The smoked turkey sandwich is the barbecue joint's quiet entry, and its defining problem is the opposite of the brisket's: turkey breast is lean, so the smoke has to do work that fat does for pork and beef. A whole turkey breast is cooked low over hickory or oak until it carries real smoke and a thin bark, then sliced and stacked on bread. The sandwich is not a lighter copy of a pulled-pork build; it is engineered around a protein that has almost no fat to baste it, which is why every other decision points at moisture and contrast rather than at richness.
The craft is in the smoke and the slice. Breast meat dries out fast under long heat, so it is brined and pulled the moment it is cooked through and no further, then sliced against the grain so each piece stays tender rather than turning to thread. Because the meat brings smoke but little fat, the sauce is doing the lubricating: either a thin, tomato-and-vinegar barbecue sauce that lifts the turkey and cuts its faint dryness, or, in the more Southern build, a sweet-tart cranberry that reads against the smoke instead of with it. The bread is a plain soft bun or sliced white, chosen to disappear and to soak the sauce, and a layer of cool crunch, pickle or shredded lettuce, supplies the bright, sharp counter that a lean smoked meat lacks on its own.
The variations stay inside the smoked-bird frame. A cranberry build leans it toward a Thanksgiving register; a sauced build runs the house barbecue sauce and treats it like the pork plate's leaner cousin; a chopped version dices the breast and tosses it in sauce to fight the dryness directly. The wider American barbecue map, the Carolina pork sandwiches, the Texas brisket, the Kansas City sauce-forward builds, treats smoke as the constant and argues over everything else, and each of those regional readings deserves its own article rather than being crowded in here.