The bust of Elvis is gone. Gerry Michaud removed it last year, along with the oversized corner booth of pink vinyl.

Vanished, too, are the photographs of Marilyn Monroe, the old 1960s concert posters and the other statues, knickknacks and memorabilia that gave Big G’s deli in Winslow the look of an aging hippie’s living room.

After 14 years, Michaud has toned things down, replacing the tacky with the tasteful. It’s all white walls and woodwork now. Among the few remaining tributes to Michaud’s eccentricity are the sandwiches — those oversized, overstuffed creations named for Muppets, movie stars and even an undersea explorer named Cousteau.

Without them, Big G’s would be just another small-town eatery. “The heart of the deli is still here,” he said.

Michaud, 48, had one goal when he opened the deli in downtown Winslow in the spring of 1986: He wanted to offer people homemade food they’d remember.

He modeled the place after Dieu’s Deli, a restaurant in Williamstown, Mass., where he once worked in the 1970s. The popular eatery catered to the crowd from Williams College, offering big sandwiches with creative names that kept people coming back.

Michaud hoped to do the same in Maine and set up in his hometown, not far from Colby College. The name came easily: At the time, his 6-foot-2-inch frame carried more than 300 pounds. (He’s since dropped down to 220.)

Some of the sandwich names — the Zeppo and Sluggo among them — he borrowed from his former boss in Massachusetts. Others he contrived on his own, drawing inspiration from popular culture and anything else that happened to interest him.

The place, Michaud now can admit, was hardly an instant hit. People were reluctant to embrace a menu filled with items like the Capt. Link Hogthrob, a Canadian bacon sandwich based on a character from “The Muppet Show.”

“People used to walk in and say, `Do you have Italian sandwiches? Pizzas?’ and walk out,” Michaud recalled with a chuckle.

His partner at the time, Robert Ash, urged him to be patient. “He used to always say, `We’ve got a good product. Just give it time,”‘ he said. “If it weren’t for him, I probably would have done something else.”

The deli finally caught on in the fall of 1987, when a group of Colby students discovered it.

One Thursday night, two young women walked in and noticed the big color television. They ordered sandwiches, plunked themselves down and stayed through NBC’s popular prime time lineup, anchored by the tavern-based sitcom “Cheers.”

“The next week there were, like, 20 of them,” Michaud said, still marveling at the memory. “There were so many of them that our five or six regular customers had to walk around them.”

The deli soon drew something of a cult following. Word spread among college students, faculty and staff who just had to experience a place offering odd yet inviting sandwiches against an eclectic background of movie star portraits, 1960s concert posters and just about any tacky item Michaud could find.

Big G’s now sells more than 2,500 sandwiches a week. If customers look puzzled or overwhelmed staring at the board, Michaud will ask about their tastes and offer suggestions.

“It’s giving people choices and letting them be creative,” he said. “I’ve created almost every sandwich, and I’ve made every sandwich thousands of times.”

Michaud has never strayed from his original mission. He and his staff still carve sandwiches from 4-pound loaves of bread and pack them with meat, cheese and vegetables. A half sandwich — made from a single slice of bread — is a meal. Order a whole, and you’ve got lunch for the next day, too.

The sandwich board that began with 14 selections has swelled to 82, plus more than two dozen breakfast omelets with silly names of their own. Michaud has grown to know his customers by sandwich, if not by name, and they come from all over the state, stopping by when they’re in town.

The most popular sandwiches remain those that would make a dietitian cringe: They’re hard on the body, but good for the soul.

They include:

Dr. Strangepork, which calls for turkey, bacon, tomatoes, onions and muenster cheese. Michaud drew the name from a character on the “Muppet Show.”

Dudley-Do-Right, named for the cartoon character. It’s a variation on the Strangepork, with Canadian bacon.

G’s Special, filled with “every greasy meat you can imagine, plus melted cheese,” Michaud says with a smile. That would include hot ham, pepperoni, pastrami and bacon.

