I eat a lot of sandwiches. You probably know this, or at least suspect it. For a variety of reasons, I do not write about nearly as many sandwiches as I eat.

Sometimes I forget to take a photo. That’s one thing. I’m in a pretty good habit now of photographing most sandwiches placed in front of me, but plenty of times someone serves me something and either my phone is inaccessible, it doesn’t seem appropriate to pull it out, it’s too dark, or I’m hungry enough that I just want to eat the damn thing.

For another, sometimes I just don’t have anything to say about a sandwich. Many times that doesn’t stop me and I churn out uninteresting sandwich reviews anyway, but if I’m eating something very similar to something I’ve had before, it’s a good bet I’m not going to bother repeating all the same things. I repeat myself enough as it is without forcing it. #BlameBeltran.

There are also some guilt issues. This is among the reasons I can never be a proper food critic. I have no qualms about ripping a disappointing new menu item from Taco Bell or lamenting Subway’s quality of meat, but most of the sandwiches I eat come don’t come from massive corporations. And I don’t feel like it’s my place, without any real credentials beyond a few years behind a deli counter, to come online and criticize some guy’s sandwich-making skills to whatever audience I have based on my own tastes and a one-sandwich sample size. It takes so much effort to open and operate a deli or restaurant or food truck, and I’m not here to stomp all over someone’s life’s work because I’m disappointed with a single one of her sandwiches.

Which is all a long-winded way of reminding you that every sandwich reviewed here is, by my standards, remarkable — in that I have deemed it worthy of remarks. And for the most part, they come from the extreme right side of the bell-curve of sandwich-excellence.

I would say that sandwiches I rate in the 70s are worth eating if you have the opportunity. A sandwich with an 80 or above is delicious and worth going out of your way for. If many of the sandwiches reviewed here receive marks that high, it’s due to selection bias, not grade inflation.

I don’t know why anyone would want to hear about crappy sandwiches anyway. Sandwich of the Week is a celebration.

The sandwich: Pork sandwich from Rocket Pig, 24th St. and 10th Ave. in Manhattan.

The construction: Brined, spice-rubbed, smoked and roasted pork on a toasted ciabatta roll with red onion jam and mustard aioli. It comes with a small container of electric orange hot sauce.

Important background information: I am immediately suspicious of a pork-sandwich place called “Rocket Pig.” It seems aimed so perfectly and so directly at me that I worry it indicates either a) some sort of glitch in The Matrix or b) that there are enough people just like me that restaurants tailor their marketing efforts to us, and I’m just some drop in the ocean of my demographic. Both scenarios are concerning.

What it looks like:

How it tastes: Sweet. And gooey.

I mean this in the kindest possible way: The Pork sandwich from Rocket Pig tastes like what would happen if some talented chef armed with amazing ingredients were charged with creating a high-end sandwich interpretation of a Cinnabon. It’s so obviously and overwhelmingly indulgent that you’re immediately conscious of the toll it’s taking on your body. Other sandwiches, upon completion, might prompt you to think about the ingredients and ask, “Oh boy, what did I just do to myself?” From the first bite, this one makes you think, “Oh boy, what am I currently doing to myself, and why can’t I stop doing it?”

You can’t stop because it’s good. You love condiments, and this comes with three. All of them are sweet. On its own, the hot sauce has just a tiny bit of peppery heat, just as the mustard aioli has a hint of mustardy bite to it and the red onion jam some subtle earthy onion flavors. Together, though, those subtleties are lost in an astonishing tide of gooey sweetness.

The same goes for the pork, which is a shame. Separated from the sandwich, the pork tastes great. It’s appropriately fatty, just a little chewy, and smoky. On the sandwich — in that goo-tide — the pork flavors get sucked into the undertow.

The ciabatta roll is perfect. Its crisp outside provides the sandwich’s most pronounced texture, and it’s hearty enough to hold up under the considerable strain of the sandwich’s varied juices, greases and sauces.

What it’s worth: The pork sandwich from Rocket Pig costs $14.

It might be worth it. It might also seem emblematic of a doomed society drowning in its own excess if it weren’t for the lavender-glazed doughnuts available a block away. And you can try to fight the tide, waving your arms around and calling out in vain for help, decrying whatever series of events led us to sell and buy $14 one-note artisanal pork sandwiches, lavender doughnuts, and basically everything you can imagine stuffed with cheese. Or you can accept that regardless of the ramifications, this is a fascinating and — if you have the means to splurge on a $14 sandwich now and then — often enjoyable time to be alive, and surf this wave until it breaks. Subtlety and sensibility are for suckers, after all.

How it rates: 73 out of 100.

The candidate: Ultimate Taco from Fry Bread House, Phoenix, Ariz.

The construction: Green chile beef and refried beans with sour cream, lettuce and cheese on folded frybread. I ordered mine without onions.

Frybread is flat fried dough with a complicated place in Native American history. You should read this for way more, but essentially: In 1864, when the U.S. government forced the Navajo out of their native land and into less habitable lands in what’s now New Mexico, it provided them rations to prevent starvation. The rations included lard, flour and sugar, from which they made frybread.

For the purposes of only this discussion, what matters most is that it’s delicious.

Arguments for sandwich-hood: The Ultimate Taco is meat and toppings wrapped in a bread. Though the frybread is amazing, the fillings make the dominant flavor and focus. I ate it with my hands, though it got a bit messy. It was more than enough for a meal.

Arguments against: There’s only one piece of bread-stuff. Plus, it’s called a taco even though it doesn’t much resemble anything else you’ve seen called a taco.

How it tastes: So, so good. Amazing.

I don’t really know how to present this in an appropriately sensitive manner, given the history of frybread and whatever socio-cultural implications this presents, so I’m just going to come out with it: It both resembles and tastes like a Chalupa Supreme from Taco Bell. It’s a fried piece of bread-stuff wrapped around beef, lettuce and sour cream.

Only it’s much bigger and much, much better than any Chalupa I’ve ever had. My friend Will said something about it making Chalupas look like cave drawings — presumably he meant that this is the Renaissance masterpiece of taco-stuff-in-fried-dough. I wasn’t really paying attention, though. I couldn’t focus on anything but the Ultimate Taco.

The frybread is hot and pillowy, with a beautiful, crispy golden brown outside and a chewy middle. The beef in green chile was perfectly seasoned, tender little bites of beefiness with just enough flavor to permeate every taste but not enough to dominate the velvety refried beans and the cooling sour cream. The lettuce added some crunch on the inside, the cheese some salty creaminess.

Oh man. Man. We have to go back.

I typically don’t rate sandwiches reviewed in this format, but since this one was a no-doubt Hall of Famer from the first bite, I’m adding it to the Sandwich Hall of Fame. I suppose that sort of gives the verdict away.

What it’s worth: I think it cost $8 or so. Also, a flight to Phoenix and a hotel room and everything else. Worth it.

The verdict: It’s a sandwich. Everything about it besides it’s name says so, and also it needs to be recognized on this site permanently and I don’t have a Taco Hall of Fame. It’s clearly toward the gyro end of the sandwich spectrum, since it’s one flattish piece of bread instead of a traditional two-slices-of-bread sandwich. But it’s a sandwich. An awesome sandwich.