I grew up in the heart of Chicago’s old Italian neighborhood. In the fall Our Lady of Pompeii Church held a carnival where I ate Italian beef sandwiches made with bread so crusty it took several bites to get through. At De Leo’s Bakery I bought, for a nickel, a slice of freshly baked Italian bread dipped in gravy made in the back room. At home I begged for the crustiest part of the loaf, the end.
In 1951, when I was eleven, we moved to a neighborhood where no one ate like we did. For lunch I brought a brown paper bag holding a sandwich made with sardines, fried green peppers, or tuna steeped in olive oil from Genoa. As I walked the six blocks to my new school, I prayed to Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, to protect me.
