The Little Immigrant from Carl’s Pizza is a landmark of a lunch
When the Little Immigrant sandwich arrived upon our shores, it surely did so with a heavy thud. A signature dish at Carl’s Pizza (3800 W. 38th Ave., 303-477-1694) in North Denver, the Immigrant is a landmark of a lunch.
First, the specs: Fresh bread piled with ham, salami, pepperoni, and capicola, then layered with three kinds of cheese—provolone, mozzarella, and parmesan. Lettuce, tomato, and onion provide the garden elements. The Immigrant is available hot or cold and by the half or whole loaf. Like a New Orleans muffuletta, it’s wise to start with the smaller size unless you’re in training for some kind of athletic feat. In other words, the Little Immigrant is not so little.
The meaty marvel comes out of the kitchen plated with a bag of chips, a pepperoncini, and a small dish of Carl’s homemade dressing for dipping the monster. After just one bite, it’s obvious that this is indeed a sandwich for the ages. The bread, especially when served hot, is crusty and crispy on the outside, soft and light inside. Despite the four kinds of meat and three cheeses, you don’t have to unhinge your jaw to take a bite—there are sane amounts of each topping. There’s enough that you can taste each item distinctly, but none are overpowering.
Another benefit of ordering a hot loaf: The cheese melts. No, it melds, creating a creamy cascade of cheesy love that drips tantalizingly from the loaf. Even noted xenophobe Lou Dobbs would have a hard time saying no to this gorgeous Immigrant.
Skeptics would argue that this sandwich combo isn’t anything special, that it’s the stuff of delis and sandwich shops all over this great land. It may be true that the Immigrant isn’t completely unique, but its home, Carl’s Pizza, is one of a kind.
Carl’s, opened in 1953 by Carl DiGiacomo, is in the business of serving honest, simple, homestyle Italian dinners to its North Denver neighbors. And by “homestyle,” we don’t mean some mythic, Olive-Garden fantasy cottage in Toscana where a black-clad Nonna labors endlessly over ancient recipes. We mean the basic Italian variations many Americans grew up with, the stuff that maybe isn’t 100-percent “authentic,” but comforts and satisfies just as effectively.
The restaurant is outfitted in the standard tones of red and white, filled with booths and the usual photos of Italian icons like Frank Sinatra and Rocky Marciano. The placemats are made of paper. Beer is available by the pitcher, and bottles of wine go for $15. Do not expect a Carl’s pizza to be fired in an oven that was imported from Naples, brick by sacred brick, on traditional sailing vessels. These are hardcore, old-school pies with a thin, crunchy, floury crust and the basic toppings. Looking for fig jam and candied kumquats? Get the hell outta here.
Carl’s is a relic, but it’s a wonderful and essential one. If you bring a friend to Carl’s and they hate it, don’t speak to them until they get some sense. Carl’s—and the Little Immigrant—is all heart.
