May 2024

Frank Di Piero - Italian American Moment

Frank Di Piero was born in Chicago and is 100% Italian origin. He has traveled to Italy many times and attended two study abroad programs in Italy, one in Roma and one in Firenze. He is the former President of The Harlem Avenue Italian & American Business Association and was on the committee to start an Italian American Studies Program at Loyola University Chicago. He is a Director of Casa Italia, and LITTLE ITALY Cenetta. He is a volunteer at Casa Italia Library and the Italian Cultural Center.

It goes back to my childhood when Grandma beckoned me with her crooked finger as I passed her open door on my way to our third-floor tenement. “ Ed-a-Wood, come in-a and hav-a meat-a-ball sang-weech.” Sang-weech. It was common among first-generation Italians to approximate that N-D-W combination of sounds, which don't exist in their native language; so sangweech it was.

I pivoted on the ball of my foot to dash to her stove’s warmth and aromas. Ah, the gravy. And the meatballs. Grandma’s were the best. Yes, it was a Sunday morning, and she was making her gravy for Sunday dinner. It was her gravy because gravy makers are possessive. And it was gravy because that’s what Italians called their sauce.

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And so she gently placed that meatball, so well married to her gravy, onto the heel of soft Italian bread and ladled it. She pointed to her table. “Sit. I bring.” And so she did.

The Grandma

I tucked the mopine into the neck of my white Sunday shirt, sat, and devoured her sangweech. And when I got up to leave, she murmured, “And-a, you nevah eat a meat-a-ball outside your house.” I heard that frequently but was never sure why the old-timers believed it.

The Meatball Eater

In those days it likely was a folk tale. Or maybe it was because the cooks trusted only their meatballs. Or maybe it was because the immigrants trusted no one. Or maybe it was, “Mine are the best, so why would you try another’s?” I paused to ponder their philosophy. Dad never believed it.

He told me that he went to Angelo’s Restaurant on Federal Hill when he was a kid and had meatball sandwiches. Yes, true. Angelo’s just celebrated its 100^th anniversary. Interestingly, the restaurant has a unique twist when it serves meatballs. They are served with French Fries. Whatever it takes. Meatballs comfort howsoever they are presented.

To answer the question of whether meatballs are truly Italian, we need to take a look at the precise origins of them. Many will claim that meatballs originated in Italy, while others say that they were an American creation. The answer to this question is neither! The meatball is thought to have originated in ancient Persia. The earliest recorded meatball dish, kofta, was created by rolling leftover ground lamb into large balls. The balls were glazed with egg yolk and saffron before cooking.

Variations began popping up in China at around 200 BC. Others traced to ancient Rome, with several recipes found in an old cookbook. Depending on what type of meatballs you eat, the origins will be vastly different.

When did those hefty meatballs, now loved in America, become a staple? Maybe between 1880 and 1920 when approximately four million Italian immigrants arrived. The food the immigrants ate in Italy differed greatly from what they were accustomed to. In America, rather than a luxury, meat was plentiful. Thus, families were able to integrate more beef into their diets, and the meatball became king. But what about the sandwich?

The sandwich consists of meatballs (ground beef or pork), cooked in marinara sauce (our gravy) and is served on Italian bread.

It’s difficult to say where it was invented but suffice it to say that it likely was not in Italy. More likely, it originated in the United States at the turn of the 20th century by those same immigrants adapting recipes for their new environment. The first meatball sandwiches may have been sold by street vendors in cities with large Italian populations, such as New York and Philadelphia. Others claim that the meatball sandwich was inspired by the Swedish meatball dish popularized by Scandinavian immigrants.

I love meatball sandwiches, my ‘go-to’ when I need food comfort. Ahhh . . . meatballs seasoned with herbs and spices to give them a rich, savory flavor with tomato sauce or marinara adding a tangy, sweet, and savory element served on soft bread crispy on the outside; a texture complementing the tender meatballs and sauce cradled within.

Sometimes if I am adventuresome or very hungry, I'll have my sandwich topped with melted cheese, usually mozzarella. The cheese adds creaminess and richness to every bite. But it’s not necessary.

A hearty meatball married to a savory gravy in a soft bun can stand on its own. For me, a soft torpedo roll that allows the meatballs to indent the bread and marry the sauce, keeping the sandwich moist and the meatball from popping out with a bite is perfect. A bad combination can result in a soggy mess which, even under the worst of circumstances, can be quite delicious.

The meatball must stay put with the first bite. A meatball that escapes the bread is . . . well . . . unacceptable. Oh, it’s OK if a little sauce spills out onto your shirt. It becomes a badge of honor as in, ‘Ya had a meatball sandwich, eh?”

Nowadays, I need to eat what I desire as long as it’s good for my health. It satisfies me. It lifts my spirit. It nourishes my soul especially if it connects me to my past, like Grandma’s kitchen. It boosts my mood. It evokes a feeling of warmth.

Nowadays, I frequent the meatball sandwich. My tastes revert to nostalgia, that nostalgia that, in fact, IS what it used to be.

The Photo Angel - Kate Kelley

Meet Herbert J. Vercelli of Somerville, Massachusetts. I purchased his portrait (taken on Tremont Street in Boston) at an antique store in West Bridgewater, Massachusetts this afternoon. I am happy to report that Herbert’s photo will be on his way back to his excited niece tomorrow morning! 

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