Sandwiches

Regarding the importance of a well made sandwich and its relationship to living in central London

When you have eaten a well-made sandwich, the memory and the sensation do not depart easily. The soft yet crusty bread, the delicate blend of flavours, the crisp freshness against the meaty goodness, the experience is irresistible. Some days you need a bolder experience - warm medium-rare meat, juicy, dripping with warm salty gravy in a soft white roll. Eating becomes a pleasure, not a requirement, and life is warmed by the rosy glow of satisfaction.

Walking into my central London coffee shop (for even after 10 years' experience and seven years of formal education I remain unqualified for the prize of a job in Cricklewood), I looked at the rows and rows of once proud, now murdered sandwiches slowly suffocating on the shelves, entombed in their plastic wrappers. I sighed and said a slient prayer for them. I have, like all of my fellow city workers, been guilty of eating them. There is no choice. At least their bodies are not wasted, despite their prime having been cruelly ignored. However, there is no pleasure in a London sandwich. Tomato juice dissolves the mass-produced bread while a slice of processed cheese stares out defiantly, daring you to sacrifice your taste for food on the altar of your hunger.

In Cricklewood, the sandwiches are made by hand in a small bakery. The tomato juice does not have time to become acquainted with the bread and the processed cheese remains on a shelf in Somerfield. There is time to make sandwiches in Cricklewood.

Of course, it's been some years since anyone in Cricklewood ate anything other than a kebab.