The Butty.

It's time to bring back the butty, baby. Ranked in the top 10 food blogs and top 50 food websites by The Independent.

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Burger

I didn’t have my first Big Mac until I was in my late teens. That’s not to say I’m some sort of holier than thou, anti-fast food vigilante, or that my parents were homeopathy-loving hemp enthusiasts – I just always hankered for a McChicken Sandwich, albeit without mayo due to some shameful childhood aversion to the stuff. Thankfully, while I’ve since overcome that particular character flaw, I’m still more than happy to choose chook if it’s on offer, as is the case for today’s review.

Burger is Edinburgh’s native patty-purveying chain, insofar as it now has a couple of branches serving the same menu, roughly half a mile apart (a marathon-like distance for most Edinburgh natives). Like the name, the style’s pretty straightforward – industrial looks, paired with quick-turnaround counter service (i.e. order at the till, wait at your table, collect at the till), although you do get a surprising little throwback to the 90s, in the form of a wee pager that flashes when your burger’s done. Childishly entertaining.

As you’d expect, most of their output (bar a special or two) is dedicated to the traditional, beefier varieties of the restaurant’s moniker. It’s no-nonsense stuff, with the core 4oz Scotch beef burger being doubled up and embellished with bacon and cheese to complete your ordering options. It’s all done to order, and from a previous visit, it’s done to a good level. This bodes well for the katsu.

Chicken Katsu Burger | £4.95

Like the rest of the menu, the katsu is damn cheap. Not golden arches cheap, but considering the prices of other burger joints in town, it’s pretty startling when you realise a bottle of Rekorderlig (shudder) is only 75p cheaper than what you’re eating. Adding bacon and cheese will bump up the cost, but there are bigger issues than price if you think that’s a good idea.

Cost aside, it’s a bit of an ugly duckling – a little stream of tonkatsu dribbling out the side gives the poor sod a bit of a burst lip quality. Thing is, it gets away this, because it all tastes a hell of a lot better than it looks. The patty is crisp on the outside and well-seasoned beneath, with little flecks of spring onion woven into the mix. That tonkatsu dribble has a lovely umami richness to it, and the mayo a little mustardy hit from the wasabi (a bit more heat would be even better). Even the tomato, usually a bland, token nod to burger convention, plays its part, helping to keep the breadcrumbs from drying everything out.

Downsides? Well, the absence of shredded cabbage is a bit of a tonkatsu faux-pas, the puny pickle doesn’t really add anything, and the texture of the minced chicken patty is a bit odd – not necessarily unpleasant, just a bit firmer than you’d expect. With a nice chunk of breast or thigh meat, this would be bothering five points, rather than settling for four. Still, for under a fiver, it’s a steal, especially when you start to think about what this would cost you around town. Like the writer – cheap, but very cheerful.

[thebutty]

The Butty was born with one simple goal: To bring back pride in the greatest lunchtime meal in the world – the sandwich.

The sandwich has lost its way. Once discussed in reverential tones amongst landed gentry, the butty has become a farce; a victim of its own popularity, crushed under the wheels of commerce as we dash from one meeting to another, grabbing lunch in a desperate, flailing attempt to satisfy our appetites with two slices of withered bread and a wet, unsatisfying filling. This is no way to live.

Amidst the massed ranks of ice-cold, expensive, tasteless junk that litters our supermarkets and chain stores, a deep-filled revolution is unfolding. We’re realising that we can do better ourselves – that with a little time and planning, fifteen minutes spent in the kitchen the evening before work can mean a joyous lunch hour the next day, laced with the envy of our colleagues and the dismay of the local sandwich shop, Thai takeaway and Italian caff. The packed lunch is back, and there’s not a soggy tuna sandwich or scotch egg in sight.

The Butty is here to lead and inspire – to encourage you to step away from the chill cabinet and the £3 meal deal, and to help you realise that you can craft something exceptional from a handful of fresh ingredients and a loaf of good bread.

It’s time to make a stand. But more than that – it’s time to make a sandwich.

The Butty

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Best 50 Food websites 2013

"The Butty reminds us that a sandwich should not mean two slices of damp bread smeared with an unholy processed filling and served in a plastic package. Great photography, fine ingredients and a little work and imagination: tiger prawns with garlic and thyme on toasted wholewheat, pulled pork and coleslaw in a warm baguette, maple and chilli mackerel with pickled cucumber. Mmmm."

