The NJ "Fat Sandwich"

An All-American Abomination

I was sitting in a hip cafe in Seattle’s Pioneer Square the other week, putting the finishing touches on my review of Big Mario’s, when I was struck by a wave of hunger, as often happens when writing about pizza. It was just about lunch time, so I closed my laptop and wandered outside looking for something to eat.

Directly across the street, I beheld a notorious establishment rarely seen outside of New Jersey. The Fat Shack, as it’s known, sells “fat sandwiches,” a late night “food” comprised of literally every fast food item you can imagine - chicken fingers, mozzarella sticks, burgers, cheese, bacon strips, ranch, ketchup, etc. - stuffed into one giant sandwich.

Suddenly, a rush of repressed memories hit me like a brick of American cheese. The “fat sandwich” began as a late-night food truck at Rutgers University in New Jersey, where several of my childhood friends went to college and would often invite me over to party on the weekends. The proprietors had cornered the market for a niche customer base comprised of wasted frat bros, who, after vomiting in the bushes from playing beer pong all night, find themselves stumbling home with a desperate craving for greasy fast food.

I had not thought about fat sandwiches in over 10 years, because they are a food item that is not fit for regular human consumption. The memory of eating one is filed in the same mental category as childhood trauma.

So you can imagine my surprise to see a fat sandwich shop here, in 2024, in crunchy-granola Seattle. The coincidence was too much to bear, so against my better judgement, I wandered in to sacrifice my poor body for you, my dear readers, so you can better understand this little-known Jersey tradition that by all accounts is a uniquely American abomination.

First off, can we talk about this facade (pictured above)? The boarded up front door. The no public restrooms signs. An overall air of dilapidation and decay hung about the place like the stench of spilled beer at a frat house. Clearly, their customers don’t care about looks. And why should they? This is the type of restaurant you walk into with your hat pulled low over your sunglasses to avoid being seen.

Inside, the establishment was mostly empty. This low-effort corporate interior lacked any sense of personality whatsoever. The pièce de résistance is the “Believe in Yourself” sign hung above the kitchen, which seems designed to reassure customers who might be second guessing their decision to come here. If I believe in anything, it’s my ability to make poor life choices.

But no one is coming to Fat Shack for the ambience. They’re coming for the menu. Get a load of this:

Allow me to draw your attention to the calorie count they are legally required to post (next to the price). The Fat Jersey, which I obviously had no choice but to order, comes to a whopping 2,220 calories for the whole sandwich. If you eat one, you literally shouldn’t eat anything else until tomorrow, ya fat slob.

Pray for me, dear readers, for I ordered the Fat Jersey. And I lived to tell the tale.

This sandwich comes with cheesesteak, chicken fingers, mozzarella sticks, French fries, and honey mustard. It costs $16.99 (almost $20 with tax).

The sandwich took quite a while to prepare, at least 15 minutes, during which time I did a little googling to discover how Fat Shack inexplicably arrived in Seattle. Turns out, the Fat Shack founders got their big break on the TV show Shark Tank, using a $250,000 investment to turn their business into a franchise. It’s worth hitting that link, because the expressions of pure shock and horror on the sharks’ faces when these Jersey jabronis reveal their idea is hysterical.

I’m honestly surprised that Marc Cuban invested in this company. Surely an astute businessman like him should know that a customer eats at Fat Shack precisely one time before dying promptly of a heart attack.

Finally, my sandwich arrived, wrapped tightly like a burrito, since this is the only way to assure that the heapings of ingredients don’t fall out the sides.

I dig in. My first impression is salty, crunchy, and sweet all at the same time. I try to mentally differentiate the different ingredients in my head, but the task is nearly impossible. It all sort of mushes together in a spectacular amalgamation of deep fried fat.

I’m not gonna lie, the taste is very good. I mean, it’s all of your childhood favorites at the same time! Eating this sandwich makes you feel like a kindergartener who stole his mom’s wallet. I will also give them credit for keeping everything crunchy, not soggy, as fried foods are prone to.

After finishing the first half, I experience a serious decline in morale, waging an internal battle over whether to eat the second half. I’m already full. I certainly don’t need it. But there it is, staring back at me, the embodiment of American gluttony at its apex. I know if I don’t finish it now, all the fried ingredients will get soggy and gross, so I take a deep breath and dive back in.

Mental processes slowing… arteries choking… I feel a headache coming on. My phone is covered in grease from taking notes. The song “Yummy” by Justin Bieber comes on the stereo, a sad corporate plea taunting me to eat more.

In the end, I only finished half of the second half, so three quarters of the whole sandwich.

I look up from my stupor feeling like an absolute degenerate. I assess my surroundings. On the tables, the napkin dispensers are empty. There’s some trash in the booths. At the bar, half of the taps are missing. It honestly feels like this place is staffed entirely by frat bros. If it were 2am and I were drunk as a skunk, the entire affair would be a lot more acceptable. But it’s broad daylight, I’m sober as a gopher, and I begin to truly regret my decision to come here.

Steadying myself with a hand on the table, I walk out of the Fat Shack, let out a huge belch, and vow to never return as long as I live.

FINAL THOUGHTS

The Fat Shack is an utter abomination that should never have left New Jersey. The fact that they franchised and are spreading this food around a country that is already one of the most unhealthy places in the world is kind of a tragedy. Despite all of this, the food actually tastes good. Not just good, the sandwich tastes great. But, it should not exist. I hate myself for liking it. And I’m filled with embarrassment that I couldn’t put it down. Lord, who knew the fat sandwich could be so complex! For these reasons, they receive the following rating.

WEST COAST: 3

EAST COAST: 8

Note: For the first time in Jersey Boy history, the east coast rating is higher than the west coast! This is because in New Jersey, this sandwich is loved and celebrated by all. But on the west, it stands out for what it truly is: an All-American Abomination. Happy 4th of July!