The Travel Channel’s Adam Richman is on a nationwide search for the best sandwich in America. He could have saved himself a lot of time, money and effort by traveling to Chattanooga and eating the GollyWhopper.
My quest to consume the best sandwich in America took me ten minutes out of the downtown area to Brainerd, where GollyWhoppers Sandwich Shoppe is located in Brainerd Hills Center. I’d been there before, but had never tried their signature item.
The GollyWhopper is legendary in the Scenic City. Those who have tried to eat one know to follow a few guidelines. But while I made sure I was hungry and was wearing pants that would stretch, I made one critical mistake: I went in alone.
Bear with me. I’ll explain what I mean in a few paragraphs.
For now, all you need to know is this: the GollyWhopper is a mountain of meat, cheese, toppings, condiments and fresh baked bread. And not just any meat, cheese, toppings or condiments, but the good stuff - the stuff you buy when you want to eat a great sandwich or to impress your friends on game day. If you’re eating any sandwich at GollyWhoppers, you’re treating yourself to delicious deli meats, real cheese, tangy condiments and crisp vegetables.
When I stepped up to the counter and ordered the GollyWhopper combo, the young man on the other side looked behind me, like he expected me to be hiding someone back there. After I convinced him I was by myself, he asked me what I wanted on my sandwich, and then made 22 little red circles on an order slip as he walked me through the options. Long time readers of this column know I like restaurants that make things simple, but there was something exciting about choosing five meats, four cheeses and just the right combination of condiments, spices, toppings and dressings.
Oh, and because I like a little irony on my sandwiches, I chose wheat bread. “I’ve got to put something healthy on there,” I said. The young man looked behind me again, just to make sure he wasn’t missing someone.
My order came to a few dollars over a ten dollar bill. While that might seem pricey for a sandwich, like a bicycle built for two, you do not want to tackle a GollyWhopper alone.
A few minutes later, the owner, Durene Hendrix, brought my sandwich to me. Someone in the crowded dining area said, “Who’s going to eat all of that?” Someone else said, “That guy over there.” I heard them, but I couldn’t take my eyes off my GollyWhopper.
Stacked higher than a “Dagwood,” Hendrix had impaled the sandwich with a long toothpick to hold it together. Massive quantities of meats, cheeses, pickles and more hung over the edges of the bread, putting that Hardees’s commercial in which chili drips off the edges of a burger to shame.
As my GollyWhopper sat in front of me, reaching nearly from the table to my neck, I realized I was in no ordinary deli. The size of the sandwich did not make it special, but the engineering that went into it did. When it comes to building a hoagie at home, I’m a Cro-Magnon. I open my refrigerator and start slapping stuff on the bread without giving any thought to how I’m assembling it. But the crew at GollyWhoppers is made up of sandwich scientists.
Take their stacking strategy, for example. A GollyWhopper is essentially two sandwiches stacked one on top of the other. To ensure every bite contains a blend of foods, not a bite of just meat or cheese, they don’t lay all of the meat, then lay all of the cheese, and so on; rather, they alternate the layers of meats and cheeses, and then top each half with the extras you ordered.
While eating a GollyWhopper, two things happen. One, you become envious of snakes that can unhinge their jaw and swallow a calf whole. Two, you look more like a beaver chipping away at a log than a man or woman eating a sandwich. Despite having removed the top half of the sandwich, I was unable to open my mouth wide enough to bite into what I was holding, so I tackled it in small chucks - a little off the top, a little off the bottom, and pretty soon, I was making progress.
As I approached what would be my last bite, I realized something else the sandwich scientists at GollyWhoppers had done. Have you ever been eating a sandwich at a restaurant and felt a surge of disappointment when you realized all you had left was a chunk of bread and condiments? Until I ate a GollyWhopper, I assumed this was one of the great unsolved problems of modern sandwich science.
But this cannot happen with a GollyWhopper. At that point in my meal, only two small pieces of bread bookended what was still more meat than most places put on their sandwiches at the outset. In fact, the onions and tomatoes seemed to be doing the bulk of holding what remained together.
I stopped short of finishing the bottom half of the GollyWhopper because I wanted to leave room for bite-sized portions of a few of the deli’s homemade dessert bars. Wow. The Gooey Bar, the Pretzel K and the Six Layer Bar were some of the best treats I have discovered in Scenic City - bar none (ha-ha). I don’t have the room to describe each one, so you’ll have to try them yourself.
As I write this piece, the dinner hour is approaching, and I don’t have room for my evening meal, either. Half of my GollyWhopper went uneaten, but I’m still stuffed.
So take my advice: If you’ve never eaten a GollyWhopper, and you like meat, give it a shot. If mega sandwiches are not your thing, you can build your own creation, and if you’re in the mood for something else, GollyWhoppers has a menu chock full of salads, baked potatoes, Gollydogs, barbecue, soup, chili, sides and more. Just don’t go in alone.
And if you see the Travel Channel’s Adam Richman, tell him you have good news.
Email David Laprad at dlaprad@hamiltoncountyherald.com.