7th Hill appears in lists of DC’s best sandwiches. Lists are…just lists…a way of putting things into manageable amounts, something that we can receive. And obey. Obeisant, I went. Took a willing friend.
Cute spot, with a sweet patio and a winking parade of passersby.
7th Hill is sweet and tended without being precious. Must say, the guy tossing pizza skins was mighty precious.
Okay, it is no secret that I love sandwiches, and I am not particularly discerning. My criteria is largely based on sincere effort and allegiance to personal expression and authenticity. Got that? Let me just rinse my mouth of that gobbledy gook and tell you this: the sandwiches at 7th Hill take flight, go to heights, soar up to heaven on a magic carpet of black bubbled bread. Lord have mercy, that sandwich was good. Wing me away on the stuff inside, the stuff that came from animals by way of human ingenuity – prosciutto, salami, cheeeese. Nature + nurture = rapture.
The friend earned his sandwich with flattery. He’d paid it forward. I got the best end of that deal, far past the tipping point. The price of a couple sandwiches and a couple softdrinks. If we go to dinner, I will be sure to pour on the verbal sugar well in advance. A good friend eats sandwiches with you, at a place of your choosing, and laughs at your jokes, and makes you laugh, too. And doesn’t hold you accountable for lapses in judgement. For example, in response to a note of mine written during an evening of defeat, he wrote, “No worries
re the rant. Love your candid heart and dancing spirit!” I went to bed defeated and woke up determined. Thank heaven he did not hold the rant against me, as it was fleeting. Heaven is inhabited with this sort of angel, the angel who sees your dancing spirit, even when your shoes are concrete.