    Every dish you see on The Butty is made by The Butty (excluding reviews, obviously!) - all the photographs are original shots of the sandwiches that are eaten after they've been photographed. No glycerin sprays, no photoshop trickery - just honest, tasty sarnies.

[thebutty]

Bread Meats Bread

Brisket is one of those things that yes, you technically can cook at home, but realistically, is a total arse to do well, takes ages, and is only really suited to occasions where you have several hungry flesh eaters to satisfy. Add in the fact that the best brisket is smoked (we both know you don’t have a smoker), and honestly, you’re best leaving the work to somewhere that you can pick it from a menu.

Therein lies the (Texan) rub. Even in London, where the number of barbecue joints has risen faster than the rent on a Hackney garage, there’s still a lot of misses amongst the odd true hit (as The Picky Glutton will tell you). So what hope have you got in Scotland? Well, you might be alright, as it turns out.

Glasgow’s Bread Meats Bread has been punting appropriately carnivorous fodder since December 2012, on a fairly unremarkable corner of St Vincent Street. It’s a tightly packed little place (some might say greedily so) but it suits the restaurant’s fast turnaround, burgers and BBQ grub to a tee – enamel plates, rough wood tables and filament bulbs complete the textbook canteen picture.

Still, we’re here to talk about sandwiches (mostly), so let’s not dwell on the fit and finish. As you’d expect, given the name, there’s an abundance of bready options, ranging from humble grilled cheese through to eleven quid’s worth of sirloin cheesesteak. Yowza. Sitting somewhere in the middle, we have the BBQ brisket.

BBQ Brisket Sandwich | £7

This big heap of house-smoked beef comes on a long bun, shredded, with onions, leaves and a liberal slug of gravy over the top. It’s served open, and closes about as easily as an overstuffed suitcase. This presentation serves up a bit of a conundrum, in a couple of ways. Firstly, figuring out how you’re meant to eat it without getting totally drenched in juices (it’s a six napkin effort) and secondly, making it hard to get a read on how well the meat’s been cooked, seeing as it’s pulled off the joint rather than carved. It’s tender, no doubt, and the beef’s moist beyond the sauce, but the overall flavour is unbalanced. While the gravy is rich, glossy and deeply beefy, it’s incredibly heavy on the pepper, and the smokiness – one of the most delicious things about a well-smoked brisket – is lost in the fug. It’s very, very close to being a great sandwich, but the overzealous seasoning knocks it back.

You might think this means I’m unimpressed – that’s not true. If there’s one thing that was apparent, it’s that Bread Meats Bread is utterly capable of making a top-flight sandwich – hell, I’ll be back to try their other efforts (although maybe not the cheesesteak, unless someone else is paying). That said, going to all the effort of house-smoking your own brisket begs for a sauce that compliments, rather than stifles your hard work. At any rate, it’s almost there – a little tinker, and maybe a little less reliance on the gravy for flavour, and this would be a banger.

[thebutty]

Blackfriars, Edinburgh

Edinburgh’s food scene is frequently described as thriving - the five local restaurants sporting a Michelin Star cited as proof, giving us more top-end eateries per capita than London. Not bad at all. However, as enjoyable as the tasting menu at Castle Terrace may be (it’s astonishingly good), eating in the top flight falls squarely in the realm of a significant anniversary, a top-marks graduation or an extravagant wooing. Casual, spur-of-the-moment dining it ain’t, but that’s fine, because it isn’t meant to be - nobody wants to go to the theatre every night of the week.

Blackfriars, however, is somewhere that I could, would and indeed have, spent more than one day of the week, largely because it plays its different roles so very well. As replacement for what was Black Bo’s pub, Andrew MacDonald (formerly of Restaurant Martin Wishart and The Gardner’s Cottage) and partner Georgie Binder opened their bar / restaurant venture back in 2013. Both menus focus on locally sourced, seasonal produce – always a good start – but depending on whether you’re sitting in the bar or the restaurant, they’re woven together differently (although the occasional dish, such as the cured sea trout, does make the leap between the two). As their website proudly states, it’s all about letting the ingredients shine, and dispensing with faff.

