Masters pimento cheese sandwiches? No, thanks. It’s the Phil Mickelson of sandwiches.

I would rather eat from a sand trap. (A real sandwich — ha ha ha.)

I do feel some regret. When I tried my first pimento cheese sandwich — the most celebrated concessions item at this tradition-bound tournament — I hoped to experience something magical, a taste that would connect me with Bobby Jones, Amen Corner and all that is mystical about these timeless grounds. I had certainly heard and read enough about it.

When I conducted a taste test of all of the seven sandwiches available to Masters fans, I saved it for last.

At the least, I wanted it to be passable.

I was apprehensive. I’d never eaten a pimento cheese sandwich before Tuesday. My dear mother-in-law often has lovingly prepared big batches of it when she and my father-in-law have come to visit us in Atlanta or when we’ve gone to see them in Columbus (the one in Georgia). My kids devour it. I passed.

Just the light orange color alone made me wary, to say nothing of the idea of eating a creamy, cheesy sandwich.

So, in the tradition of the intrepid journalists who have preceded me at The AJC, I put my fears aside and dared to eat a sandwich.

For this important public service, I enlisted a fellow traveler on this journey of sandwich discovery — young Jack Leo, part of the AJC team here this week. This morning at our rental house, Jack shared some of his own sandwich history. For instance, the taste of pimento cheese sandwiches has grown on him. Also, when he was a child and his mom wasn’t at home, his dad made baked bean sandwiches, which is exactly what it sounds like.

“I’m not gonna lie,” Jack said. “It wasn’t the worst sandwich in the world.”

Credit: Ken Sugiura

Credit: Ken Sugiura

Given that clear willingness to consider all varieties of bread-encased meals, the Earl of Sandwich himself would not have served as a better partner.

After walking the course in the morning, Jack and I gathered all seven sandwiches — egg salad, barbecue, club, chicken salad, classic chicken, ham and cheese on rye and pimento cheese — and spread our bounty on a patio table on the veranda of the press building.

The sun shone, a breeze blew. We took pictures of our feast and prepared our palates. Somehow, we were both drawing a salary for this.

We started with the chicken salad, another sandwich I don’t think I’ve ever eaten. (I find the consistency unappealing.) It wasn’t great — it was kind of bland — but I was pleasantly surprised. Jack approved generally.

“I’d say it was a good amount of chicken,” he said. “Sometimes you have chicken salad that’s kind of sloppy. This was kind of clean.”

The pork barbecue was next. It was smaller than we both expected, served on what looked like a slider bun, which was points off. Jack also found something grisly in his.

It wasn’t the best barbecue sandwich I’ve ever had — that honor might go to Community Q in Decatur — but it was flavorful and pretty good.

Next came the egg salad — the other sandwich besides the pimento cheese with a Masters reputation that precedes itself — and the biggest revelation to that point.

I gave it a 6. It wasn’t bad, but I wasn’t going to get a tattoo of it, either. In fairness, the poor meal was competing with the memory of the egg salad sandwiches my mother used to make for me to take to school. (Which, in hindsight, doesn’t seem the safest choice.) However, Jack gave it a 9, establishing it as his leader in the clubhouse.

“See, I want to eat this entire sandwich,” Jack said. “It’s creamy, it’s cohesive. … That is a good sandwich.”

We both didn’t like the ham and cheese on rye, both mostly because of the sour taste of the rye bread. We both thought the chicken sandwich — a filet of cold fried chicken — was passable. A little dry and probably better if warm.

At this point, I began to feel sandwich fatigue, not to mention gratitude that I’d been talked out of my original plan to eat each sandwich entirely.

We diverged on the Masters club. To me, again, it was nothing special, basically the same as the ham and cheese on rye except on a sesame seed bun.

But to Jack, it was evocative. He scored it a 9.5, ultimately his winner.

“That takes me to trips with my family to Yellowstone eating sandwiches like that,” he said. “That is a delicious sandwich.”

We finished our exercise with the beloved pimento cheese. It was by far my least favorite. I took a bite, thoughtfully considered it and just didn’t like it. It’s like eating mushy cheddar cheese.

No, thank you.

Jack gave it an 8, his bronze-medal winner. We agreed it was a polarizing taste — the bold flavor appeals to some but others are turned off by it.

It’s the Phil Mickelson of sandwiches.

In the end, the barbecue ended up being my winner of the AJC Masters sandwich-off — a familiar taste done reasonably well, if a small portion. Our split decision dovetailed with my observation that the egg salad and pimento cheese aren’t the favorites they’re purported to be.

I’d just as soon have a hot dog.

Come at me, green jackets.