Man cannot live by bread alone, but add a few fillings and it's a different story. There's a sandwich for every occasion, from trimmed egg-and-cress triangles to doorstep chip butties.
The sandwich was invented, they say, in 1762 at London's Beefsteak Club by John Montagu, fourth Earl of Sandwich, after he had spent 24 hours at the gaming tables without eating. He ordered beef and some slices of bread, held the meat between the bread, ate it and went on gambling. This was surely not the first time bread and a filling had been paired, but it makes a good story and neatly illustrates the advantages of the sandwich - convenience, portability and versatility, with no rules for assembly.
One of my earliest memories is tucking into a massive "tuna on wholemeal" in a San Francisco cafeteria. I was three years old, the sandwich was bigger than my head, and I was hooked. I still am. Some days I crave a simple, freshly-baked baguette filled with smoked cheese and slices of a strong pepper salami. Sometimes there's nothing better than sausages on oven-fresh batch. Other days it has to be a cut and sealed toastie from a sandwich maker, oozing lava-like melted cheese. Or what could beat a pitta bread pocket filled with ripe tomatoes, red onion, feta cheese and a sprinkling of vinaigrette?
Thank goodness for rise of the Dublin sandwich bars, which take their forerunners in the US - specifically from the delis of New York where you can get a gargantuan sandwich made to order, to eat in or to go.
On a recent visit to Manhattan I dined at Katz's Delicatessen, which has served everyone from Houdini to Meg Ryan (in When Harry Met Sally). The Reuben sandwich I ordered was made right in front of me by a rather gruff chef (rude staff seem to be a feature, almost an attraction, of many of the famous delis) and it would have floored an elephant; it contained at least a pound of corned beef, with the bread, sauerkraut and cheese added as a mere afterthought. Midtown, in the world famous Carnegie Deli, you can feast on a "Woody Allen" filled with "lotsa corned beef and lotsa pastrami" and when they say lots, they mean it. For 14 dollars, you would hope so.
Diners have also been the source of a few classic sandwich combinations. It is hard to improve on a B.L.T. made with lightly toasted bread, streaky hickory-smoked bacon, ripe beef tomatoes and iceberg lettuce - one of the few occasions when it's worth using. And then there's the Club, invented at the Saratoga Club in New York or in the club car of a train, depending on who you believe. The version below is taken from Nigel Slater's Real Cooking.
The Club sandwich
Chicken (cooked); grilled bacon; watercress; tomato; mayonnaise; soft white or sour- dough bread
Cut the neatest slices you can from the chicken, pulling off any juicy bits and breaking them into bite-size chunks and shreds. The bread should not be so thin as to make the sandwich an elegant thing. Toast the bread on both sides, but lightly. Spread one side of each piece with mayonnaise. Be generous. Be very generous. Put several sprigs of watercress on top of one piece and some slices of tomato. Season the tomato with a little black pepper. Now cover with the chicken, which you should salt with generosity. Lay a few slices of bacon, crisp and hot, on top of the chicken. A few more sprigs of watercress, then the other piece of hot toast, mayo-side down. Eat.
Nigel Slater - Real Cooking is published by Michael Joseph, price £18.99 in the UK