The breaded pork tenderloin sandwich belongs to Indiana the way gumbo belongs to Louisiana. Drive through any small town between Fort Wayne and Evansville and you'll find one on every diner menu, each cook convinced their version is definitive. The cutlet hangs over the bun by several inches on all sides. This is not an accident. This is the point.

The dish traces back to Nick's Kitchen in Huntington, Indiana, where Nick Freienstein started serving them in 1908. German immigrants brought schnitzel traditions to the Midwest, and American ingenuity transformed them. Why pound the meat so thin? Tenderness, for one. Speed of cooking, for another. But mostly because a pork tenderloin that fits neatly on its bun is a pork tenderloin that has failed to understand the assignment.

The breading matters as much as the meat. Saltine crackers, crushed fine, give that distinctive sandy texture and golden color. Some cooks use breadcrumbs. Some use a mixture. I won't tell you they're wrong, but I will tell you the cracker coating fries crispier and clings better. The technique is simple: flour, egg, crumbs. Press firmly. Let it rest. Fry hot and fast.

Serve this on a soft bun that yields to the crispy cutlet. Pile on the pickles, the raw onion, the yellow mustard. A tenderloin sandwich without pickles is like a sentence without punctuation. It works, technically, but something essential is missing.