The Hoagie Lesson

These were no ordinary sandwiches; they were leaning towers of Pisa, Taj Mahals, Sistine Chapels of texture and flavor.

Ever since I was a little girl, my dad and I shared a voracious appetite. Little did I know that my appetite would lead to a valuable life lesson.

As I recall, I was quite small at the time, but not so little that I was a toddler. Let’s say I was 5.

I had found my way into the kitchen, a favorite place where I could usually be found exploring. Maybe I had heard banging around — a sure sign Dad was in there. Maybe I was also hungry. When wasn’t I? So, I entered the kitchen, and sidled up to where that action was.

It was at the counter where jars were in disarray, deli packages — that to this day are as enticing to me as Christmas presents — were also piled around enticingly opened. There was a loaf of bread and multiple spoons and knives. My dad always believed in having the right tools for every job. There he was, at the counter, staring down at his work ahead, his brow knitted, keenly concentrated. One could easily have mistaken him for a chemist working furiously on a new formula. This was not at all how it was to observe Mom in the kitchen. Dad seemed more messy and yet somehow more dedicated.

Dad’s kitchen activities were full-blown experiments that he approached with great hunger and gusto. While he wasn’t necessarily a good cook, it was nonetheless exciting to watch my father in action, always an adventure to smell and taste his concoctions. Nothing was under seasoned or basic when Dad was making food. I must’ve watched him for at least an hour. He was building sandwiches. But these were no ordinary sandwiches; they were leaning towers of Pisa, Taj Mahals, Sistine Chapels of texture and flavor. They already looked and smelled irresistible to me even if I knew they might knock me over with flavor once I actually got them in my mouth.

I clocked his every move, not saying a word. Dad was grunting and mumbling his process of ingredient selection and composition aloud. He was not one to keep thoughts to himself. I imagine he had an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth as he worked. He often did this. It was getting damp and its filter smushed beneath his jaw, but it didn’t matter. “A smoke was a smoke. We were lucky to have them in Vietnam.” Undoubtedly, he was also accompanied by a few cans of beer to fuel the magic show.

My eyes were widening with each additional layer and condiment. Maybe my stomach betrayed me with a growl. Dad glanced at me a few times, not once breaking his concentration or zeal. Finally, at the plating stage of his extravagant snack with a fistfull of salted potato chips, he proceeded to the taste test. As he picked up this beastly hoagie, contents exploding out the sides, and chewing audibly with great relish, his deep-set eyes, black as night met my own wide ones gleaming with hope. I managed to squeak out, “That sure looks good, Daddy.” He continued his exaggerated enjoyment until he finished swallowing. Despite his looming barbarian stature and dress, Dad was never known to eat with his mouth full. After a mighty swallow, followed by a generous gulp of beer and a great, open-mouthed exhale of satisfaction, he squared his shoulders to me and pronounced, “It is good.” Then he picked up his sandwich to resume feasting.

I was crestfallen. Daddy hadn’t offered me any, not even a tiny bite or chip. Wasn’t it obvious how badly I wanted to try his majestic creation? Why else would I have stayed through the symphony of cutlery and packaging and jar lids clanking about?

I glared now. He kept eating without making eye contact. He ate as intently as he had composed with utter focus. This affair was far too serious and urgent to sit down. Eventually, he gave me another sidelong glance. He carefully transferred the sandwich to his left hand, which was then flopping like a fish and spilling the mass of goodies precariously balanced within. With his right hand dramatically placed on his hip, he said in slow, steady words, as if delivering a speech, “Gina, if you want something, you have to ask for it.”

I was a little stunned. The food god has spoken. Would he be benevolent? Would he be punishing? A beat or two passed. He kept his gaze locked to mine, challenging me. I knew that cue well. It was my turn to act. He was waiting.

My voice felt small and choked, yet my hunger was, by then, so great. I ventured in my most mature, low tone this desperate plea, “Daddy, can I have a bite of your sandwich, please?”

Another beat passed then he smiled his broad full-toothed smile, teeth white against his tanned olive skin. “Why, of course, little Gina Bina. All you had to do was ask. Here — ” and he held out to me that gaping wonder of meat, cheese, pickles, and spreads.

I think of this moment every time I’m reluctant to ask for what I want no matter what it is. And, I love a good hoagie.

This hoagie was above all, the most valuable and delicious lesson my dad ever taught me.