Prison Food at the Crossbar Inn: The Infamous State Sandwich

James Berman describes the infamous prison food staple known as the state sandwich, enlightening us on its ritual preparation and questionable comfort.

There are many reasons for an inmate resident at the Crossbar Inn to miss a meal. A court appointment is scheduled, maybe a family member is visiting, or something as simple as a trip to the infirmary to fetch some medicine. With portions being slender anyway, prison food usually isn’t sufficient to allow for a skipped lunch. The Department of Corrections has thought of that, and so hospitably provides a makeup meal for those in need, no matter the time of day or night.

The State Sandwich: A Prison Food Classic

Prepared in great quantities with exacting detail and in an acutely honed sense for providing a celebration of prison food, behold the “state sandwich.” Let’s say a court appointment is on the calendar for noon. In an effort to ensure your timely arrival in front of the judge—usually via video monitor and camera. A 4:30 a.m. wake-up call is provided as a courtesy. Taking into account that lunch will be missed, you’re offered a state sandwich in lieu of today’s sloppy joe, green salad, mixed vegetables, and pudding. The sandwich is quite famous at the Crossbar Inn as a staple, being served without modification since its founding.

Building the State Sandwich in the Kitchen

What makes this sandwich a classic? The ceremonial building of the sandwiches takes place every morning under the conspicuous quality control of a corrections officer responsible for Zone 2 of the kitchen. Two columns of bread—the sliced white variety—are set out on a sheet of brown deli paper, four rows across. On the bread, a slice of deep crimson (hot dog-colored) deli meat is placed on each slice of bread. The meat has a particular aroma, coincidentally, of hot dog. On this singular slice of homogenized meat, a slice of waxy, yellow American cheese. On top of the cheese, two more slices of bread, providing both the lid for the sandwich as well as the base for the next specimen, stacked atop the first.

This process is repeated until each column is stacked four rows by four sandwiches high, for 32 state sandwich classics ready for distribution. These are built six pans at a time, every day. The heels of the bread are used; nothing gets thrown away under the concentrated gaze of the orbiting officer, although one of my colleagues tells me that getting a heel is considered disrespectful.

The Aftermath of Prison Food

As if going to court isn’t stressful enough, adding predictable gastrointestinal distress by way of a 26 cent meal isn’t the comfort you desire at a time like this. Meat of questionable origin—and not enough of it—plopped under a processed cheese food product—is a belly hug only a resident of the Crossbar would understand and subject their physiological fortitude to enduring to make it through to tonight’s boiled cabbage and baked “fish” abbondanza of the sinner’s supper.

The state sandwich may be a small detail of daily life, but it stands as a lasting reminder of how prison food shapes the inmate experience.

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The post Prison Food at the Crossbar Inn: The Infamous State Sandwich first appeared on Prison Writers.