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Growing up, I didn’t fully understand that you could go to a deli and ask for a sandwich. My family got cold cuts from Carmel’s Arthur Avenue Deli, and when we were on vacation, we got smoked meats from Oscar’s in Warrensburg. We’d assemble sandwiches at home, using our very own bread.

Maybe once a year my dad would buy me a full-on sandwich from Arthur Avenue Deli, but it was usually when we were rushing to a travel-soccer game and didn’t have time to go home. I thought it was a sort of favor they did because my dad was such a good customer.  

As a high school freshman, my worldview shattered. Juniors and seniors left school, walked uptown, and came back with sandwiches. Not Ziplock bags of deli meats and loaves of bread—real, pre-made sandwiches with condiments slathered on, neatly sliced down the middle. If I waited for school to end, I could go uptown myself, hand an Italian man $4.50 (tax included), and he would cut up a roll, toss on a chicken cutlet and fresh mozzarella, and drizzle on some Italian dressing. It seemed like an incredible luxury.

It took me longer than it should have, but I did realize that delis made sandwiches. There’s only one I know that doesn’t: Oscar’s. During the summer, when traffic is at its peak, they don’t bother. For an assemble-it-yourself family, this was no big deal. Though there was another respected sandwich-oriented deli in town—Jacobs and Toney—I never considered going.

Last summer, in Warrensburg by myself, I cracked. I didn’t need four pounds of smoked meat—just a sandwich. Subway was an option, but I’d heard rumblings that First-Cousin-Once-Removed Beverly and her children were big fans of Jacobs and Toney. I had to see if Garrett and Justin’s hype was justified, or whether they deserved to be ex-communicated from our family once and for all.

Unlike most delis, which offer a meager selection of two sandwich sizes (excluding wraps), Jacobs and Toney offers four. The largest—the famous sub—is so large that they have a saran-wrapped example on the counter, just to deter you from ordering it. If you don’t notice and ask how big the sub is, they tell you it contains one pound of meat and imply the last person who ate an entire famous sub is underground. And it really is one pound of meat. This isn’t one of those 11-inch Subway footlong situations; you can see them weighing it on a scale right before your eyes. Even the half-size is arguably too much. My preferred size is a demi, which is about three-eighths the size of a famous sub.

Luckily for Garrett and Justin, Jacobs and Toney is good. There is nothing fancy about their sandwiches: the meat is tasty, and the bread is fresh, fluffy, and dangerously low in glycemic index. You can choose from eight cheeses, nine veggies, and eleven condiments for free. You can even add bacon or extra cheese for a fee. If you look confused while ordering, they will suggest lettuce, tomato, and onion, and the first time, I was too frazzled to request more. For a more ideal meat-veggie balance, you’ll need a couple other vegetables. I suggest cucumbers and jalapeños, but if you don’t like those things, you shouldn’t get them.

Jacob and Toney’s is not as good as Oscar’s, but it is very solid. And if you want macaroni salad, one of those mushy deli sides, or chips, they have those too, because it is a deli.

Jacobs & Toney Deli and Meat Store of the North: 8.1/10