How to make the perfect sandwich (with leftovers)

The imperfect sandwich from Il Fornaio.

Thursday: It was a perfect sunny autumn day. There I was on the beach with my chicken sandwich when I hit an unexpected crunch. Crispy bacon, that’s okay. Then I hit something chewy. yuk! It was some cartilage and tendons from the chicken. Spit.

Another bite and more tendons. Yuk, the crust also tasted burnt.

Spit! In the bin the rest of it goes.

Result: Unhappy man who will starve rather than eat this crap.

The perfect steak sandwich from the Vine Hotel.

Friday: To the Vine Hotel (corner Wellington St & Derby St, Collingwood) where they have perfected the ancient art of making a sandwich to be eaten rather than drip down my front.

There are no concessions to fashion here. Inside two toasted slices of common or garden white bread are a couple of thin slices of steak, tomato and some lettuce. It works just fine so there is no point changing it.

Result: Happy man who gives the pub’s impending sale a plug in the Hun.

My own effort at the perfect sandwich.

Tuesday: Time to eat the leftovers from Sunday, some tender slices of beef ccoked at 60C for three hours and seared in my molecular gastronomy experiments. The bread is sliced to the correct thickness, spread with home made horseradish. Slices of beef are arranged and topped with a few (washed) leaves of rocket (aragula).

Result: Happy man with an entry to this week’s meme Leftover Tuesdays #5, the brainchild of David at Cooking Chat and this week hosted by Pam at Project F**die.

FOOD FASCIST

There are special rules to making the perfect sandwich that must be followed.

1. Engineering. It was be easy to manipulate without the help of external aids. What I mean is that just like the Vine Hotel, the sandwich should be slim and not too packed with ingredients. The idea is that you should be able to pick the sandwich up without the goods falling out (and leaving an unfortunate stain on my trousers although that is another story).

2. Bread. Unfashionable white bread is good a lot of the time, as with the toasted sandwich above. Also white bread is good for cucumber, fish paste, Marmite (Vegamite if you must) and egg sandwiches. If you must use some fancy poofta bread like sourdough it is important to ensure you are not using a slice with a massive hole in it through which the contents will fall (on to my lap leaving an unfortunate stain on my trousers). I might add that hopefully the bread will not have a burnt crust. Also breads with hard seds in them can be a problem – the unexpected crunch being mistaken for small insects.
3. Thickness. Doorstep sandwiches do have their place with bacon & egg and Cheddar & Branston pickle sandwiches. But in general the bread should be about 10mm maximum thick and cut evenly. Of course, to cut a straight slice is a challenge and requires the same steady arm required by pool players and golfers (I never thought I’s mention golf on this blog. They are a stain on the countryside).

4. KISS. Oops, slipped into management jargon there – keep it simple stupid. The common them among all the sandwiches I’ve mentioned is that they are simple. Put too much in and the ingredients are bound to slip out onto my already stained lap.

5. Fresh. Sandwiches, unless you are buying through the nose for them somewhere like Pret a Manager in London, should be made to order. There is nothing worse than everything slipping out of a slimy pre-made jobby.

6. Tuna & sweetcorn. What is it about girls and this? And what is the best method of binding the sweetcorn to the tuna so that the kernels don’t drop out on to my (obviously) ruined trousers.