One of the key rules of office life should be: “Always mistrust a free sandwich.” I’ve been in too many meetings in which the laid-on sandwiches at first glance look like something you might actually pay for but are disconcertingly odd on closer inspection.

It could be a small detail that is off-key, such as pesto chicken in pitta. Or something more unsettling: grated cheese in mayonnaise; mini-baguettes stuffed with cold slabs of aubergine.

Some people extend the same suspicion to the "praise sandwich". This is when a manager begins feedback with heavily buttered praise, then slaps on a slice of criticism before ending with another doughy layer of affirmation.

Advocates say this builds trust, makes people more receptive to criticism and surmounts a managerial terror of bluntness. But critics argue it is manipulative, confusing and obstructs timely feedback by obliging managers to store up nice things to say to cushion the bad stuff.

It is understandable the ruse should be the object of scepticism: for starters, what sandwich is defined by the bread and not the filling?

I asked some seasoned Financial Times readers about this tactic and their responses were equivocal.

"There's a risk it becomes ritualised rather than real, which diminishes the impact," says Alexander Evans, a diplomat who mentors a range of international professionals.

'Sugar-coating'
Sallie Crenshaw, a former Shell executive, adds: "A little sugar-coating never hurts. But it can also be a weak management technique."

Yet when you look at the alternatives it seems to me the praise sandwich is worth preserving: stale but still edible.

Sure, almost everyone who has sat through an appraisal has figured out the rhythm of stroke, slap, stroke, but there is something reassuring about a dance in which everyone knows the steps. Most importantly, the praise sandwich sets an example in the office that it is important to consider others’ feelings. There is only so much candour most people can bear without crumpling.

Michele Russell, a longstanding ad executive, mentor and FT reader, likes the moderation it imposes: "It prevents the manager ranting on or being excessive with praise."

Mixed feedback
But I have come up with a couple of types of praise sandwich that are clearly unacceptable. The "crustless" variant should be banned, for instance. This occurs when a manager delivers the mixed feedback as if speaking to their fidgety three-year-old child.

The NY deli-style “overfilled” is even more unpleasant. This is when the criticism is so much thicker than the praise that it is impossible to consume in one sitting, obliging the recipient to doggy-bag the leftovers for ingestion at home (while weeping quietly in front of the cold glow of a recruitment website).

How could the praise sandwich be improved? Feedback theorists have talked about an “open-faced” version that launches straight into the criticism and then immediately applies the balm of praise to the wound.

A younger colleague suggests a mischievous alternative, meanwhile: finger-sized praise sandwiches for twenty- and thirtysomething “millennial” employees who need constant feedback.

I’m keen to experiment in the opposite direction. Let’s supersize this overfamiliar office meal into a club sandwich in order to reclaim an element of surprise.

In this baroque variation, a manager would lead off with praise followed by the predictable layers of criticism and backslapping. But then comes an unexpected second bout of nitpicking, followed by a final burst of reassurance.

I haven’t given this a go yet and have a suspicion it would prove deeply impractical and prone to falling apart in my lap. Anyone got a cocktail stick to hold it together?

adam.jones@ft.com

The writer is FT Business Life editor. Lucy Kellaway is away