The Atlantic City sub is a cold Italian build whose entire argument is restraint. There is no toaster involved, no warm filling, nothing griddled. The sandwich is a long roll, split, and shingled with cured pork and provolone, and the thing that defines it is that the dressing is the only assertive element on an otherwise quiet plate. Oil and a sharp red wine vinegar, salt, oregano, and a scatter of hot pepper do all the talking. Everything else is deliberately plain so that dress and meat are the whole sandwich.
The craft is in the roll and the order of assembly. The bread is a long Italian loaf with a crust firm enough to carry a heavy cold load the full length without folding, and an interior tender enough that it does not fight the filling. The cured meats are sliced thin and laid in overlapping layers so that every bite delivers all of them rather than a mouthful of one. The cheese goes against the bread, the meats stack inward, and the oil and vinegar are applied last, directly onto the meat and the shredded lettuce, late enough that the roll takes the seasoning without going soft before it reaches the hand. Tomato and raw onion add cool and acid. The discipline is the point: a cold sub left to sit for a few minutes so the dressing works into the meat is a different and better sandwich than one eaten the second it is wrapped.
The variations stay inside the cold long-roll frame and are mostly a matter of which cured meats and how much heat. Some builds lean on a single capicola-and-provolone core; others stack salami, ham, and mortadella into a fuller Italian; the hot pepper relish or sliced long hots push it sharper. The shore tradition treats the wrap-and-wait step as part of the recipe rather than a convenience. Those codified builds each deserve their own article rather than being crowded in here, since the long-roll family is broad enough that the cold Atlantic City reading is only one position on a much larger map.