At long last, the legendary 7-Eleven Japanese-style egg salad sandwich has landed in the USA. A creation on par with Tamagotchi and the rice cooker. Praised and craved by American tourists, teenage weebs, and coworkers who take any opportunity to bring up their recent trip to Tokyo.
This anticipated sando is the latest in a tradition of “Americanizing” beloved Japanese classics. But does it hold up to the hype?
Kibōteki kansoku.
Some things translate well from Japanese to English. Pokémon. Instant noodles. Marie Kondo. Godzilla.
Some things translate… less well. Benihana. Karaoke. The 1998 Godzilla reboot starring Matthew Broderick.
Then, there’s the 7-Eleven Japanese-Style Egg Salad Sandwich.
Something easily translatable—in theory. In practice, it’s like watching an anime with wonky subtitles.
Maybe that’s subjective bias?
The first time I experienced the wonder of the tamago sando, it was 5 a.m. on the streets of Shinjuku, an hour after the last gay bar in Tokyo closed. Burned-off adrenaline and a fading buzz had primed my foreigner taste buds—as I scarfed down a life-altering egg salad sandwich under the neon orange-green glow of a 7-Eleven.
It was a revelation. It was a miracle. It was shifuku. Supreme bliss.
In one bite, I saw the light—converting to the cult of Kewpie mayonnaise. I didn’t know sandwiches could taste like this. That eggs could be so fluffy and buoyant. That mayo could pack an umami punch. That bread could melt in your mouth, or could melt you into a rippling pool of contentment.
The first time I tried the Americanized version was also after a couple of beers. The combination of egg, mayo, milk bread, and Bud Light was a stomach-turning misstep. Yet, I persisted—out of sheer devotion to the slice of yolky paradise I’d experienced in Tokyo (did I mention my trip to Tokyo?).
The next day, I tried again. Paced the parking lot of a 7-Eleven in North Hollywood that blared Pachelbel’s Canon in C 24/7 to deter loiters and madmen like me. I’d skipped breakfast and lunch, holding out till my craving hit that grumbling sweet spot between hunger and hangover.
Sandwich in hand, practically drooling, I pop the tab on the plastic container.
Maybe it’s the packaging, but the sandwich has the same aroma as every plastic-wrapped wrap in every airport café. Is it nostalgic? Is it noxious? I take a giant sniff, delirious. Take a whopping bite, too ravenous to care.
My teeth meet the same resistance as a marshmallow. Get within grazing distance, and a whole clump comes off in your mouth. It’s springy. It’s soft. It’s surprising! Sure, the Japanese version isn’t so much “marshmallowy” as it is akin to the feeling of French kissing a cumulus cloud—but again, very springy.
Then a splinter sticks between my incisors.
Crust.
I was never the kind of adolescent elitist to demand the excision of crust from my PB&Js, so I’m trying not to sound like a brat, but… crust?!
It adds texture, they’ll say. It’s got vitamins, they’ll lie.
Arigato, 7-Eleven, but no arigato. Maintaining the original’s pure, plush, pillowy consistency is essential. This is like finding wood shavings in your cotton candy. Sand in your snow cone. A fingernail in your Butterfinger.
I keep chewing. The flavors mush and congeal, leaving a schmeared yellow residue on my tongue and an aftertaste like day-old deviled eggs. I think I taste the Kewpie mayo, but it’s probably just kibōteki kansoku. Wishful thinking.
My throat itches for something to wash it down. A Ramune soda or Pocari Sweat. Then I remember where I am. Defeated, I sulk back into the NoHo 7-Eleven and slap down my credit card for a sugar-free Red Bull.
Too bad I’m not in Tokyo. Did I mention my trip to Tokyo?