Although I’d happily talk about the restaurant (say… the home-made treacle soda bread, or the black pudding with fried egg and parsley on toast), it’s important to remember the mission statement of this blog, so it’s off to the bar. The menu here invariably contains at least one or two sandwich-esque dishes, with the specials board changing regularly. Although I’m angling for the croque madame, a recent addition following its appearance at a sell-out, beer-paired dinner with the Wild Beer Co., it’s sadly absent (probably a good thing, following a realisation that I’d somehow eaten six eggs in the preceding 24 hours). We recover, and order the cold roast chicken sandwich, the steamed pork bun, and a plate of chips.

Cold Roast Chicken Roll, Bearnaise, Leaves | £6

The chicken roll sums up the restaurant’s ethos in one swoop – any idiot can put a bit of chicken in a roll – here, it’s the balance and quality of the ingredients that make it delicious. The chicken (an organic bird, sourced from a farm near Perth) is perfectly seasoned, tender, moist and delicious, with no hint of stringiness or flabby flesh. A smear of the house béarnaise sauce keeps things moist and adds a little richness and a slight lemony freshness, and even the roll is worth a mention – the dough, enriched with milk and rapeseed oil, giving a soft bun that manages to maintain a satisfying bite. Simple, but done brilliantly.

Roast Suckling Pig, Steamed Bun, Slaw, Rhubarb | £7

Before the explosion of street food in London, mention of a pork bun would previously have sparked images of cha siu bao, that ubiquitous, cloud-like dim sum mainstay, stuffed with barbecued pork, and rich, sweet sauce. However, with the rise of gua bao, a traditional Taiwanese open bun featuring pork belly, things are getting a little more diverse. Blackfriars’ take is all its own – suckling pig leg, brined for a week with botanicals including juniper and thyme, roasted and served with pickled shallots, shredded cabbage, rhubarb and ginger. The meat is other-wordly – fragrantly spiced, and tender without descending into the mushiness of pulled pork. Again, the bun plays a big role - soft and light without a hint of stodge, while the slaw-like mix of the other ingredients has great flavour, although would perhaps benefit from being slightly more moist. Still, delicious overall.

So, two great sandwiches, and that’s besides the hand-cut, homemade chips, which come with a little pot of béarnaise, furthering my belief that all chips should come with a little pot of béarnaise (and in this case, a second). Or the sublime beer selection, with four rotating keg lines and a long bottle/can list, which is glorious. I could go on – instead, you should go here, and be thankful that tucked away in the heart of the city is a little place that can make something as everyday as a sandwich, in a bar, fantastic.

[thebutty]

Since 2011, The Butty’s been a veritable smorgasbord of the finest homemade sandwiches, and while it's always focused on things made in-house, it's also always had an eye (and a mouth) open for the latest and greatest that the open market has to offer. Given how many great sandwiches are out there these days, it’s time to up the ante.

From now on, and in addition to everything that it's always done, The Butty will be chasing down the finest bready feasts in all the land, letting you know what’s worth seeking out, and where you need to go to get your fix. If you think your bar or restaurant (or equally, the local sandwichier that you swear by) has something we should know about, then get in touch on Facebook (TheButty), or via Twitter (@thebutty).

Be assured - The Butty can't be bought, and review standards are relentlessly high, so if it gets a thumbs up on the blog, you can be sure it’s legit. The first review - Blackfriars Edinburgh - will be online later today.

Let the hunt begin.

[thebutty]

The Cubano

In a crushing example of the injustice present in the modern world, sandwiches have never been offered a starring role on the silver screen. Yes, we all know that Meg Ryan’s window-rattling orgasm in When Harry Met Sally took place in the centre of New York sandwich-mecca, Katz’ Deli, but the food was little more than an extra to Sally’s yelping and Harry’s embarrassment.

It took the man behind Iron Man, Elf and the new Jungle Book film, Jon Favreau to step up to the plate and set this right. Chef may well have just been written for this blog, given the plot – a prominent chef spectacularly bins his job in pursuit of a career serving the food he truly loves, the mighty Cuban sandwich, out of a food truck as he travels the US. Seriously, what’s not to love?

