Handcrafting the Perfect Sandwich
Includes notes on structure, seasoning, and technique.
Begin by clearing a suitable area for your prep. Not on top of the glass hob. A proper space that knows magic is about to happen.
Wipe it down with water only. Disinfecting spray might interfere with your masterpiece.
Optional: A butcher’s block. Heavy, solid, slightly scarred. It’s a versatile building place.
Place your tools to one side. A bread knife with heft. A tablespoon. A small plate. Spirit level.
This is your theatre, your performance.
Ingredients:
- Sourdough
- Full-fat butter (salted, unrefrigerated)
- Mature cheddar (the stronger, the better)
- Sliced chorizo (oily, with a bit of heat)
- Thick-cut ham (hand-carved, slow-roasted)
- Branston pickle (chunky)
- 1 ring of red onion
- A handful of rocket
- Freshly cracked black pepper
The sourdough must be tough. The real stuff. Chewy, gnarled, vaguely menacing. And it must have a jaw-testing crust. The kind that could sit in a bowl of tomato soup for hours and not notice.
Make each slice count.
Lay two pieces side by side. Choose the heaviest one to be your base. This is the hero. It will carry the weight of your sandwich.
Dig a tablespoon into your butter — take as much as you can get — then smother your leading wedge. Fill the holes and ridges. Leave nothing untouched.
Next, the cheddar. Pressed level. If it doesn’t smell like something you’d once tried to forget, get better. You want something your neighbour and her fucking dog can appreciate.
Slice the chorizo thin, but not too thin. About 3mm. It should be greasy, nearly black. Set it directly on the cheese to protect your bread.
Introduce the ham. It should have a little bark, as if turned on a spit beside a medieval hearth. Sturdy enough that it won’t fold. Absolutely no plastic-packed squares.
Add the Branston. A generous dollop. If it doesn’t immediately remind you of a village fête, you need more.
Find the right spot in the pickle for the onion. Go with your gut. Press it gently but firmly, deep enough that it holds.
If you’ve never trusted rocket, now is the time. Add some to bring out the flavour and colour. A handful, no more. It will betray you if you let it.
Finish with a crack or two of black pepper. Go easy. You’re seasoning, not punishing.
Cut it diagonally. Display it on the plate. Angle it like an open book. Savour every layer.
Take a moment. Give it a name.
Wipe the knife clean, but don’t wash it. It should still remember what it did.
The rest is between you and the sandwich.
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