ingenious people can be, making something that tastes so good with so few ingredients. The one thing I didn’t think about was how messy those sandwiches were and I had to duck inside to grab more napkins, I didn’t want to return to class with a grease stain on my shirt. I also didn’t really want my mom to know I wasn’t eating the sandwiched she made for me. She would have taken one look at a greasy shirt and figured out what I was doing. Also, I learned how to properly eat an Italian beef, you have to lean over a bit and hold the beef away from you kind of like eating a taco. I inhaled that beef sandwich and decided to hurry back, even though I wanted to lie down and take a nap.
I retraced my steps and to my surprise, there was literally no one around. I emerged from the trail looking both ways but the parking lot was empty. I walked into the building and made my way to my locker, recovered my books, and headed towards Chemistry class which I absolutely hated. I took my seat, and once the teacher started talking I leaned my head on my hands and closed my eyes. It was an old trick a senior had taught me, it looks like you’re taking notes but you’re actually sleeping. Genius.
Later when I told my friends what I had done it seemed so dull and ordinary. It was almost too easy. I pleaded with them to go with me another time, but they waved me off. But encouraged by my success I took to heading out to Taylor street more often. I explored the side streets in search of sandwiches. I found Fontano’s subs, Carm’s, Mario’s of course, and also Conte di Savoia.
I loved trying these new places, at least new to me. I especially loved trying new things, I first had buffalo mozzarella at one of those places. I tried pesto, gelato, marinated artichokes, amaretti cookies, all kinds of things that were new to me. I didn’t know why, I just knew it excited me to discover new things. I was fascinated by the food but also the places themselves. The jars of roasted peppers, giardiniera, tomato sauce, olive oil, vinegar, and cookies. Even though I grew up around Italian food, there were still things I had never seen or tasted. I especially loved all the different kinds of meat. Prosciutto, capicolla, mortadella, cotto salami, and bologna sliced super thin were utterly deliscious.
There was something that occurred to me when I went to these places, I liked being there. I liked the smells, the sounds, Al’s smelled like garlic, oregano, and roasting meat. Watching the cooks work was endlessly fascinating to me. There’s an old school Italian place Tufano’s not too far from Fontano’s. If you walk by in the afternoon you will smell the tomato sauce simmering, garlic, and oregano pull you inside. That smell, of intense tomato flavor, makes me feel at home. There was a pizza place in Bridgeport, the name of which I forgot because it closed when I was still very young. But I remember walking by and the intense aroma of the sauce there, oregano, fennel, garlic, it hit you hard as soon as you turned the corner. To this day when I smell simmering tomato sauce, I think of that pizza place.
These kinds of places aren’t groundbreaking from a culinary standpoint. But at the time I found them exciting and even thrilling, remember in the 80s balsamic vinegar was considered exotic. I feel like if you could walk outside Carm’s on a busy weekday afternoon, close your eyes and inhale, you will absolutely run inside and order a meatball sub. They have tacos too!. No, of course, they're not the most authentic, but they taste good. When I take long morning walks, I walk by these places and remember the excitement of secretly scarfing down a sandwich, away from prying Jesuit eyes. And yes I got caught a couple of times, but it was worth every bite.
Fontano’s was the TRUTH