Freshman on The Hill: Everyday Hero (Sandwich)

Photo by María Helena Carey

Food is among the most primal creature comforts, and among the more hotly debated ones.  Some people gravitate toward things that became the childhood trauma of others: I cannot explain what people would ever find delicious about marmite or kimchi; at the same time, I cannot believe that anyone would hate cilantro, fried blood sausage, or oxtails.  Food defines us and makes us feel at home.  In the wake of our heated post about the Taylor deli, I hesitated at first to write about Mangialardo and Sons.  I mean, how many posts about delis can one blog handle, right?  Also, tastes being what they are, everyone’s opinion is slightly different when it comes to good food– especially good food that reminds you of your childhood, of good times, or of home.

And then I had one of Mangialardo’s meatball sandwiches, and I felt compelled to share my love.  As a Capitol Hill newcomer, I obviously have a lot of catching up to do.

Mangialardo and Sons has been a Capitol Hill establishment since 1953, and they’ve been ready, able and willing to make your cold cut dreams and hoagie fantasies come true at 1317 Pennsylvania Avenue, SE, since 1958.  In 2003, one of the “and sons” was interviewed for the Ruth Ann Overbeck Capitol Hill History Project, and it’s a wonderful window into the neighborhood. After the matriarch of the Mangialardo family was done raising the children, she started to manage the store– meaning a shift for the family, who formerly sold vegetables out of a truck.  Back when it first opened, Mangialardo and Sons was an Italian food grocery store, with people coming from Maryland and Virginia to buy the ample selection of Italian cheeses and meats, and homemade sausage.  Alas, as Washington experienced tough times and fewer people would come into or shop in the city, the store pared down its operations to the bare-bones sandwich shop operation of today.  And bare-bones it is: the small space is only filled by the order and pay counters; fridges with beverages and racks of chips; and a wall with badges from policemen and firemen that mesmerized my preschooler. They are open for a precious few hours, and you may only pay with cash.

You can make conversation with all the construction workers, office workers, and law enforcement types waiting for their orders; incidentally, it was a firefighter friend of mine who first told me about this place.  You can even allow yourself a giggle (or a guffaw or a chuckle, if giggles are not your thing) when you read that their marquee sandwich is called the G-Man.  Certainly, that’s a sandwich that my Italian stepfather –a former g-man and maker of most excellent meatballs– would have liked to sink his teeth into.

Once you get your order back, wrapped tightly in a double layer of butcher paper, that’s when the fun begins.  It’s a little like Christmas morning peeling back the paper and then the aluminum foil, to reveal deliciousness and greatness.  My meatball sub wasn’t going to win any beauty contests in its slightly smashed state, but once I took a bite, it took me back to cracking jokes and eating the meatballs my stepdad used to make.  And that kind of feeling is something that you can’t thank enough.