I should have read the fine print before I agreed to participate in a recent “Hoagie Throwdown” at Other Half Brewing in Fishtown, produced by my friends at the Delicious City Podcast. I assumed they’d drafted me simply to be a judge and taste their lineup of sandwiches from 20-plus restaurants vying to be Philly’s hoagie champ.
Eating hoagies is something I’m very good at. I’ve chronicled the craft and culture of Philly’s greatest sandwich for more than two decades, from the oregano-dusted Italian classics and veggie-hoagie underdogs of South Philly to the “meat wrap” monsters of Delco and the one-meat, never-lettuce cousins of the Norristown Zep.
But I was not meant to praise hoagies. I was summoned to the wrestling arena at Other Half Brewing to make them, something I’d actually never done before in a city where the meat slicer’s whirring hum is the lunchtime lullaby at a thousand neighborhood delis.
“Sorry if I wasn’t completely clear in my early communication,” said Eli Kulp after I’d reached out with concern a few days before the event. The former Fork and High Street chef-turned-podcaster thought it would be hilarious for me to participate in an Iron Chef-style “celebrity” hoagie-making scrum inside a wrestling ring against two still to-be-determined foes. “We want this to be fun for you.”
I couldn’t back out now. But I also wasn’t going down without a fight —and I needed help. A hoagie whisperer. A cold cuts QB coach. A seasoned pro to train me in the sweet science of hoagie-making.
I knew just who to call: Cara Jo Castellino, the sandwich queen of Fishtown’s Castellino’s Italian Market.
“You should come over to the shop … and make a test hoagie if you’d like to practice,” she told me.
Hoagie boot camp? That is exactly what I needed! Sign me up, Cara Jo!
Two days before the event, I stepped inside her little market at the corner of East Palmer and East Thompson Streets, and inhaled the heady aroma of cured meats and pickled peppers. Castellino was waiting. She handed me a black apron. I nervously tied it on as she led me into the narrow space behind the tidy counter, where a friendly crew was already in the lunch-rush groove: her husband and co-owner Matthew Barrow peeling sheer pink rounds of spicy capicola off the slicer; Pat Caviness hand-slicing mountains of ripe tomatoes; A.J. Jones busily assembling hoagies on the board; and Derrick Bobb (“We call him Bobb”) working the register with his unflappable charm.
Hoagie architecture 101
The life cycle of every Italian hoagie begins and ends with olive oil, Castellino says, but be careful to stripe the bread side-to-side (as opposed to lengthwise) so it doesn’t pool in the crease of the roll’s hinge and break: “You’ve got to protect the hoagie’s hinge at all costs … When your hoagie’s hinge breaks, it’s very sad,” she says.
The sandwich is then built atop the bottom of the roll, so that when it’s closed, every bite brings a consistent layer of each ingredient.
More roll protection comes from provolone rounds layered down like shingles. Castellino prefers mild provolone because its creaminess buffers against the salty meats to come. She deftly forms the slices of soppressata and mortadella into rosettes, whose bouncy pink curls trap flavor-boosting oxygen between their folds. “You don’t want a dense wad of meat,” she says, arranging gossamer kerchiefs of imported prosciutto over top for the finish.
“Three is the ideal number,” she says, referring to the quantity of different meats preferred for contrasting flavors and textures.
Castellino’s fingers move swiftly atop each hoagie, layering the tomato rounds, sculpting tufts of arugula (prized for its peppery bite and durability), then seasoning it all with more oil and red vinegar “like a salad.”
“Tuck her in!” she says, deftly coaxing the ingredients deeper into the roll with the serrated knife’s blade, slicing the sandwich in half and then rolling it inside paper like a lovingly swaddled baby. It’s fastened shut with a piece of tape. Tuck, roll, snap! Tuck, roll, snap! She makes it look so easy.
My turn. A mess. Too much olive oil immediately sogs up my hinge. My provolone is layered the wrong direction. My cold-cut rosettes are more crumpled balls than fluffy flowers. I bunch up the tomatoes, leave too many inedible stems on the banana peppers, then pile on so much arugula it looks like I’m trying to tame a wild bush. And whoa … the vinegar comes out in a gush!
“Once you do 100 of them, you’ll get the hang of it,” deadpans Castellino.
She patiently coaches me through another classic Italian; the fiery Adronos layered with spicy meats, peppercorn Asiago, and cherry peppers; the mellow Franklin with turkey, cheddar, and sweet bacon jam; a Caprese with milky mozzarella, juicy tomatoes, sweet balsamic, and silky ripples of prosciutto. Only by the last one do I finally manage to wrap a sandwich without half its crust hanging out. I feel encouraged but humbled.
“I don’t think I’m cut out for the lunchtime pressure of this hoagie counter,” I say as I gratefully hand back my apron.
