No frills, just Sandwich Week:

The sandwich: Chicken parm roll from Torrisi Italian Specialties, 250 Mulberry St. in Manhattan.

The construction: Pretty simple, really: A soft sesame-seed roll with breaded chicken, red sauce, fresh mozzarella and fresh basil.

Important background information: I mentioned my high standards before, but they’re especially high when Italian food comes into play. My mother is Italian and a terrific cook, and, like all good Italian (or half-Italian) men, I’m fiercely loyal to her food. Plus then I worked at an Italian deli that made its own mozzarella and everything, so I’m pretty distinguishing when it comes to that cheese.

And I think if I had read the New York Magazine review of Torrisi Italian Specialties I might have skipped the place entirely. It refers to Italian-American cooking as an “oft-derided cuisine” and suggests that Torrisi is a “high-concept gimmick.”

First of all, who’s deriding Italian food? I thought Italian, and especially the American interpretation of Italian food, was like the main food culture that everyone agreed on. Who doesn’t like pizza?

I mean, maybe I’m biased, but the idea of serving a variety of food ironically is about the most obnoxious thing I’ve ever heard. Especially when that style of food was delicious long before you got your condescending hands on it. Food is to be enjoyed unironically. And I guess it hits home to me if someone’s playfully mocking Italian-American food, since I grew up loving it and then spent years laboring over it at the deli.

Granted, I have no idea if Torrisi Italian Specialties really set out to serve the food I grew up loving in some sort of ironic fashion. The place was almost pretentious in its lack of pretense, but that could mean anything. Plus, you know, who cares? Like I said, I believe food should be enjoyed for the sake of enjoying food, so the motivations of the people serving the food don’t really make a difference to me. I’m here to eat.

What it looks like:

How it tastes: Very good, but not exceptionally good. I can’t point to a single element of the sandwich that didn’t taste as good as anyone could ever expect. The sauce was sweet, the cheese was gooey, the chicken was hot and tender, the basil was, well, basily. And all those ingredients are delicious.

But nothing on the sandwich really jumped out at me to make me be like, “whoa! That’s the best (insert that thing here) I’ve ever had.” Plus something in there — either the breading of the chicken or the mozzarella — was pretty salty and certain bites of the sandwich might have bordered on too salty.

On the whole, though — like I said — it was very good. An amazing number of eateries manage to screw up chicken parm sandwiches, which is baffling because they’re pretty simple. Torrisi Italian Specialties is not one of those eateries. They make chicken parm sandwiches as well as anyone. Just not appreciably better.

What it’s worth: The $7 price tag was more than reasonable, but probably part of what’s holding me back from a more glowing review of the sandwich is that I waited about a half hour for them to make it. I’m pretty sure I just went in at precisely the wrong time; the line was never longer than it was when I got on it. Regardless, by the time I got the sandwich, I expected it to be epically awesome.

And though the sandwich was delicious and I’m glad I ate it, it was not so decidedly better than a chicken parm hero at a good pizzeria to make it worth the trip to SoHo and the long wait.

The rating: 83 out of 100. Better than the Cuban I made but not better than the Sloppy Bao. If the Chicken Parm Roll from Torrisi were a baseball player, it would be Paul Konerko. Indisputably good, but no one could ever reasonably argue it’s a Hall of Famer.

I hope last night’s sandwich will be the least exciting of the sandwiches I enjoy during Sandwich Week. Straight up, I had some ingredients left over from Monday night’s Cuban, and I’m not one to throw out good Portuguese rolls and ham.

The sandwich: Ham and cheese, TedQuarters.

The construction: One of those aforementioned Portuguese rolls with deli ham and provolone from our grocery store. Somehow our local supermarket doesn’t stock Boar’s Head products, which is total bulls***. So this was some knock-off brand ham that the supermarket claims is better than Boar’s Head. It’s not. It’s not terrible, and it’s better than Hormel ham or any of the disgusting pre-sliced, packaged varieties the supermarket sells for some stupid reason, but it’s not quite Boar’s Head quality and far from Schaller & Weber or the stuff they sell at Whole Foods.

It’s very important when making sandwiches at home to pile on the slices one at a time, making sure there’s lots of folding and creasing in the process. Never just pull out a stack of five slices of ham from the package and place them right on the bread. That’s terrible. I would hope you know better, but I’ve actually purchased sandwiches from delis that came like this. It’s all about surface area. Surface area is where the flavor comes from.

I did use one Boar’s Head product: Pepperhouse Gourmaise dressing. I’ll get to that in a bit.

Important background information: Ham and cheese feels like the most generic type of sandwich. When I was a kid I really liked bologna and cheese, but now bologna disgusts me (though I like hot dogs, which are basically the same thing, just smaller and grilled). My bologna has a second name, it’s g-r-o-s-s.

What it looks like:

How it tastes: Meh. Mostly like a ham and cheese. The bread was a day old and I neglected to warm or toast it, so it was a bit stale. And Portuguese rolls are particularly bready, so there was a lot of stale bread to get through.

