The pulled pork sandwich is the rare sandwich that openly admits the bun is the least important part. The pork shoulder was cooked low over wood smoke for hours, taken to the point where the connective tissue breaks down and the meat pulls apart into a mix of dark, peppery bark and soft, smoke-saturated interior, long before it ever met bread. The sandwich is a delivery vehicle for that work. A plain, soft, slightly sweet bun is chosen precisely so that it disappears: it soaks up the sauce and the rendered fat, and it gives the hands something to hold while the smoked pork does all the talking.
The craft happened in the smoker, and the only assembly decisions are sauce and slaw. Shoulder is the right cut because its fat and collagen survive the long cook and become the texture of the meat rather than rendering away; leaner cuts go to string. The shred is deliberately uneven, bark and tender pieces mixed together, so every bite has both chew and give. The build then asks two questions. The first is the sauce, which is a regional argument: a thin vinegar-and-pepper dressing that lifts the meat and cuts its fat, or a thicker tomato sauce that coats it, or a mustard-based one. The second is the slaw, and whether it goes on the sandwich rather than beside it. Piled on top, a crisp, acidic slaw is structural as much as flavorful: it adds the cold crunch and the bright acid that a pile of rich, soft, smoky meat completely lacks, and it keeps the sandwich from collapsing into one heavy texture.
The variations are a regional map with the smoke held constant. Eastern Carolina runs whole hog and a thin vinegar dressing; Lexington works the shoulder with a red dip; South Carolina brings the mustard sauce; Memphis pulls the shoulder and crowns it with slaw. Each is a codified local build with its own rules, and each deserves its own article rather than being crowded in here.