Think of the fried bologna sandwich as a reconfigured hot dog. The bun should be squishy, the bologna sturdy—a hefty slab cut from a roll, rather than a skimpy deli slice, and griddled until brown at the edges. You might layer on lettuce, pickles, and onion slices. Mustard is optional but excellent. The sandwich tastes best in a dive, with neon lights, blinking video lottery consoles, and classic rock in the background. Proximity to beer makes it better. I don’t even drink, and I still feel that way.

Supersized bologna sandwiches are not exclusive to central Ohio, but their spiritual epicenter is the heart of the Heart of It All.

Nearly every news outlet that’s covered fried bologna sandwiches has featured the G&R Tavern in Waldo, thirty-nine miles north of Columbus. They advertise their signature bologna sandwich as the world’s best, and there’s something to be said for custom-made zesty bologna, sliced three-quarters-of-an-inch thick and topped with jack cheese, crinkle-cut pickles, and ample sliced raw onion. But that isn’t the only noteworthy bologna sandwich around. I’d wager that there are more fried bologna sandwiches per square foot in and around Columbus than anywhere else in America.

Consider the lovely Berlin Breakfast Sandwich at the German-leaning Valter’s at the Maennerchor in German Village. It’s a griddled puck of bologna, cheddar, griddled onions, mustard, and a fried egg on a pretzel bun. At the nearby Club 185, an old neighborhood joint rebooted for cool kids, the formidable bologna sandwich has just the right amount of char around the edges, and at German Village institution The Thurman Cafe, you’ll get tube steak from Columbus’s own Falters Fine Meats.

Get in the car and head east to the formica countertops of Tom’s Ice Cream Bowl in Zanesville. There, you can enjoy a decent—if stripped-down—bologna sandwich. It’s a little light on the locally made Rittberger bologna, but that leaves room for an excellent tin roof sundae and one more sandwich, in my hometown of Marietta.

The meat in my favorite fried bologna sandwich is char-broiled, not grilled. You can find it at the Harmar Tavern, which bills their sandwich as “Sure to be Famous.” I love that tagline, because it pins the sandwich in pre-fame limbo forever. It comes with melted jack cheese, raw onion, pickle chips, like others, plus lettuce and tomato. The greasy bologna meets its match in crisp, cold iceberg and sweet-and-sour bread-and-butter pickles. It’s a symphony of textures, tastes, and temperatures. (The Harmar, unfortunately, is still closed due to COVID, with plans to re-open on April 1.)

Neither flashy nor particularly gritty, the fried bologna sandwich is an edible embodiment of our character. Pandemic dining hasn’t been good for the sandwich, a social, carefree meal, but it isn’t going anywhere. Hang in there until the sweet day when we can dine and drink in dives without impediment, and start plotting your fried bologna road trip across the Buckeye State.