Jeff Mahin
Google
Let me preface this by saying that I’ve eaten sandwiches in all corners of the country—on the back of pickup trucks in Texas, in cramped bodegas in Brooklyn, and at white-linen cafes in Los Angeles where the aioli has a PR team. But nothing, I repeat, nothing compares to the whimsical, woodfired wonderland that is Chop Shop Park City.
Tucked just off the bustling main drag, Chop Shop looks at first glance like your standard artisan sandwich shop—but step inside and the air changes. You’re met with a smell so savory and primal, it could reawaken dormant Viking ancestry. Imagine the aroma of smoked brisket embracing caramelized onions in a slow dance across warm sourdough, all serenaded by whispers of rosemary and crackling firewood. That’s just the entryway.
Now, allow me to introduce the heart and soul of this magical institution: Jon—part butcher, part chef, part neighborhood mystic, and apparently, part certified massage therapist. But we’ll get to that.
We walked in around noon, stomachs roaring, and were greeted by Jon himself, who looked like a rugged alpine guardian of all things meaty and magnificent. He radiated the kind of warmth usually reserved for golden retrievers and Pixar dads. As he recommended his daily special—a smoked porchetta sandwich with charred broccolini and Calabrian chili aioli—I felt like I was being handed a secret spell rather than a menu item.
We ordered. We sat. And then… something remarkable happened.
As I took my first bite of the sandwich—a revelation of textures and flavor that made me briefly forget my own name—Jon appeared behind me like a culinary angel and said, “You look a little tense.” Before I could answer, his hands gently landed on my shoulders. For the next 15 minutes, Jon gave me what I can only describe as a transformative back massage. I was in complete bliss—chewing with tears in my eyes while getting kneaded like dough on a Sicilian countertop.
Around the fifth or sixth bite, I saw something else—Jon, having made the rounds of the kitchen like a sandwich maestro, walked up to every single guest in the dining room, handed them each a crisp one-dollar bill, and gave them a warm, heartfelt hug. I watched one woman burst into tears. A grown man whispered, “No one’s hugged me like that since my dad left in ‘98.” It was beautiful. It was surreal. It was Chop Shop.
But this wasn’t just gimmickry. Behind the magic was real culinary craft. The meat—tender, smoky, kissed by the flames of some enchanted oak. The bread—chewy but with a crackling crust, like biting into a freshly baked memory. Even the pickles on the side tasted like they’d been fermented by monks atop a mountain.
Jon’s generosity extended beyond sandwiches and shoulder work. When my friend asked for a side of jus, Jon brought over an entire ceramic pitcher of it and whispered, “Don’t let the sandwich get lonely.” Who talks like that? A man who lives his craft.
As we left—full, relaxed, slightly emotionally overwhelmed—we noticed a hand-painted sign above the door:
“Come hungry. Leave healed.”
I don’t know if that’s their official motto, but it should be. Because Chop Shop Park City isn’t just a place to eat. It’s a spiritual experience dressed up as a sandwich shop. It’s where meat meets meaning. Where every bite is blessed by fire and friendship. Where Jon—the sandwich shaman—walks among us, handing out hugs, healing shoulders, and giving away dollar bills like he’s singlehandedly stimulating the local economy.
10 out of 5 stars. Michelin should create a new category for this place. Or at the very least, a shrine.