Breadwinner.

Slang-wich.

Ottawa, ON – Construction trucks groan through Little Italy, their bellies full.

Mine begins to rumble.

When I arrive at Sanguiccio Deli-Café, a single table is set in the sun-tinted shadow of a red umbrella. A woman taps at her laptop, framed by angular stairs leading into what appears to be a house.

It's unassuming in a way so many of the best restaurants tend to be.

This afternoon, I'm meeting Michael, a former government friend I've not seen in years. Walking through the front door, it's immediately obvious he's been here before.

And not just once.

"Now, where did I put my pen?"

We're greeted with warm handshakes from proprietor, Genio Ienzi, who comes out from behind a shallow bar brimming with fresh vegetables, kitchen utensils and a tall, steel carafe of wine. Pots and pans hang from the walls like bangles. Stacks of plastic crates hint at the jars of sauce inside.

A bowl of freshly cut tomatoes winks as though it contains rubies. 

Genio ushers us into the back room, literally showing us behind the curtain.

Jerseys, tacked to orange and blue walls. Yet more pots and pans. A plastic bag brimming with the day's order of football-sized eggplants. "Parmigiana?" I ask. That hadn't been the plan, but now will be.

Genio clears the remains of his kitchen prep from the solid dining room table that dominates the room. He gives it a thorough wipe, despite our protestations.

"Well, I do everything here," he says, eliciting a wink and chuckle from the two of us.

And a smirk and hint of mock horror from him.

Chef's Table.

He comes back to show us a massive steak he'll be preparing for guests tonight. Wood smoke has already begun twirling airily through the door. The lightly peppered slab will become Bistecca alla Fiorentina in several hours.

Tumblers of wine appear as we await grilled sausage and rapini on crusty rolls. This isn't a grab-and-go sandwich shop, which gives me and Michael a chance to weave together stories from the past few years.

No, no: everything here is homemade, and with care. 

Including the stories.

"Here, try this." A small bowl with some eggplant and mushroom.

"This, too." A couple pieces of freshly grilled lamb, with a hint of finishing salt.

Tin cups of espresso. 

For a moment, this humble sandwich shop carries me back in time, to reading some travel writer's recollection of the best sandwich he's ever eaten, down some small alley in Italy. 

Of course, it had to be down some small alley.

With a single table, set in the sun-tinted shadow of a red umbrella.