7 Vintage Massachusetts Fast-Food Sandwiches From The ’80s That Vanished Forever
Growing up in Massachusetts during the ’80s meant experiencing a golden age of fast-food sandwiches that sadly didn’t survive the test of time.
I still remember biking to my local mall food court with my allowance money clutched tightly in hand, eager to taste these now-extinct culinary creations.
These regional specialties weren’t just meals—they were markers of childhood memories, first dates, and late-night cravings that can never be satisfied again.
1. Brigham’s Turkey Club Supreme
Brigham’s wasn’t just for ice cream! Their Turkey Club Supreme was my ultimate reward after surviving piano lessons. The triple-decker masterpiece came stacked with oven-roasted turkey, crispy bacon, and a secret cranberry mayo that made Thanksgiving feel like an everyday possibility.
The sandwich arrived with a pickle spear and those ridiculously thin potato chips that somehow never got stale. What made it special was how they toasted just one side of each bread slice—creating this perfect contrast of textures that no other place has replicated since.
When Brigham’s locations started disappearing across Massachusetts in the late ’80s, they took this sandwich treasure with them. I’ve tried explaining it to my kids, but some food memories just can’t be passed down.
2. Pewter Pot’s Monte Cristo Delight
Heavenly doesn’t begin to describe the Monte Cristo Delight that once graced the menu at Pewter Pot restaurants across eastern Massachusetts. This indulgent creation featured ham, turkey and Swiss cheese between two slices of egg-battered bread, deep-fried to golden perfection, then dusted with powdered sugar.
Unlike today’s sad Monte Cristos, Pewter Pot’s version came with both maple syrup AND raspberry preserves for dipping. The sweet-savory combination blew my teenage taste buds away every single time.
My first paycheck from bagging groceries went directly toward buying these for my whole family. When the chain folded around 1989, I spent years trying to recreate it at home, but something about the restaurant’s special batter recipe made it impossible to duplicate.
3. Friendly’s Tuna Melt Spectacular
Before Friendly’s became primarily an ice cream destination, their Tuna Melt Spectacular reigned supreme among Massachusetts sandwich aficionados. Unlike ordinary tuna melts, this creation featured their signature sweet-pickle tuna salad between thick-cut sourdough bread with THREE different cheeses melted to bubbly perfection.
Mom would always let me order it when report cards came out. The sandwich arrived with the cheese still bubbling, accompanied by those crinkle-cut fries that were somehow both crispy and soft. The waitresses would always warn, “Careful, hon—plate’s hot!”
While Friendly’s still exists today, this particular sandwich variation disappeared during their menu overhaul of 1992. Modern Friendly’s tuna melts are pale imitations lacking the triple-cheese blend and that special Massachusetts sourdough that made the original unforgettable.
4. Steve’s Gyro Burger Fusion
Steve’s House of Pizza in Boston created the most bizarre yet addictive sandwich mashup I’ve ever tasted. Their Gyro Burger Fusion combined a traditional quarter-pound beef patty with gyro meat, feta cheese, and tzatziki sauce on a garlic-butter toasted bun that would make any cardiologist nervous.
My college roommate and I would scrape together our last dollars for this culinary contradiction. The sandwich came wrapped in foil with a side of those impossibly crispy fries dusted with Greek seasoning that left your fingers dusty orange.
The original Steve sold the restaurant in 1988, and the new owners immediately discontinued this beautiful monstrosity. Years later, I mentioned it to the current staff, who looked at me like I was describing alien food. Some flavors truly become lost to time, existing only in the memories of those lucky enough to have experienced them.
5. Pappy’s Pork Perfection
Pappy’s Drive-In along Route 9 in Framingham served a pork sandwich that would make modern foodies weep with joy. Their Pork Perfection featured slow-roasted pulled pork shoulder mixed with crushed pineapple and their secret “Framingham Fire” sauce, all piled onto a buttered and grilled Portuguese sweet bread roll.
Saturday afternoons meant convincing dad to take the long way home just to grab these sandwiches. They served them in these red plastic baskets lined with checkered paper, always with a side of their famous sweet potato strings that were thinner than shoestrings.
When the original owner passed away in 1986, his children couldn’t agree on the recipe, and the sandwich gradually transformed into something unrecognizable before the restaurant closed entirely. I’ve spent decades trying to reverse-engineer that Framingham Fire sauce with no success.
6. Buzzy’s Roast Beef Bomber
North Shore natives still speak in hushed, reverent tones about Buzzy’s Roast Beef Bomber. Before Kelly’s became the regional roast beef king, Buzzy’s in Salem served this magnificent creation: paper-thin rare roast beef piled three inches high on a buttered, grilled onion roll with their signature sauce that struck the perfect balance between tangy, sweet, and spicy.
My first date with my now-wife featured two awkward teenagers sharing this massive sandwich. The meat was so tender you never needed a knife, and the sauce would inevitably drip down your arms no matter how carefully you tried to eat it.
A kitchen fire in 1987 closed the original location, and when they reopened elsewhere, something fundamental changed about the sandwich. The new owners claimed to use the same recipe, but every North Shore kid knew the truth—the magic was gone forever.
7. Papa Gino’s Pastrami Pocket
Before Papa Gino’s focused exclusively on pizza, their Pastrami Pocket was the hidden gem locals would order while tourists stuck to the obvious choices. This marvel featured hot pastrami, melted provolone, and a mustard-pickle relish stuffed into a pocket of their pizza dough, then baked until golden and brushed with garlic butter.
Friday nights meant pizza for my siblings and a Pastrami Pocket all to myself. The sandwich came served on those paper plates with the red and green pattern around the edge, always too hot to eat immediately but impossible to wait for.
When Papa Gino’s streamlined their menu in the late ’80s to compete with emerging pizza chains, the Pastrami Pocket vanished without fanfare. I’ve begged modern managers to bring it back, only to discover most have never even heard of it—a Massachusetts fast food footnote lost to corporate evolution.