by Diana Cercone
There are few things that a person will travel any distance for. A true love? Sure, that tops anyone’s list. So, too, does a dream job. For me, though, coming up fast as a tight third is a great-tasting Italian hoagie. OK, I know what you’re thinking. You understand the first two but are having difficulty buying the third. And you’re going to tell me you can simply stroll to your town’s sandwich shop or take a short drive to your nearest convenience store and either pick up a pre-made hoagie (probably from last night or, worse, trucked in that morning) from the cold case or get in line at the deli to place your order (where, might I remind you, you choose from a numbered menu). But these are not Italian hoagies.
A true Italian hoagie is not just a sandwich thrown together by some stipulated formula of cold cuts and cheeses. It is not a predesigned and pre-measured meal. A true hoagie is a work of art, a labor of love—and one made to be enjoyed, savored and, yes, even dreamt about. Not to mention one that pays homage to the history and traditions of the true Italian hoagie.
Mario Marozzi of Mazzanti’s Market in Bristol understands this. But don’t think you’re going to get a hoagie your way here. That’s just not going to happen. His Italian hoagie is made the way he likes it—and only the way he likes it. And with only four ingredients: prosciutto, provolone, capicola and sliced tomatoes. “You don’t like that,” he says, cocking his head towards the front of his store, “you know where to find the door.”
The door he’s referring to is the original glass and wooden front door (after that is the screen door) of his family’s grocery store which his grandfather, Guido Mazzanti and his wife, Elvira, opened in 1917. Two of Guido and Elvira’s six children still work with him. Mario’s mother, Isolina, 93, manages the check-out counter and cash register; her sister, Mario’s Aunt Irma, 83, helps him run the store—which in Italian means with love and devotion she keeps him in line and his customers happy.
Having it his way also means ordering his way. If you’re calling ahead to order, don’t bother him with the small stuff. He’ll only take orders for his “Original $17 2-foot Italian Hoagie.” “What can I say? I’m a pain-in-the-ass!” he says, explaining further. “Someone who’s going to order a seventeen dollar hoagie is making a commitment. If he doesn’t show to pick it up, he’s going to have to explain to his hungry friends.” You try to order anything else over the phone, chances are he’ll yell at you. “I tell everybody I yell at: ‘Don’t be afraid. I treat you like family. I ignore you, yell at you and then I take your money.’” (Mario’s more bluster than bite. He’s really a sweetheart and will take orders in the store for individual-sized Italian hoagies—even ones for roast beef, ham or turkey—just don’t tell him I told you so.)
To finish reading about Bristol's two-footers, go to page 132 in the Fall 2012 issue of Bucks County Magazine.