Last month, a resolution was presented to the West Virginia legislature proposing to make the "humble pepperoni roll" the state's official food—at last. In the eyes of most current and former West Virginians (myself included), the law would only formalize what we already held to be true: that this food—basically, pepperoni baked into a soft roll, which is a definition far less satisfying than the product it defines—was as connected to West Virginia as the bagel is to New York or the cheese steak is to Philadelphia.

And, in fact, House Concurrent Resolution No. 84 , proposed by Joshua Nelson (R-Boone County) used exactly those comparisons. It called the pepperoni roll "more than the sum of its parts, every single bite is filled with soft, warm bread infused with flavor from the freshly cut, delicately seasoned pepperoni"—and then continued on through six folksy passages to tether this simple, salty snack food to the rugged Appalachian state in which it was born.

Nearly all histories trace the pepperoni roll's origins to the north-central town of Fairmont, roundabout 1937. That's when an immigrant baker named Giuseppe "Joseph" Argiro noticed many of his fellow Italians were carrying two easily portable, non-perishable foods--bread and pepperoni--into the coalmines where they worked, and had the clever idea of combining the two into one. The resulting food, kind of a pocket-size calzone that required no heating or refrigeration, became a regional staple, growing over the years into a cultural totem.

Argiro would go on to open the Country Club Bakery, and the single-story brick building with the tin awnings is still the state's pepperoni roll Mecca, turning out between 250 and 900 dozen rolls a day, five days a week. But today you can find variants of the original just about anywhere--at gas stations, convenience stores, delis, grocery stores, snack bars, sporting events, and in hot-baked varieties at the other famous Italian bakeries of the north, in particular Tomaro's, Chico's, and Colosessano's .

Like its spiritual cousin the pizza slice, a pepperoni roll varies greatly in taste and quality, and the taxonomy ranges from flour-dusted, brownie-size rolls stuffed with sliced pepperoni and sold by the dozen in bread bags at gas stations; to individually wrapped rolls as big as an overstuffed burrito with pepperoni sticks in the middle, sold at Mountaineer Field , home of West Virginia University's football team; to heated rolls, split open and topped with cheese and tomato sauce, such as those served at Colosessanos in Fairmont. Sticks versus slices is probably the biggest divider among bakers—sticks is definitively the purist's take, and what Country Club uses—but you'll also find some hackles raised over the matter of cheese. (I'm fairly agnostic on the issue, but if you opt for cheese, go with pepper jack, which adds a kick that complements rather than overwhelms the spicy meat.)

Among those to celebrate the legislation—which was also agnostic on the issue of cheese—was U.S. Senator Jay Rockefeller, who took to Twitter to signal his joy , and to point out his own important politicking in the cause: In 1987, it was Rockefeller who fought back an attempt by the USDA to reclassify the state's small bakeries as meat processors, on account of the pepperoni roll. The change in designation would have caused the bakeries to implement far stricter safety and sanitation requirements—critical to handling raw meat but totally unnecessary in a bakery. Some, perhaps even Country Club, would have closed. If the regulation hadn't been defeated, Rockefeller said, "the pepperoni roll may have ceased to exist." And what a tragedy that would've been.

One thing I've never been able to do is make a roll that comes anywhere close to approximating the real thing. Maybe it's the water, which is what people say about bagels and pizza crust. Or maybe I'm just not a good enough baker, too impatient to dial in the perfect mix. My best attempt employed Pillsbury crescent roll dough, and while it was perfectly fine, it was paradoxically both too heavy and too flaky, especially when you compare it to a masterwork like the one turned out, day after day, by Country Club. That specimen is a five-inch-long Italian roll stuffed with four sticks of pepperoni--just enough so that the grease seeps through the bread and stains the underside of the roll an orangey-red.

The bakery's current owner, Chris Pallotta , still makes them according to the original recipe, which he bought, along with the shop, in 1997 from Frank's son Cheech. Pallotta grew up in Fairmont, and has been eating those rolls his whole life. As a kid, he'd line up every Saturday just after 7 a.m. with his Dad to take home a few dozen, plus one extra to eat in the car. Later, he played for the bakery's Little League team. And in high school, he'd eat them for lunch.

As would I in Morgantown, about 45 minutes up the Interstate from Fairmont. That was a time when I practically lived on the things—plucked from the shelf of a corner store and popped into the microwave, bag and all. I can still so clearly picture the moisture, and the warm grease, slicking the plastic.

Talking to Pallotta made me nostalgic, and also hungry. Fortunately, Country Club ships nationally, so I ordered two dozen. They arrived a few days ago. I don't expect them to survive the week.

Country Club Bakery sells pepperoni rolls for $11.88 a dozen. 1211 Country Club Rd., Fairmont, WV 304-363-5690. No website. The bakery wouldn't reveal its recipe, but many other pepperoni roll recipes can be found here .

Josh Dean (Morgantown High School, class of 1991) is a writer living in Brooklyn. He's a correspondent for Outside*, a regular contributor to* GQ, Rolling Stone, and Popular Science, and the author of Show Dog: The Charmed Life and Trying Times of a Near Perfect Purebred .