Photo by Cathy Salustri
Certain smells trigger specific memories. My grandmother’s house – cigarette smoke veiled by Lysol – takes me to weekend sleepovers, perched at the foot of my grandparents’ bed, watching Fantasy Island and downing Planter’s Cheese Balls.
But nothing hits me like walking into the gas station at 53rd Street South and Gulfport Boulevard. I step inside, take a breath. In that moment, it’s once again the runup to Hurricane Charley.
Earlier that year, I’d bought a home with a mother-in-law suite and filled the front with tenants. Together we weathered one hurricane after another in 2004. We were supposed to evacuate for Charley, but instead I hunkered down with an internet connection, my DVDs (how positively 2004), and rations from Sammy’s.
A longer version of this post appeared in The Gabber Newspaper in 2013; I’be edited it for inclusion of Saw Palm.
Sammy owned the gas station at 53rd Street and Gulfport Boulevard, and that’s where you’ll find the tastiest Cuban sandwich this side of Ybor City. Yes, I get my Cubans at a gas station. Joke if you must; I am not the only one. It’s not uncommon for Sammy to run out of sandwiches by the end of the lunch rush. Walk into Sammy’s every morning and you will smell what I mean: the aromas of garlic, butter, pork, and ham press together into a symphony that assaults your nose and makes your mouth water.
For Hurricane Charley, I stocked up on Cubans, sliced roast beef, horseradish sauce, and pizza. Sammy’s deli counter and countertop pizza oven got me through the storm.
Photo by Morgan Banno
I sold the house at the height of the 2005 housing boom. But that same boom meant I couldn’t afford to stay in Gulfport, so I bought a house in south St. Petersburg instead – cheap, but not home. Throughout the next few years, I drifted a bit, and in 2013, I bought another home, this one more in line with the market than they were in 2005.
We looked at homes from Indian Rocks Beach to the Don CeSar – depressing 1200-square foot boxes with boring architecture and high insurance rates. We wanted to stay near the saltwater, and although Gulfport had a bay beach, we didn’t consider it.
Until we spent an afternoon there New Year’s Day. My partner said Gulfport reminded him of his hometown. When a house on a double lot along the Gulfport ridge — 38 feet above sea level! — caught our eye, we did our homework. We pulled crime statistics, talked to neighbors, and drove through at all hours. The house passed muster.
That first day in our new home, friends helped paint over uninspired decorating decisions made by former owners. I paid them in Cuban sandwiches. I walked into the Citgo — now two blocks away —, and though I hadn’t seen him in years, Sammy greeted me with, “Cathy! What can I get you, honey?”
Sammy died in 2020, although the Citgo endures. It still makes a statistically significant amount of Cuban sandwiches. And, although thanks to a celiac diagnosis I can no longer eat them, sometimes I walk in there in the morning simply to smell the garlicked-pork scent.
That is the smell of coming home.
Photo courtesy of the University Press of Florida
Curious as to why Cuban sandwiches are such a big deal in Florida (specifically, Ybor City and Tampa)? Check out The Cuban Sandwich: A History in Layers. Warning: This book will make you hungry.
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