Favreau enlisted LA chef and restaurateur Roy Choi to make sure the food was great, and that chefs the world over wouldn’t be launching a fraught dinner service’s-worth of expletives at on-screen inaccuracies. The result is a film that’s full of real food, and real cooking, with Favreau showing what time in cooking school, and on the line on Choi’s restaurants, will do for a guy. This effort becomes all the more apparent when you realise you can find the recipes from the film (including the Johansson-wooing pasta aglio e olio, gents), online, for nothing. Given The Butty’s never made a Cubano, this seemed like the perfect opportunity to try.

First off – watch the film. Aside from the fact it’s great, there’s enough guidance on there to figure out most of the method for the sandwich yourself. Educational viewing has never been so tasty. The sandwich itself is basically a toasted combo of roast pork, ham, cheese and pickles, but that severely undersells how bloody wonderful it all is.

The pork is key. The film’s take on it – Mojo-Marinated Pork Shoulder (Here) – involves a big, citrusy marinade, a clod of shoulder, and an overnighter in the fridge to give the pig some really sweet, tangy flavours, before a couple of hours in the oven. You’re not looking for the breakdown of structure seen in pulled pork, hence the shorter cooking time, and the result is as good as John Leguizamo’s character makes it out to be on screen.

Once the pork’s done, the sandwich is pretty simple. Although the UK lacks the Cuban bread of the film, cheap supermarket baguettes (which generally fail utterly in their role as authentic baguettes) are a pretty good approximation. Sliced lengthwise, the bread’s buttered inside and out, and assuming you don’t have a plancha (effectively a ridged panini press) is then griddled on the inside to toast the surface, before being painted with French’s mustard, and stacked generously with the sliced pork, ham, pickles and Swiss cheese. The whole thing is then closed up, and griddled top and bottom, using a heavy pan to squish the whole thing as it cooks until golden, hot and gooey.

It works as a film star, it works as lunch – unfortunately, given the lack of Cubano action in the UK (even London doesn’t have anywhere doing it properly), you’re going to have to do it yourself. Still, as much as Jon and Roy clearly worked damn hard on making a film befitting such a glorious sandwich, you can just sidestep the cathartic career-change of the movie, and make some damn fine food. That said, if you want the food truck to go with it – hell, you’re not going to hear any argument here.

If you’ve got Netflix, then you can watch Chef for nowt. Otherwise, it’s available from all the usual places, and is definitely worth a watch.

[thebutty]

The Muffuletta

This blog started out showing that you can make awesome sandwiches, simply, for no more than it'd cost for a ropey, clammy meal deal. Most of the time that's still the case, but today's sandwich totally abandons pretty much all of that. The Muffuletta is, without doubt, the most fiddly bloody sandwich that's ever appeared on here, and in terms of all things bready, costs a relative fortune to make.

The Muff' (stop sniggering) is a full-on New Orleans institution, and while there's any number of places selling them in the US, its lineage leads directly back to the Central Grocery on Decatur St. It's served up on its own unique loaf - a big, round, sesame-studded number - which presents the first issue: nobody makes it in the UK. Some substitute focaccia, but it's a different texture, so if you're going full NOLA, you need to step up and make it yourself. 

Bread baked, your next issue is the olive salad. This is a rich, salty mix of chopped olives, pickled vegetables and a little olive oil, which is spread in a thick layer on the top of the other fillings. Again, it's not something you get in the UK, so you'll be knocking together your own, using a pretty substantial bunch of ingredients - it also merits being made a day or two in advance to let the flavour develop. 

The final hurdle is the filling. The loaf itself is partially hollowed-out to make room for the massive amount of meat and dairy involved, which includes ham, mortadella, salami, and in this case, pepperoni, as well as some Emmental and Provolone cheese. These are all fairly thickly cut, and stacked up like layers in a trifle within the loaf - the olive salad then goes on top. Aside from blowing the budget on all that charcuterie, you'll be lucky to find Provolone outside of a specialist deli - a far cry from its ubiquitous presence all over the States. 

So is the end result worth all that bother and expense? Absolutely. You're never going to whip this up for a weekday work lunch, but if you've got a few mates coming round, it's an absolute cracker. Yes, it costs a few quid, and yes, it's a bit of an arse to find / make all the constituent parts, but it's a bonkers, delicious celebration of all things deli, and the olive salad turns this into something much more than an overblown cheese and ham sandwich.

