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The big uneasy: who invented the muffuletta?
By Clea Simon, Globe Correspondent, 02/03/02
il0p,15l,4p2,8l Think about the city's established high cuisine: the Creole dishes served up at Antoine's or Galatoire's. Shrimp etoufee and oysters Bienville mark the marriage between the French and Spanish settlers who traded the Crescent City back and forth through its first hundred years as a colony. In the shrimp, oysters, and rice are traces of Native American cooking, brought to the old French Quarter's markets by traders. But these better-known cuisines tell only part of the city's turbulent tale. A walk down Decatur Street, on the edge of the Quarter by the Mississippi River, shows another side of history. Here hungry visitors can taste a hot conflict on a roll: the muffuletta, a sandwich that sprang from another wave of European migration and that has kept passions running high ever since.
Decatur, which runs the length of the Quarter from Canal Street down past Esplanade Avenue, has its fill of New Orleans attractions. The House of Blues holds down one end, Jackson Square with its cathedral and street musicians grounds the middle, and the French Market marks the far side, where it runs off into the adjacent Faubourg Marigny neighborhood. It's down at this end that those interested in this huge, round sandwich come. Although the sandwich has by now made its way onto the menu of almost every casual restaurant in town, this is where the super sub - a pile of Italian cheeses and cold cuts topped by a greasy, salty, chopped olive spread - was invented, some say perfected.
The only question remaining is: By whom?
"Imitated by all, duplicated by none," boasts the aprons for sale at Central Grocery at 935 Decatur St. "Home of the original muffuletta," the window says.
"My grandfather originated the muffuletta," argues Nick E. LoGiuduce, who works most days at Luigi's, two doors down at 915 Decatur. Luigi's is the new name of the old Progress Grocery, which stood in that location from 1928 until last winter, but although the Tadero family now owns the little deli, LoGiuduce and his family have been here far longer. "That was in 1895. Before Central, before anybody."
"They're newcomers on the street," counters Larry Tusa, whose family opened Central Grocery in 1906, when they claim to have originated the signature sandwich. "We've known them for years. When the line for our muffulettas reaches down the street and blocks their door, it gets a little touchy!"
The truth may never be known. As LoGiuduce explains it, the name came from the name of the bread. His sandwich wrapper says "muffuletta soft Italian bread." To Tusa, who runs Central with his brothers Frank and Sal (a.k.a. "Tommy"), that doesn't make LoGiuduce's claim more valid: LoGiuduce's "grandfather was the man who baked the bread. He baked the bread for the folks who made the sandwiches, which was Central Grocery. You can take to church what I'm telling you!"
If pressed, both will agree that it was probably hungry workers who first put the sandwich together. The ingredients were simply those familiar to the Sicilian immigrants who flocked to the city in the late 1890s. "When they came here, being Sicilian, they came to the grocer where the proprietor was from the same town in Sicily," says Tusa. "They got to speak the language and be friendly with some friendly faces. And they decided instead of just buying olives and salami and a piece of bread, time would be saved by having the sandwiches ready for regular customers who came in at regular times."
Says LoGiuduce: "It was the Americans called the whole sandwich a muffuletta. My uncle always just called it a Roman sandwich."
Whatever its origins, the muffuletta is worth fighting over. Set in a white, round Italian roll as big across as a dinner plate, a proper muffuletta is piled about an inch high with layers of provolone cheese, mortadella, Genoa salami, and cappicola ham. The olive spread on top - a mix of chopped green olives, garlic, celery, onions, and other delectables in oil - soaks into the bread and lubricates the fillings.
Suffice it to say, one whiff and the partisan feelings are explained. With a bag of the local Zapp's potato chips and a Barq's root beer, it's more than a meal.
Which is not to say that every muffuletta is the same. At Luigi's, the bread is a little softer and the olive spread might be just a little bit spicier. At Central, the seeded roll is chewier, more like what we now know as Italian bread. Plus, the sandwiches are already made and wrapped to go at lunch time, which does help that line move a little faster.
Beyond that, the choice is atmosphere. The new owners of Luigi's have cleaned up this small space, and even when the sun doesn't shine in the big front window, the white walls and ceilings sparkle. The signature sandwich (one of several) is less expensive, too, with a full running $7 and a half (large enough to serve two for lunch) $3.25. Four small tables are open for diners, and on a recent afternoon local R&B played softly.
The mood at Central is more Old World. Shelves stacked with olive oil reach high up the dingy walls, where faded and discolored posters of Italian cities line the high ceiling. The muffuletta is the only sandwich served here (except during Lent, when the Tusas offer a meatless muffuletta), and costs $8.95, or $4.95 for a half. Diners who choose to eat in take a stool at one of two long counters at the back, where a television provides the entertainment.
If the day is fine, the nearby Moon Walk, with its benches offering a view of the constant river traffic, offers a third dining option for this messy marvelous sandwich. And if you walk enough, you might be able to work up the appetite for a midafternoon snack. Because the only recourse to history, really, is to try them both.
Clea Simon is a freelance writer who lives in Cambridge.