The saving grace of the sandwich is the Pepperhouse Gourmaise. This condiment deserves more thorough appreciation. I never had much time for Dijonnaise back in the day and I very much appreciated Mr. Show’s parody commercials for similar products, but Boar’s Head has improved upon the straight mustard-mayo hybrid.

It’s about the pepper, stupid. Delicious peppercorns of various colors dot the dressing and make it inimitably awesome. I’ve had Pepperhouse Gourmaise in my house for about five straight months and I’ve yet to try it on anything and not have that thing become more delicious. I might start putting it in my coffee and spreading it on my toast with breakfast.

What it’s worth: Patrick Flood and I had an entertaining email discussion a couple months back about the concept of “replacement-level” as it pertains to things outside of baseball. The thing that’s important to remember is that replacement level does not mean flat-out terrible. A replacement-level baseball player is just one that could be easily replaced by a player of equal worth.

This was, by my standards, a replacement-level sandwich. It was good because most sandwiches are good, but it would not take much effort or searching to make or buy a similarly tasty sandwich.

I should note that I have exceptionally high standards for sandwiches, so replacement level for me is probably higher than the replacement level for someone who eats Oscar Mayer bologna all the time. Like a replacement-level Major Leaguer versus a replacement-level Double-A player.

The rating: 30 out of 100. I would say that’s a reasonable grade for the replacement-level sandwich on this arbitrary scale. Anything lower than 30 could be replaced by a ham and cheese on day-old bread with some good dressing. Basically the Mike Jacobs of sandwiches.

I am victimized by rainstorms more thoroughly than anyone else I know. I have no idea why. And I don’t mean I’m out in the rain any more often or anything like that, I mean that for no apparent reason I seem to get wetter than most people when rainstorms hit. It’s weird. I am, 100% of the time, the guy that makes people all like, “whoa, hey!” during a storm, looking like I just jumped fully clothed into a swimming pool.

Am I too girthy for umbrellas? So heavy that I draw raindrops with gravitational pull? Lord, I hope not. I mean, I’ve certainly come across plenty of fatter, drier people. Maybe I don’t use umbrellas right or my attempts at common umbrella courtesy leave me uncovered too often. Who knows? All I’m sure of is that no matter how hard I try to stay dry, I get soaked. I could wear a poncho and end up dripping.

But even knowing my proneness to drenching, and knowing that I had three avenues to walk, did I stop, turn around and get right back on the subway when I stepped out at 23rd and 6th today into a torrential downpour? Hell no, bro. It’s Sandwich Week. I decided so yesterday.

The sandwich: Sloppy Bao from Baoguette, 61 Lexington Ave. in Manhattan.

The construction: The Sloppy Bao is the Vietnamese answer to the sloppy joe, but the traditional ground-beef sloppy joe and not the New Jersey variety discussed in the comments section yesterday. It’s french bread piled with curry-seasoned sweet and spicy ground beef, thin strips of green mango and fresh cilantro.

Important background information: The woman at the counter asked if I wanted it spicy. I find that in certain Southeast Asian eateries — especially Thai and Vietnamese places — if you specify that you want your order spicy or, heaven forbid, extra spicy, you probably won’t be tasting anything else for the rest of the week. I’m pretty sure it’s some sort of culture-spanning practical joke intended to punk whiteboys who have eaten a couple of Buffalo wings and think they can handle real heat. Even a strong affirmative nod when you’re asked if you want your food spicy will land you in tears, quivering in the restaurant, chugging milk and begging for forgiveness.

Though I appreciate the challenge, I prefer to keep my taste buds. I always go with “medium spicy,” to let them know that, while I enjoy spicy food, I am not in any way daring them to humiliate me with their awesome powers of spice. As such, I ordered my Sloppy Bao medium spicy.

What it looks like:

How it tastes: Oh hell yeah; now we’re talking. The Sloppy Bao is what Sandwich Week is all about.

The bread was warm, crusty and flaky on the outside and soft and tasty on the inside like all good French bread should be. The beef was straight up delicious. Like I said, it was sweet and spicy — but not too spicy, at all, just a nice hint of a kick. And the curry and whatever else is in there (I’d guess garlic, chili and maybe some basil, but I’m hardly a super-taster) made it awesome.

The most interesting part, I guess, was the mango and cilantro working in tandem. I never considered how those things might go together before, but since cilantro has that sharp, almost minty flavor to it and the mango was just a little tart. I don’t like to bandy about terms like “party in my mouth” unless I really mean it, but this sandwich was an explosion of excellence. All sorts of awesome flavors.

What it’s worth: At least $7 and a three-avenue trek through a monsoon. They have monsoons in Vietnam, right? Restaurants there must have to make sandwiches this good to get people to brave the elements to come eat them. I got back to the office 90 minutes ago. My pants are still soaked and my shoes are sopping, but I am satisfied. The Sloppy Bao is a destination sandwich.

The rating: 92 out of 100. I have had better sandwiches, but not many. I will definitely go back to Baoguette.