He took it slow.
When the floor manager handed Myles Herod the very last veal sandwich San Francesco Foods will ever make, the 39-year-old took his time removing it from the brown paper, take-out bag and unfolding its silver-creased wrapping before carefully laying it in front of him on the small centre table inside the legendary panini shop.
“Can you believe it?” Herod said, as he contemplated the meal before him. “I thought I wasn’t going to get anything when I showed up. They were saying they have nothing left.”
By “they,” Herod was referring to staff at the tiny storefront on Clinton Street, just south of College Street, that’s been in business since 1954 – and it wasn’t a lie.
Once brimming with pizza, sandwiches of every Italian iteration from sausage and peppers to chicken, meatball and, of course, veal, the kitchen at this iconic eatery was now almost empty — and staff rattled around the back looking bemused as customers kept streaming in.
Once San Francesco’s doors closed for good this weekend, the Holy Trinity of small, casual, mostly take-out Italian eateries secreted on the nearby side-streets of Little Italy, was put to rest for good. Only two of the three original Toronto institutions remain: Bitondo’s Pizzeria on the east side of Clinton Street, directly across from where San Francesco’s still stands for now. And the original location of California Sandwiches that’s less than a block south.
“It’s the end of an era,” city councilor and deputy mayor Mike Colle, told the Star, after arriving just in time to get a saucy sausage sandwich, one of the very last of those too.
“It just shows the value of these little stops we have in our life, the simple things that you don’t think are that significant, but then they stay with you.”
Recently, Colle posted about the store’s closing on his Facebook page, and he says, since he did, it’s garnered more than half a million engagements. Colle said that he’d heard that since the owner’s husband died a few years ago, it’s became harder and more tiring for his widow to run it.
Over the last while, floor manager Suzy Furtado said she was told, the shop hadn’t been as busy as it once was and costs were too high to keep it open.
Still, tears threatened to stream from Furtado’s eyes, even though she’d only worked there for about three years, noting the tiny restaurant felt like home and the staff, family.
Richard Sotnick, a local, sped over to say goodbye after seeing Colle’s post.
“I had to come one last time,” he said, noting he ordered two sandwiches of whatever was left — one to eat right away and one to save for later. “I’m disappointed to see this come to an end. But things change.”
Frank Gambacorta also saw Colle’s post online and drove in from Georgetown Sunday morning to the neighbourhood where he grew up. He just had to have one last taste of nostalgia. He, Colle and a few others passed the time waiting for their food by reminiscing about the old days. That’s when everyone congregated on this corner, often ordering hours in advance of getting their meals. “It was that busy,” Colle said.
When it first opened its doors in the late 1950s, he said, “sangwiches” — that’s what they’re really called, he insisted, also noting “it’s not buns. It’s paninis” — cost 25 cents. Today, while considerably more expensive, San Francesco’s still hasn’t raised its prices for a long time and most fare remained under $20.
No more.
About two weeks ago, after finding out that this Toronto institution was closing its doors for good, Furtado said she was forced to stop ordering ingredients. And so, by midday Sunday, customers clambering for one more bite, were out of luck.
Around 1:30 p.m., Furtado left her post at the till behind the ordering desk, strode the 8 paces or so to the 71-year-old shop’s front door — and locked it. Would-be lunchers tried to nudge it open. And began knocking on the windows when they realized they couldn’t get in.
All that’s left, Furtado said, on her way back to the till, was lasagna. “And only three servings.”
As Furtado sold the last of the food, Herod took in the scene around him from his centre perch, languidly taking bite after bite of the very last San Francesco veal sandwich to ever exist. Before long, it was gone. Even though he’d started off slow, he got hungry, he said, and wolfed down the rest. Before tossing the silver wrapping and paper bag into the trashcan nearby, Herod took a long, last sip of Brio Chinotto, the drink he’d used to wash it all down. Then, with one long last look around the shop he’d been coming to for years, pushed open the front door and left.
“Bye,” he said, as it closed behind him and his voice echoed in the emptying room.
