I fondly recall when Red Apron Butchery opened a location in Penn Quarter in 2014. Chef and partner Nathan Anda was explaining to me the painstaking research that went into the production of his tigelles, these muffinlike rounds made with lard back in Italy. He used the tigelles for a line of breakfast sandwiches that made no pretense about their purpose: Dense, delicious and calorie-driven, these loaded bites would wake you up, only to knock you out at your desk 30 minutes later.

As good as Anda’s breakfast sandwiches were, the item I remember most was found on the lunch menu. Anda had built a sandwich with slices of rare roast beef, which were layered inside a housemade kaiser roll, the whole thing drizzled with “atomic cheese whiz” and slathered with Ranch mayo. It was Anda’s homage to a Beef ’n’ Cheddar sandwich, which, I must admit, shocked me. I had never met a chef who, like me, harbored semi-secret fantasies about Arby’s and horsey sauce.

Then again, you never know what experiences shape a chef (or even a critic). Both Anda and I had spent time in Omaha as kids, and for a while, it seemed as if Arby’s had erected enough neon cowboy-hats across Nebraska to turn the state into a Vegas dude ranch.

I don’t know if Paul Taylor has any history with Arby’s, but I do know that he’s a student of the McRib, the popular slab of pork meat pressed into the shape of rib racks by machines in giant sterilized factories.

“I feel like it’s one of those things that you remember pretty fondly, and then when you have it, it is not necessarily what you remembered. But you still enjoy it,” Taylor tells me about that cult favorite from McDonald’s.

Taylor isn’t a formally trained chef. He’s a partner and beverage manager at the Columbia Room, the Shaw neighborhood hideaway that Derek Brown and his cast of mixology savants turned into one of the best bars in America. But Taylor loves to cook, and he loves sandwiches. Early in the pandemic, he launched a pop-up, Get a Hero Be a Hero, which has since morphed into a kind of formal concept, with patio seating, reservations and large-format cocktails. He calls it Your Only Friend, a name that Taylor nicked from his time managing that yuletide monster known as Miracle on Seventh Street. Whenever someone would lighten his load, Taylor would announce, “You are my only friend.” Proof, I guess, that it’s lonely at the top.

Aside from his riffs on Chinese barbecue pork and Italian subs, Taylor has created a high-concept take on the McRib for Your Only Friend (124 Blagden Alley NW; youronlyfrienddc.com). He dubs it the Ribwich, which is not just a salute to “The Simpsons” episode in which Homer discovers the chemical rush of the pork sandwich, but also a nod to the trippy scene in “Requiem for a Dream,” director Darren Aronofsky’s descent into drug addiction. This synthesis of high/low elements suits Taylor just fine. He’s a guy comfortable with designing cocktail tasting menus and building his own chicken nugget patty (which is brilliant, by the way, part of a sandwich that combines fast-food technology with Nashville hot chicken).

Taylor uses the same ingredient — transglutaminase, a group of enzymes that bind proteins together — to form the patties for both the Hot Nugget and Ribwich sandwiches. The latter combines transglutaminase with ground pork and barbecue spices (think: paprika, onions, garlic and brown sugar, among other ingredients). The transglutaminase, better known as meat glue, does more than allow illusionists in the kitchen to form meat into deceptive shapes. It retains the meat’s juiciness, too, Taylor says. And, yes, the sandwich maker adds, he did try to shape his patty into a mock rack.

“I searched high and low for a rib cookie cutter, which was very difficult to find,” he says.

Of course Taylor’s Ribwich blows the bones out of the McRib. (Well, it would if the McRib had any.) But it’s simply not a fair comparison. One is a mass-produced fast-food sandwich that will feed millions, for a little more than $4 a pop. The Ribwich is a handcrafted sandwich, first baked and then fried to order, lending the bite an exquisite crackle. The Ribwich is slathered with a syrupy, highly reduced barbecue sauce that gets its wood perfume from bacon fat and Liquid Smoke. Paired with pickles and raw onions, the Ribwich is a messy, multi-napkin affair, just like its forebear. It’s also jaw-droppingly delicious. But here’s the kicker: It runs $15 an order.

The takeaway: Quality always comes at a cost.

Wagshal’s, the family-run deli and market that is fast approaching its 100th anniversary, has always had a soft spot for America’s beloved junk foods. Owner Bill Fuchs and his crew have made their own versions of Twinkies, Hostess Cupcakes and even the pressure-fried chicken sandwich at Chick-fil-A. A few years back, Wagshal’s smokehouse spinoff, Pitmasters Back Alley BBQ, introduced its Mac Rib, a name that pretty much says it all.

Unlike Taylor’s Ribwich, the Mac Rib ($14.99, including fries) is not an attempt to reverse-engineer the original. It’s an honest-to-goodness rib sandwich, though a more customer-friendly variation than the one served in Texas, which includes bones and all. Spare ribs at Pitmasters Back Alley BBQ (4818 Yuma St. NW; 202-350-9791; pitmastersbackalleybbq.com) are cooked slowly in a pellet smoker and the bones carefully removed for each sandwich, which features a three-bone section. The ribs are topped with chopped raw onions and pickles, then lightly doused with original sauce, a Kansas City-style slathering, all sweet and tangy.

The Mac Rib isn’t a sticky plaything. It’s a flesh-and-blood bite. You may actually encounter — god forbid! — gristle. It’s a rib sandwich that tastes, deeply, of pork.

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