[thebutty]

Parma Ham, Gorgonzola and Fig ciabatta The combination of ingredients in this sandwich is nothing new - stick cheese, ham and figs in Google and you'll find 1001 recipes for bundles, parcels and amuse bouches featuring the trio. The surprise is that I, as the authour, don't like figs. To that end, this is the sandwich that should never have been, at least in terms of this blog. The inspiration (or moment of clarity) for this butty came from annihilating a handful of these very parcels at a boozy party, before being told that they were full of fig. Preconceptions were shattered, more were scoffed, and this sandwich was born, immediately.

Now, if you're in the UK, this isn't fig season, so you'll have to use the dried version. Although roasting fresh figs would be a glorious option in the Autumn, the dried fruit has a resinous, caramel-like sweetness that works perfectly in the sandwich, so you're not losing out. These are ripped up, and placed on top of a loose handful of Parma Ham in a fresh-baked ciabatta roll (use the part-bake ones from the supermarket, they work a treat). Try to get your ham freshly cut, as ever - even the deli counter in your local Sainsbury's or Waitrose will likely have one they can cut up for you, and it is INFINITELY better than the 5-slice plastic packs you get on the shelf.

In terms of cheese, you're looking for something with a big flavour to cut through the sweetness of the fig, and complement the salty, smoky flavour of the ham. Dunsyre Blue, or possibly a Stilton could do the job, but keeping the Mediterranean quality of the sandwich alive, this contains a Gorgonzola Dolce. Dolce is the less ferocious form of the Italian cheese, but still has a distinctive salty, spicy flavour. This spreads nicely under the top slice, and a little salad, seasoning and a dribble of balsamic finishes things off.

Despite the anachronism of the dried fruit, this feels like a very summery sandwich - definite picnic fodder. If you want to make it an a truly seasonal manner, then sure, wait until Autumn's figs to arrive, but in the meantime, you're missing out on a hell of a butty - and that's coming from someone who doesn't even like figs, apparently. 

[thebutty]

Helen Graves' Ultimate Chicken Sandwich

If there's ever an animal that's suffered as a result of its multi-faceted deliciousness, it's the chicken. Wings? Great. Legs? Fantastic. Breasts? Glorious (if a little overpriced, these days). Even its skin, when appropriately crisped golden and seasoned, is divine, and that's to say nothing of the magic of a scrambled, poached or fried egg. Whatever way you cut it, the chicken is doomed by its genetic predisposition to tastiness, and to that end, it's no real surprise that it once again rears its feathered head in today's sandwich. This particular butty is one of the few on this blog that's directly from a recipe book. 101 Sandwiches is by Helen Graves, the lunch-loving creator of the London Review of Sandwiches, and someone who certainly knows her BLT from her Banh Mi. Her book, as the name suggests, chronicles a metric fuck-ton of fantastic bready combinations, and spells out exactly how you can rustle them up at home. While there's more fantastic food (and photos) in the book than you can shake a well-buttered French stick at, this blog is about the utterly splendid - and somewhat ridiculous - Ultimate Chicken Sandwich. Gloriously, Helen has given The Butty permission to let you have the recipe. You'll need: To make the chicken 2kg chicken (Good quality, oven-ready) 250ml of olive oil (not extra virgin) 40 unpeeled garlic cloves (Yup, four-zero, or around four bulbs broken into cloves) 2 sprigs of thyme, plus 2 more for the cavity

2 bay leaves

1 lemon, halved

Salt and pepper to season

To make the mayo and sandwiches 2 large egg yolks (keep an extra one incase the mayo splits)

Cooled oil from the chicken cooking (sieved to remove bits) Lemon juice

Curly-leaved endive or similar, bitter lettuce Loaf of good-quality bread, sliced (white sourdough, preferably) Method: 1) Fire up the oven to 190c. 2) Un-truss the chicken (take the string off), and remove all fat from the cavity (specifically, cut off the two big blobs of it, just inside the top of the cavity). Rub a little oil into the surface of the chicken. 3) Use a large frying pan to brown the outside of the chicken, all over - it won't brown in the oven, as it will be covered. Make sure you open a window first, as it will smoke a lot! Once it's browned, pop the halved lemon into the cavity with some thyme, put the bird into a roasting tray and surround it with all the cloves of garlic, thyme and bay leaves, before pouring the olive oil around the chicken - make sure there's enough to cover the garlic. Season the chicken with salt and pepper, and seal the top with tin foil tightly - if you've got a casserole dish big enough for a chicken, then you can use that instead. 4) Put the chicken in the oven and roast for 1.5 to 2 hours, basting it with the oil in the tray 2-3 times during this time to give it lots of garlicy goodness. It's cooked when the temperature at the heart of the thickest meat hits 74c, or when the juices from the thickest part of the bird run clear. 

