How Charlie Manson Saved Lunchtime

“Remember, lunchtime is the best time.” — John Guho

In the Fall of 1968, my mother dragged me to Cavaretta’s, her favorite Italian deli. It was always me—not my sister—who had to accompany mom when she ran errands. This time, I didn’t mind because I could usually talk my way into a chocolate-covered cannoli I could have for dessert if and only if I behaved for the rest of the day.

Mom placed a ponderous order: 100 12-inch submarine sandwich rolls and a few pounds of mortadella. She instructed Mr. Caravetta’s son to set their slicer on its finest setting. The young man wore out his elbow slicing cold cuts that were thinner and more translucent than parchment paper; the white blobs of fat in the mortadella looked like window panes.

Once we returned home, mom worked with the fury of a sous chef on speed (and in fact, my mother was powered by extra-strength amphetamines she procured from her diet doctor). She cut the rolls in quarters, added one anemically-thin slice of meat, and anointed one side of the bread with a soupçon of mustard. In a few hurried instances, I believe she merely waved the mustard knife over the bread in a sort of condimental benediction. I calculated that the “sandwiches” were composed of 99.2% bread, 0.75% meat, and 0.05% mustard. (Note: From here on, I will refer to mom’s concoctions as quote-unquote “sandwiches”…