I can still recall the specific, heavy weight of a paper-wrapped Italian sub resting on my lap during a rainy Detroit afternoon.
There is a primal sense of comfort that comes from a shop where the floorboards creak and the air is so thick with the scent of simmering garlic that it feels like a physical embrace.
Growing up in Michigan, you learn that the most authentic red sauce isn’t found in a building with a valet stand, but in the ones with a neon “Open” sign and a screen door that slaps shut…