Zonker Harris, a veggie with melted Swiss and muenster cheeses, sprouts, avocados, tomatoes, lettuce and Russian dressing. It’s named for a character from the Doonesbury comic strip.

The rest of the list is an A-to-Z mix of meals named for comedians, cartoon characters, political figures and popular singers.

Michaud offers a Sonny (ham and salami) and a Cher (turkey salad). There’s the Johnny Carson (turkey, bologna and salami) and the Egg McMahon (ham salad and egg salad).

Scan the crowded menu long enough and you’ll find the Willy Nelson (sliced turkey and sauerkraut), the Sammy Davis Jr. (corned beef and cream cheese) and the Gerry Garcia (roast beef and bacon).

Some sandwiches are simply silly. Consider these: the Boot (liverwurst and Swiss); the Toga (leaf lettuce, Italian bread crumbs and Parmesan cheese); and the Ayatollah (humus and Swiss).

“I name sandwiches after things that interest me,” Michaud said, adding that he rarely takes suggestions.

Occasionally, Michaud will hear back from someone for whom a sandwich is named. He’s received letters from Bill Cosby (roast beef), radio newscaster Paul Harvey (turkey, liverwurst and bacon), and CBS journalist Charles Osgood, for whom Michaud named a corned beef omelet.

Diet guru Richard Simmons (turkey salad and sprouts) also thanked Michaud — but pointed out he was allergic to sprouts.

Occasionally, Michaud will reach closer to home. The Jolly John, named for the Saco car dealer, has “lots of bologna.” The Ex-Gov. McKernan is a mix of corned beef, pastrami and Swiss cheese. The Gov. King, which the governor created himself, blends ham, turkey, bacon, onions, muenster and coleslaw.

Rarely will he name a sandwich for someone local. “If I did, everybody would be coming in,” he said.

Four years ago, Michaud made an exception that would haunt him. He created a sandwich named after Cindy Blodgett, the basketball star from Clinton who had visited the deli for years.

Blodgett was a University of Maine junior when Michaud honored her with the following combo, based on a sandwich she frequently ordered: hot turkey and “swish” cheese, “slammed” with sprouts and tomatoes.

Soon afterward, Michaud received a call from Joanne Palombo-McCallie, Blodgett’s coach, who demanded he change the name. The sandwich, the coach explained, could have jeopardized Blodgett’s athletic eligibility.

Michaud reluctantly renamed the sandwich the Association, the first three letters of which are … well, you get the point.

“We were really hurt by it, in an insulted kind of way,” he said. “She ended up coming in after saying, `You can put my name on a sandwich.”‘

Such memories carry the day for Michaud, who shows no signs of slowing down. He still puts in 10-hour days, arriving by 3:30 a.m. to make soups, prepare for the breakfast crowd and supervise the bakers. He normally leaves by 2 p.m., after helping his crew during the lunch rush. He knows the sandwiches by heart.

“I know people by what they eat,” he said.

Big G’s has moved twice since opening. Michaud now offers sandwiches from a spot along busy Benton Avenue, beside a golf driving range. His bald, bearded face stares out over the parking lot from a big, white sign.

Despite the moves, Michaud resisted the temptation to change things — until last year, that is. A business partner finally convinced him that, after more than a decade, the place needed a face-lift.

Of the dozens of portraits, pop art, baskets and mirrors that used to line the walls, only a few remain.

A black-and-white portrait of John Wayne rests on a windowsill. Paintings of Charlie Chaplin, Liza Minnelli, Marilyn Monroe and Robert Redford — created by a former Walt Disney Co. illustrator — line a wall beside the coffeepots and soda machines. A color picture of Elvis, in white jumpsuit, greets patrons from outside the men’s room.

Change is good, Michaud said, as long as you don’t lose sight of what makes you happy.

“I love to cook. I love to feed people. I always have,” Michaud said. “I don’t want to do anything else.”