The American submarine sandwich, a foot-long behemoth crammed with cold cuts, cheese, and veggies, is more than just lunch—it’s a culinary shapeshifter. Known as a “sub” for its resemblance to a tapered submarine, a “hero” in New York for its Herculean proportions, and a “grinder” in New England (possibly because eating one feels like manual labor), this portable feast has anchored itself in U.S. culture by combining practicality with a dash of regional pride.
The “submarine” nickname emerged in the 1920s, likely coined by Italian-American delis in New England or Philadelphia. The sandwich’s elongated shape, reminiscent of naval submarines, made it a hit among dockworkers and WWII-era factory crews. New York’s “hero” monitor, meanwhile, first appeared in a 1936 New York Herald Tribune article describing a sandwich so large “you had to be a hero to eat it.” Whether the name stuck due to sheer size or postwar bravado, it captured the city’s bigger-is-better ethos. Both terms, however, agree on one thing: this isn’t a dainty tea party finger sandwich. A classic sub stretches 12 inches (30 cm)—roughly the length of a human forearm—and demands two hands, a napkin stockpile, and possibly a workout plan.
What’s inside? A layered mosaic of Italian cured meats (think salami, capicola), provolone cheese, shredded lettuce, tomatoes, onions, pickled peppers, oil, vinegar, and oregano. The bread—a crusty Italian roll with a chewy interior—serves as both vessel and structural engineer, preventing the ingredients from staging a Great Escape. Regional twists abound: add meatballs in Boston, swap in tuna salad in Miami, or drench it in “juice” (beef broth) for a Chicago-style Italian beef.
The sub’s rise mirrors 20th-century America’s love affair with convenience. Italian immigrants popularized it as a cheap, filling meal for laborers, while the post-war boom turned it into a deli staple. Chain restaurants like Subway later industrialized the concept, though purists argue mass-produced subs lack the soul (and drips) of mom-and-pop shop versions.
The humor here is baked into the experience. Ordering a hero sandwich in NYC is like challenging your stomach to a wrestling match. There’s also the eternal debate: Is it a sub, hoagie, or hero? The answer depends on your zip code. Philadelphians swear by “hoagie” (possibly from “hoggie,” slang for dockworkers), while “grinder” might nod to the jaw workout required.
Despite the name chaos, the sandwich’s cultural impact is undeniable. It’s been name-dropped in The Sopranos, debated by food historians, and even inspired a (short-lived) “sub vs. hero” rivalry between cities. In 1981, a Connecticut court hilariously ruled that “a hot dog is not a sandwich,” but conspicuously avoided defining what is—perhaps fearing a sub-related uprising.
Today, the sub remains a democratic dish: equally at home in a college dorm, a construction site, or a hipster café charging $15 for “artisanal cured meats.” Its legacy proves that sometimes, the simplest ideas—pile meat on bread, cut it like a boat—are the ones that stick. Literally. Just ask anyone who’s tried to eat a meatball sub while wearing white pants.
