The fried pork chop sandwich is defined by a piece of meat that does not fit its bread, and the overhang is the point. A bone-in or boneless chop is pounded thin, breaded, and fried, then set on a plain soft bun it dwarfs in every direction, hanging an inch past the bread on all sides. That mismatch is the identity. The sandwich is not engineered so the meat fits the bun; it is built so the bun is barely enough to hold a chop that is the entire meal, and the bread exists to give the hands a grip and blot the fat, nothing more.
The craft is in the pound and the fry. A pork chop is lean and goes to leather if it is cooked thick and hard, so it is flattened to an even quarter inch, which does two things: it cooks fast before it dries, and it spreads to the oversized footprint the sandwich is known for. A seasoned flour or cracker-meal dredge fries into a thin crisp shell that keeps the lean meat moist inside it, and the chop has to come off the heat the moment that shell sets, because a beat too long and the thinness that saved it from drying works against it. The bun is plain, soft, and never toasted, sized smaller than the chop on purpose so it compresses to the meat and stays out of the way. The dress is deliberately minimal, the lunch-counter standard of yellow mustard, flat pickle, raw onion, sometimes nothing at all, because anything richer competes with a chop that is already the whole sandwich. It is a meat-and-three and roadhouse build, fried to order and eaten fast while the crust is still crisp and the lean meat still juicy.
The variations stay inside that oversized-chop, plain-bun frame. A bone-in version keeps the rib and you eat around it; a thicker pan-fried chop trades the wide overhang for a meatier bite; a gravy-smothered build turns it into something between a sandwich and an open plate. Each of those is its own codified reading and deserves its own article rather than being crowded in here.