On Peanut Butter: Potbelly’s “Big Jack’s PB + J”: Menu-Worthy? I decide.

October 10, 2008 by Teddy  Send to a Friend

After last week’s stellar column kick off, Teddy returns with the first (of many) peanut butter tasting and testing series. Enjoy.-ed

Over the weekend I had Potbelly’s PB+J, which I’d been meaning to try for a while. It had caught my eye every time I’ve been in a Potbelly, obviously, but I always put off it ordering it for one reason or another. So the emotional stakes were pretty high for this sandwich.

I was both skeptical and intrigued. Skeptical because I am not a fan of Potbelly. Quite the opposite in fact. The Potbelly phenomenon – by which I mean the ludicrous lines that form outside its downtown locations during workday lunch hours – is a lesson in the devious power of marketing if ever there was one. Because Potbelly is nothing more than Subway re-packaged, but people seem to think it (Potbelly) is distinctly better. It’s not. It’s the same meager, perspiring slices of meat, standard array of vegetables, cheese, and condiments, all arranged cylindrically into a hogie-ish roll. In short, a sandwich at its most generic.

But Potbelly manages to project a certain gourmet aura, and it does so in a way that has nothing to do with sandwich quality and therefore pisses me off. Think of the differences between the Potbelly and the Subway experiences. It all boils down to little ambient cues. The interior is inevitably awash with nature tones. The menu font has that ‘ole county store look. It exudes a vague superiority to something. It is Potbelly “sandwich works,” mind you, as if that transcendent turkey sub sprung from the womb of a brilliant sandwich artist, not the bored wage-earner taking your order. Basically, you’re supposed to think you’re in Vermont.

Subway puts up no such front. It is content to be the McDonald’s or the 711 of the sandwich game. (I think it all started with Jared. Subway obviously saw the vast profit potential in selling ostensibly healthy fast food to the mass market of would-be Jareds out there, and altered its corporate strategy accordingly.) In the meantime, Potbelly has stepped in and started to sell the ex-Subway yuppie the same sandwich wrapped up in some clever marketing.

Except Subway never sold a PB+J. Potbelly does, and that’s why, despite my general aversion to the place (which hopefully the above paragraphs made somewhat clear), I strolled into the Columbia Heights location the other day, having finally decided to give Big Jack’s PB + J a whirl.

Now I said before that I was both skeptical of and intrigued by this sandwich. I was intrigued, not only because I love peanut butter and was about to eat some, but also because putting a PB+J sandwich on a menu takes some balls. You’re dealing with a pretty simple formula: bread; PB; J. Anyone can do it at home, so why would you leave your house, hike up 14th St, and pay $4.19 (reasonable)? Therein lies the intrigue. If it’s on a menu, one thinks, there must be something special, some unforeseen value-added to render the humble PB+J restaurant-worthy. It’s a sign of confidence in one’s PB+J. At least that’s the way I see it. My thinking here is similar to the reverse psychology that immediately attracts me to the grossest-sounding thing on a menu: if it sounds awful but is on the menu anyway, they must know something I don’t, right? So if beer, tomato juice and bitters actually don’t taste awful together, than they must taste surprisingly really good, you follow?

So I’ve given Big Jack the benefit of the doubt, and it’s come time to eat…

Upon first bite, I’m a little underwhelmed; not quite disappointed, but I’m not jumping for joy either. Potbelly’s wheat roll is a nice piece of bread: it’s pleasantly crispy with strong grainy character. This is part of the problem, I’m thinking. The bread is just dominating the PB and jelly right now. They’re barely registering through all the wheat. A few quick repairs can solve this however. One obvious option would be to supplement the sandwich with my own supplies. But wouldn’t that defeat the entire purpose of this exercise, which is to see whether Big Jackh knows his way around a pantry? It would, plus I only have strawberry jelly on hand; Big Jack uses grape.

So instead I decide to perform minor surgery, separating the sandwich into two open-face slices. This turns out to be a smart move. Without the top slice running interference, I’m getting a direct hit of the good stuff, girded with an edifying crunch.

I stick the second half of my sandwich in the toaster oven. (They actually offered this option on site, but since I was taking it to go I declined) This turns out to be a smarter move. When I’m dealing with standard bread slices, I go back and forth on the question of to toast or not to toast. But with Potbelly’s PB + J, you definitely want it hot.

The toaster oven condenses the wheat roll into almost a panini affair, so too much bread volume is not an issue here. The heat allows some absorption of grape jelly but without any of the sogginess that usually ensues. The overall effect is to compress the sandwich, bringing bread, peanut butter, and jelly into more perfect union but maintaining the textural integrity of the original. The result is an intense, crispy, and flavorful bite of PB + J.

So in the end, my curiosity was rewarded. If you find yourself similarly intrigued, and happen to pass by a Potbelly during some indecisive lunch hour, not really psyched about another turkey sub or rolling the dice with sketchy Chinese, I recommend Big Jack’s PB + J.

Just make sure that you either a) ask them for an extra smattering of peanut butter and jelly (I didn’t think quickly enough at the time) or b) get it heated up.

Finally, I want to thank everyone who offered suggestions for various peanut butter products and recipes. I hope to pursue many of them in the future.

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