5) Remove the chicken and garlic from the oil, and let the bird rest with its legs in the air for around 15-20 minutes while covered in foil, before refrigerating both until you're ready to make the sandwiches.

6) Once the oil has cooled (don't try to make mayo with hot oil!), you can strain it to make the mayonnaise. Separate the egg yolks from the white, and put the yolks in a boll. Whisk them down, and then begin adding a tiny amount of oil, whisking vigorously between additions. Keep adding the oil until you're happy with the consistency, seasoning with salt, pepper and lemon juice to taste. If you add too much and the mayo splits, add in another whisked egg yolk and whisk it into the mixture.

7) With the mayo made, take the chicken out of the fridge and remove the meat from the carcass (use it for stock if you fancy). Dice or break up the meat by hand, and mix it in a bowl with the mayonnaise, before spreading it on the bottom slice of bread and adding a little seasoning and some greenery. On the bottom of the top slice, squeeze out the flesh from one or two garlic cloves and spread it out like butter, and place it on top. Job done! Rightly, Helen categorises this as a "Project" sandwich - one that requires a bit more effort compared to picking up some salami and a block of cheese as preparation. That said, it's easy to make, and utterly worth it - the confit garlic loses its harshness, and gives an amazing taste to the sandwich, while as utterly wrong as it may sound, the chicken-laced mayo has a rich, meaty flavour that fits perfectly with the filling. Anyway, it's the weekend, so go pick up a chicken and get to work. Oh, and while you're on it - buy Helen's book. It's a belter.

101 Sandwiches is available here for under a tenner, and is worth every penny. You should undoubtedly also follow Helen via her Twitter feed, @foodstories.

[thebutty]

The Murray

Just after the start of the new year, The Butty took a trip across the pond to visit the shining beacon of sandwich goodness that is New York City. And got a bit fat. Amongst the world-famous delis of Katz and Carnegie, the city plays host to more mouthwatering uses of bread and filling than you could fit into a month of lunches, never mind the few days of this visit. That said, one of the holiday's finest was actually served up at breakfast, rather than midday, and came from the bagel joint round the corner from the hotel - Murray's. 

Murray's Bagels is/are amazing, whether you're talking about the bakery or its produce. While the ordering process is classic NYC (don't even think about going near the counter unless you can rattle off your order in under 3 seconds) they make even the best London Bagels look like anaemic pretzels. The dough has a glorious, glossy sheen and the interior has a smattering of bubbles and a lovely, slightly chewy texture. They're also enormous, as you'd expect for a city famed for growing upwards, not out - the height and girth of them is enough when they're empty, but when stacked with fillings, they're utterly formidable.

Having fallen utterly in love, and based on the fact that transatlantic delivery is normally a ridiculous proposition, a dozen stowaways were hustled back into the UK via hold baggage, and frozen, ready to create today's homage to the West Village.

This bagel's based on a classic recipe - cream cheese and salmon. In addition to heaps of both (the top and bottom slices are smothered with a thick, thick layer of Philly), there's some chopped capers along with dill, lemon juice and thinly sliced red onion and tomato. A little salt and pepper completes things, with the final sandwich sitting at about 4" from top to bottom - as the footlong hotdog has proven, the imperial system hoses all over metric measurements when it comes to showing off with food. 

So there you go - when in NYC, go get a bagel at Murray's in the West Village. But remember, order fast, loosen your belt, and be sure to get another dozen for when you're back in the country that bagels forgot.