“Nah, you absolutely killed it!” says Castellino, who, like any good coach knows just when to pump up her student for a big moment. She offers a parting secret: “Make exactly what you want to eat. People can feel the love and affection that goes into making a hoagie you yourself would want to devour.”
Sandwich smackdown
I left hoagie boot camp with some genuine new skills. But would they be enough to spin gold from whatever ingredients awaited me on the competition table? Eli Kulp, channeling his best Vince McMahon impresario swagger, encouraged me to bring my own secret ingredient for added assurance: “If you’re not cheating in wrestling, you’re not trying!” I took the advice to heart as I stashed a few surprises in a small cloth bag that I hid beneath my black cape.
I arrived to the arena incognito, my face obscured by a Zorro mask and a wide-brimmed hat. Kulp’s words rang loudly in my head as I stood ringside and watched the Pro Wrestling Entertainment talent spar with an unlikely food theme: A bug-eyed, psychotic pizzaiolo named Luigi Primo blinded his competitor with spinning rubber pizza dough, while the Sandman (of Extreme Championship Wrestling fame) whacked the same guy across the back with a kendo stick with hoagie rolls taped around it. I watched a large man in a hot dog suit soar from the ropes to flatten his sweaty foe in the middle of that ring, sending the beer-soaked crowd of several hundred fans into a bloodthirsty roar.
To say I was a tad apprehensive as the hoagie table was set up in the middle of that same ring — with a wooden board of mystery ingredients for my own match — would be an understatement.
Reluctantly, I stepped into the ring with my competitors, the “cannoli-smashing bar-knuckle brawler” also known as FeedingTimeTV (aka Dave Wesolowski) and influencer “Doug _Chase_U,” who instantly began tossing our prosciutto into the crowd.
The ensuing mad scramble for ingredients was only the first of my concerns. I really began to sweat beneath my mask when Chase_U suddenly tagged in one of Philly’s best hoagie pros — Jason Okdeh, aka “Gabagool_Papi” of Farina di Vita — to commandeer his roll.
Only lightly shook, I snapped back to the ingredients before me, remembered my training, and stayed focused on my fundamentals. I quickly gathered three different meats, provolone, tomatoes, onions, banana peppers, and lettuce. But … where was the olive oil?!
The table was set with bottles of brown mustard, vinegar, and two kinds of mayo, including truffled mayo — the use of which should trigger automatic disqualification. But building my entry without olive oil, the life-giving elixir for any hoagie, would be like trying to play a stadium concert with your amp unplugged.
That’s when I knew it was time. I opened my cape, reached into my bag, and unveiled my secret weapon to the crowd: a jar of hoagie relish.
The secret ingredient
I lathered the spicy pepper spread on both sides of my rolls, aiming to impress the judges with a flash of juicy heat while also protecting the hinge. I tucked in my chosen ingredients, rolled my hoagies into shape, and delivered my tray to the judges: chef Bobby Saritsoglou of Stina (the recipient of multiple favorable restaurant reviews by yours truly), anonymous Instagram food critic Djour.philly, and Maria Maggio of Food Trade News.
They nibbled and scribbled while I waited, no longer feeling the squeeze. But suddenly I heard my name: I was the winner, with just two points more than Cannoli Crusher Dave.
Djour praised my hoagie’s “great ratio of salad to meat to wet fixins … (which) may or may not have been legally added.”
“We wanted to celebrate the Philadelphia hoagie,” wrote Saritsoglou. “And yours checked all the classic boxes (minus the olive oil, lol). My only regret was not jumping into that ring.”
Craig! Craig! Craig! Craig!
Was this crowd seriously chanting for me? Yes, they were! The emcee was holding a trophy high and calling back me in, and so I bounded up between the ropes, careful not to trip on my cape, and began babbling through a delirious ringside interview to recap the battle. Was I “having fun?” Oh yeah, you bet, as I took a tart and hoppy swig of Other Half’s Yuzu Queen from the chalice of my trophy.
It only felt real, though, when I spotted Castellino and her husband Matt in the crowd visibly cheering. I leaned into the mic and publicly thanked my hoagie whisperer in a Stallone-like croak of joy: “We did it, Cara Jo!”
It’s best for all I now graciously leave the sandwich-making stage to the professionals. No way would I ever wish to replace old favorites like Castellino’s, Lil’ Nicks, Pastificio, Farina di Vita, or upstart chef Reuben “Reuby” Asaram, whose hot pink “Undertikka” roll stuffed with Indian chicken tikka salad won the pro title — a reminder that Philly’s creative hoagie life force is infinite.
But for this one glorious afternoon, I put my critical cold cuts on the line. I paid tribute to Philly’s sandwich gods, fought to the crusty finish, and earned the title of “Hoagie Hero.”
