Sandwiches in NYC have become enormous and too big to eat. So I tried some.

As far as enduring New York City icons go, sky-high sandwiches are right up there with pizza, the Statue of Liberty, rats and Carrie Bradshaw. And right now, they’re having a major moment.

Let’s begin with the Mama’s Too Chicken Alla Vodka sandwich — arguably New York’s current social media champ in the big-sammy category — which combines cutlets, vodka sauce, pesto and burrata for a “messy and beautiful” handheld that could get you “a bit turned on.”

I’ve also seen and heard talk of the “dumb-good” Gargiulo Burger, a roast beef plus patty plus broth creation at Brennan & Carr in Sheepshead Bay that had one guy invoking the Sign of the Cross and murmuring about the “terrible things” it made him want to do.

And then there’s the Double Everything Burger at Moe’s Pastrami & Burger in Prospect Lefferts Gardens; the Double Spicy Chicken Sandwich at Chicky’s in Queens; a multitude of offerings at G&R Deli in the Bronx; the list goes on.

The portions are outrageous, the calorie counts reckless and the act of eating these monstrosities mortifying.

Watching people unhinge their jaws and contort their faces to attempt a bite reminds me of witnessing someone you look up to furtively pick a wedgie or sniff their armpit: It’s a fleeting vulnerability, an act a little too intimate for the street, a cruel reminder that we’re all mere mortals.

Giant sandwiches are not a new phenomenon. According to a recent article in Eater, Katz’s famous pastrami on rye — the sandwich legend, probably the GOAT — was part of a wave of biggies back in the 1920s that served to express a person’s status. I suppose it’s true: In a city where, for many, rent is a struggle each and every month, nothing gives “thriving” like six inches of layered beef.

While Katz’s is still a regular on what-to-eat-in-NYC lists, the 2020s have ushered in a new wave of monsters — or, more precisely, a horde of social media posts about them. Towering edible spires of bread, meat and cheese ooze grotesquely across my Instagram and TikTok feeds, accompanied by jittery narrations from food and travel influencers.

They’re the YOLO of New York’s food scene, the PDA of dining and the Cheesecake Factory of urbanity. We should all be ashamed. And yet…

Why I wanted to try some ginormous sandwiches

I had some concerns about consuming enormous sandwiches. Can a metabolism move backward? Digesting a giant sandwich might take me days given my 40-something constitution.

But social media makes them seem fun. Look how they slide around on their own, like they’re alive! Plus, when done right, sandwiches are delicious. I thought of that scene in “Chef” where Jon Favreau turns a humble grilled cheese into a labor of love. If you look at it that way, treating myself to some giant sandwiches is a form of self-care.

In this state of mind, I resolved to participate in this (hefty) slice of NYC culture. I made plans for a little sandwich tour across three boroughs.

What it was like to eat the giant sandwiches

It was a beautiful Friday afternoon and my first stop was Moe’s Pastrami & Burger in Prospect Lefferts Gardens, Brooklyn. Observing a photo of the $16 Double Everything Burger — a tower of patties, onion rings, bacon, avocado and garnishes — one friend had mused that it could feed a party of 10.

As I approached the shop, I kid you not, I had preemptive heartburn. It’s true. It’s like my body knew what was coming and was trying to save me.

The cashier was matter of fact — I’d feared he would give me a worried, “are you sure?” He did make one kind assumption, though. “No fries, right?”

I took my seat — I was the lone customer in this tiny restaurant — and unwrapped my meal. The burger wasn’t as tall as the one I’d seen posted on Instagram, but at about five inches, it sure was tall enough. The sandwich glistened with grease and the cheese melted and stretched in a way that implied a smile, like Jesus toast.

I couldn’t get my teeth to graze the bun; there was just too much height to contend with. The burger was salty and spicy and the fat content was a shock to my palate and nervous system. On my third or fourth bite, redoubling my efforts to access the bread, a quarter of an avocado slid unceremoniously out the other side and onto the foil.

Making it through a third of this thing became a fight. It was tasty and I didn’t want to offend anyone, but I really could only afford to sample it, considering the other sandwich stops I had planned. I avoided eye contact with employees and entered a sluggish, depressive state, as my gut worked hard to make sense of the onslaught. As I looked out the window, I envied the joggers making their way to Prospect Park. It was time to go.

Next stop: Montagu’s Gusto in Murray Hill. I tromped heavily toward Second Avenue from the 4 train. Why did I think this was a good idea? Resentful of the bifold sign advertising a healthy salad, I faked confidence, strutted up to the counter and ordered The Godmother, a $15 chicken cutlet sandwich stuffed with arugula, mozzarella and roasted peppers, a “literal football” that one reviewer wistfully referred to as a “staple” that “wins every time.”

The sandwich was indeed enormous, but perhaps more impressive was its weight. How many chickens died in its service?

It was truly delicious — I was so grateful for the greens, too — but once again I found I could hardly make a dent.

It was hard to focus on the food; I felt so alone. I’d pictured bustling scenes of enthusiastic eaters, a shared experience of excess. Someone — anyone — to behold my status as a giant sandwich eater. What I’d gotten instead were tame environs and dutiful DoorDash drivers who came and went. Customers grabbed pre-ordered takeout. Bad club music blared and I sulked with my hot tea.

A few days later, TikTok served me a reel from the popular foodie account Sisters Snacking, who were trying The Bomb from Sal, Kris & Charlie’s, the “sandwich king of Astoria.” They described it, grossly but accurately, as “the size of a baby.”

This Italian sub seemed like it would travel well, so I decided to pick it up and bring it home to share with the fam. I needed to try this in privacy, where I could do an unattractive hunch over the paper, get my hands dirty and perform messy sandwich surgery as needed.

Though it was a dreary Monday, the shop was bustling when I walked in. As Nico prepped my order, I explained my sandwich tour. “Oh, this will be the favorite,” a fellow customer told me. He said he’d been visiting Sal’s ever since a girlfriend introduced him to the place 15 years ago. Finally, some excitement and recognition for my journey.

Heartened, I posted some hot sandwich pics to Instagram stories from my seat on the W train. The views, hearts and comments began rolling in and so did my dopamine. I’d started out with the assumption that to sample the big sandwiches was to participate in culture, but that wasn’t it at all. To share images of trying them was to participate; the actual consumption was beside the point.

The Bomb was cut into four pieces; when I got home I halved each piece again. I sat with my three kids and we oohed and ahhed over the layers of salami, mortadella, turkey and so many others. We got mustard on our faces. My son gave us a tutorial on squeezing the edge of the sandwich just so while taking a bite so it doesn’t fall apart. My heart swelled.

What to know before trying a giant sandwich nouveau

This is a group activity.

Each sandwich I tried could easily feed four people.

Bring wet wipes.

You will need them for your hands and anything within a two-foot radius, like your bag and your phone.

Remember this after a night out.

These sandwiches could obliterate a hangover; sure wish I’d thought of this back in 2010.

Post it.

Your audience is going to love it.