Cricca's sub shop

You could drive past it without noticing - you probably have.

A neighborhood cluster of stores. A boutique, a pizza joint, a liquor store. A strip mall with a donut shop, a mailing and shipping store, a nail shop, an insurance office.

And right in the middle of the strip of stores, a splash of red and green neon, a jolly aproned chef hand-painted on the window glass, a welcoming set of tables and chairs on the sidewalk.

I've passed it a million times. But today, on the way home from the supermarket in Woodland Hills, I pulled into the parking lot and parked.

Cricca's Italian Deli and submarine shop. Inside, a mural with an Italian scene, some obligatory plastic salamis and fake cheeses hanging down from the ceiling as decor. Shelves with a small assortment of imported Italian canned goods, with their pretty and colorful labels. A big glass-fronted deli case holding trays of marinated antipasti and cold salads. Hand-lettered signs on the wall listing the many varieties of sandwiches offered, with names like "The Al Capone," "The Italian Stallion," or the favorites of guys like Tony, Luigi, or Vinnie.

I knew right away it was a good place, because this truck was parked outside, and inside at one of the small tables were two blue-uniformed mail carriers, with huge sandwiches in front of them.

I ordered one Cricca's Special - ham, genoa salami, capicola, provolone cheese, and marinated artichokes and mushrooms. With the works (tomatoes, lettuce, onions and Italian dressing). To go.

While I waited, I looked at the glossy headshots of actors, autographed praising the sandwiches, displayed on the walls. You see a lot of that in West Valley eateries. I listened while one of the postal carriers told his partner about something he'd heard Rush Limbaugh say on the radio. His partner shook her head, disapprovingly. "You shouldn't listen to that stuff," she said.

The sandwich came in a crisp paper bag, printed with a colorful picture of a sandwich. It was long, and hefty, about the size and weight of a newborn child. I took it home, where [The Man I Love] was busy working.

"I brought us some lunch!' I said.

I unwrapped the white paper covering, which was just starting to go translucent from the oily, vinegar dressing. Buon appetito! Pass the pepperoncinis.