Taylor Lanes & Gonella's Subs

And that perfect pizza cheese-pull that won me Student of the Month in fourth grade.

In fourth grade, I had my first boy-girl birthday party, which at the time was a major milestone. I remember writing down and crossing off names of who to invite with two of my best girlfriends at the time, handing out bowling-themed invitations, and helping my mom decorate the back room of Taylor Lanes, the bowling alley where one of their restaurants resided. My friend group wasn’t expansive, but those birthday invites meant something, and who you invited mattered.

One of my parents’ restaurants was tucked in the back of the bowling alley, connected to a full bar where I spent countless after-school afternoons spinning on the stools, sipping milkshakes, and munching on cheese sticks while watching Franklin on one of the many TVs. Eventually, I'd run up to Walley at the cash register, and she’d get a nod from my dad to hand me a roll of quarters. I'd bolt out to the main area, with the crack of bowling pins as the perfect soundtrack to my squeals of excitement as I scored the “play until you win” claw machine prize. I’d button-mash my way to victory against any of the staff I could convince to battle in Mortal Kombat—and huff with frustration as I was mercilessly defeated in Daytona USA or watched my dad school me in Galaga every. single. time.

Needless to say, my fourth birthday party was a hit. Everyone signed a bowling pin, which my mom and I proudly displayed on my bookshelf like a Grammy. Not long after, I was named Student of the Month—a shared victory, since I heard from everyone themselves about how they went home raving about how cool it must be to have parents who own restaurants. Bowling, arcade games, and the new girl who even took everyone on a tour of dry storage, where the massive washer and dryer rumbled with linens and she swears she builds forts out of empty chip boxes. Then, there was the pizza my parents made (yes, Pete’s Place actually made pizza at one time!). A square pan pizza that wasn’t quite the traditional Detroit deep dish, shuffled around with a peel to that perfect spot in the drawer-like ovens, then delivered tableside, still piping hot. A birthday party with the perfect cheese pull—if that didn’t win me the class vote for Student of the Month, then I sure as heck don’t know what would have.

A big part of being named Student of the Month was having your favorites listed on the bulletin board—favorite color, favorite hobby, and, most importantly, favorite food. I remember absolutely stressing over this, having a full-on existential crisis about choosing the favorite food that would forever shape my classmates’ perception of me. “Salad,” was my immediate answer, and my best friend—knowing full well it was the truth—tried to steer me away from it. Suddenly, the taste of DeLuca’s housemade antipasto dressing seemed to fade, overshadowed by the sinking feeling that maybe salad wasn’t cool enough.

Pizza seemed like the next obvious choice, especially with the birthday party success still fresh in my mind, but then I remembered all the other students who’d already claimed it as their favorite. In a bid for originality, I briefly considered beet borscht—only to imagine myself explaining it to the class and facing a chorus of “ewwws.” After much deliberation, I finally scribbled down Gonella’s subs on the paper and my teacher pinned it to the board.

Nearly three decades later, here’s Ian and me standing in the shop, letting the ladies at the back know our order as we pick up subs to take to my grandparents’ house for a family dinner. It’s so late in the day that we know the hard rolls are sold out, but our order otherwise remains the same: 8-layer meat, 2-layer cheese. This has been our family’s go-to since 1971, and as I type this, I realize that Gonella’s has actually been a part of the family for longer than I have.

My grandpa has been ordering from their original location on Oakwood Boulevard since his days working at the Ford plant in Allen Park. He kept the tradition alive even when the company moved him to the Windsor plant across the border. When I finally came along, the plastic bag carrying that hint of vinegar from the dressing and the lingering aroma from the caddy of pickled goodness around the olive bar signaled the start of a really good weekend. In our household, subs were reserved for weekends and were often enjoyed on the back of the boat.

Now, Gonella’s is more a part of my life than it was in those early childhood days, and it still remains a favorite. Everyone always suggests trying a different layer combination, but when something has been so good for so long and each bite is filled with nostalgia, it’s tough to break that habit. I will say that adult me doesn’t just purchase sandwiches from this shop. During our pop-up days, we placed bulk orders for lunch meat, and during Sandwich Week, you can find us tailgating in the parking lot with friends, enjoying their smaller selection of beer and wine. Recently the party tray made an appearance at one of my favorite bars, where we were hosting an editorial meeting slash happy hour of sorts.

On regular Gonella’s days—of which there tend to be quite a few—we always add a quart of pasta salad to the mix. It’s packed with various noodle shapes, from rotini and penne to long spaghetti, diced vegetables, and a dressing that tints the container orange even after a few washes. I also indulge at the olive cart because, in an Italian shop, what else is one to do?

At dinner, my grandpa reminisced about how they would go in with a long list of sandwiches and would hand it over to the ladies making them. Despite having more than a dozen on the list, they assembled each one with such perfection that the wait was never as long as he expected. Ian chimed in, lamenting the need to get there before shift change, when large tankards pull up, and guys hop out with lists that rivaled the length of CVS receipts. They both agreed that getting there earlier was the move, ensuring that their layers were served on hard bread over the standard soft.

One of my brothers questioned why we were so set on the idea of hard bread being the superior choice, and what on earth that meant, as he bit into his soft bread sub, commenting that it was delicious. The white paper they wrap them in served as our plates at the time, catching drippings that we could then scoop up with chips or pile on top of the upcoming bite.

I explained that I often could only get through half a sandwich, saving the other half in the fridge, or that Ian and I would often order one extra so we could enjoy them not just once but twice, or how one time I won the party tray giveaway on Instagram and we proceeded to eat eight subs between the two of us throughout the week.

The perfection of the hard bread lay in its ability to retain its structure; the bottom piece doesn’t get soggy like the soft bread often does, and it soaks up the dressing in a way that marinates the sandwich and makes it, dare I say, even better the next day. If it happens to make it that long.