Out and Back: White House Subs

It's commonly said that after you live somewhere for a decent amount of time, you become, for lack of a better word, immune to being intrigued by all of the things your town has. You know, the touristy spots, the historical landmarks, the things that people from other places come to where you live to see.

But I've been coming down here since I was in diapers, so I'm not quite sure what my excuse is for having never been to White House Subs before yesterday.

2301 Arctic Avenue, Atlantic City, N.J.

Originally founded and run by a World War II vet, the place has been around since 1946 and looks it. There's a few tables, but it's mostly a take-out place and they don't deliver. They tape a homemade sign to the windows out front telling you what time they close that night. They don't take credit cards. There's no soda fountain; they have a machine in the back. The back wall is covered with photos of everyone from Joe DiMaggio to Carrot Top. It's as vintage AC as vintage AC gets. They get their bread from the Formica Brothers Bakery, which is literally down the street. (But there's no exclusivity; in fact, most of the hoagie and cheesesteak places around here use Formica Bros. bread... at least the decent ones do, anyway.)

I got there at about 8:30 after driving two laps around the place looking for somewhere to park. White House is tucked away in a pocket in the middle of the city; it's near everything (side streets run two blocks south to the main casino strip, and it's across from parking for the shopping district), but it's not in a place where it'll get lost among the brightness and buzz of the casinos. I went in and took a number. The place wasn't packed, but it was busy, even on a Wednesday night.

I hung out at the counter as I got my Italian hoagie and cheesesteak made. Here's the sub for you:


A half, about 9-10 inches long if I had to guess. I imagine those are Jersey tomatoes.


That second cross-section shot is in every Web review of this place ever. That's the angle it automatically corrects itself to when you unwrap it and lay it down.

The key to a good Italian hoagie can be summed up in one word: Balance. You don't want the onions or the spices overwhelming the meat, but you still want to be able to taste the cheese. And especially, you have to get just the right balance of oil and vinegar. Too much, and it's a bitter, sloppy mess. You put too much on and all the other ingredients suffer from being too dry. But at the same time, you need enough so that the bread softens just so, to a point where the firmness of the crust doesn't make it impossible to eat.

Well, when you've had 62 years of practice, you can probably do anything right, and this was an Italian hoagie done right. I don't know how close to perfection it is, but it's every bit as good as people who have been going there for years have been telling you it is. A hole in the wall in a city that is glitz built on top of grit, White House Subs is that rarest of things: a place that's bigger than the hype surrounding it, but that hasn't gotten too big for its own britches. That may not play on Atlantic or Pacific. But on Arctic Avenue, they wouldn't have it any other way.