[thebutty]

The Italiano

There's busy, and then there's busy. Over the last few weeks, it's been a case of practicing what's preached on here - making sure that time's been taken to make and scoff a good lunch, even as all the world seems to be collapsing in around on you. You've missed the good, the bad, and the downright ugly, but needless to say, the sandwich has been the midday saviour that it always should be Of course, that doesn't matter to you guys - you're owed a sandwich, not filler. This little puppy really is a product of its environment, in that it's entirely scrounged from the local Waitrose between uni assignments, trips to lectures and periods of despair relating to word counts. It's simple - a nice, fresh baguette, with a combination of prosciutto and salami making up the meat selection for the day. On top, there's some of the creamiest mozzarella you've ever seen - tearing was attempted, but it was just too juicy. Definitely not one for the lunchbox, this would be mush after a few hours in tupperware. The greenery's half a gem lettuce, and on top is a bit of a curveball - sugo ai peperoni, which claims to be a pasta sauce, but works nicely on here, giving a bit of a rich tomato and roast pepper flavour and going nicely with the milky cheese and salty meat. Very much a make-and-eat number, as mentioned - you'll no doubt find yourself in a similar spot, soon. Just remember that there's no excuse for a bad sandwich, as long as your cupboards are stocked. Well, that or you have a posh supermarket round the corner from your flat. Either's good.

[thebutty]

The hag

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the puddin'-race! Aboon them a' ye tak yer place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o' a grace As lang's my airm. - Rabbie Burns            

So, after a couple of years cavorting in the mean streets of the UK's undisputed food capital, The Butty has upped sticks and moved to the first city of the Scottish empire, Edinburgh. To celebrate this joyous relocation, today's sandwich is spearheaded by one of the most stereotypical and misunderstood foodstuffs in the world - the haggis.

First things first - yes, this is basically an offal butty. Made of the heart, liver, lungs and various other bits of the sheep, a haggis basically takes all the parts of an animal that most people would balk at eating, and shoves them all inside its own stomach with oats, onion and suet. It tastes amazing - the easiest way to describe it is like a coarse, moist mince with a deliciously earthy, spiced flavour (good haggis has a noticeable heat from the seasoning). 

For this sandwich, the haggis is cooked for a good ninety minutes in the oven, wrapped in foil, and sitting in a pan of water to make sure it stays moist. You can get decent enough haggis in pretty much every supermarket these days - just be sure to get a whole one, rather than the ratty-looking slices. 

Once the meat is cooked and you've slashed the bugger open to unleash its steamy contents, several big, heaped forkfuls of the innards go onto some well-buttered wholemeal toast. On top, there's a few rashers of sweet US streaky bacon, and a handful of parsnip crisps - just use a peeler to shred a parsnip down to wafer-thin strips, coat with oil and bake in the oven until nice and crunchy.

The butty's finished with a beetroot salad and a good spread of English mustard - it might be painful to use Sassenach's Choice on such a Scottish sanger, but Coleman's pairs perfectly with the earthy meat inside. If you want a little bit of extra sweetness, you can always add a little cranberry or redcurrant jelly.

Like the last sandwich on here, this really is great winter fodder - hearty, filling and warm. There's a reason haggis has inspired poetry and has stuck around for over 500 years, and if you can handle the idea of filling your own innards with a sheep's, then this will knock your stockings off. Pour yourself a dram, and get cooking.

Kudos to Deeny's (@deenys on Twitter) who do an amazing haggis sandwich, and inspired this homecoming entry!

[thebutty]

Le Croque

In the land of sandwich, there are quite a few that you could easily point to as being a bit 'emperor's new clothes' - the posh crisps of the butty world, basically serving up the same taste, with slightly more pretentiously named ingredients. Of course, it's worth shouting about provenance (you'll see it all over this blog), but there's no point in doing it if it doesn't make any difference to the taste of what you're eating.

It'd be simple enough to write the Croque Monsieur off as a classic example - a cheese and ham toastie in tarty knickers, as it were. But it's so much more than that. The creamy béchamel on top, and fried bread beneath make this Frenchie a hell of a lot richer than your average cheddar / toast combo. It's a meal, and a hearty one at that.

This effort actually breaks from convention a little. Replacing the ham inside is roasted pork loin, cut ridiculously thinly on a deli slicer - the taste is a little more savoury than ham, which can be a little sweet. On top of the pork: grated Gruyère, as is tradition - slightly strange, considering it's a Swiss cheese, and this sandwich is as French as the Arc de Triomphe.

Having melted the meat and cheese together into a glorious, bubbling mass, supported beneath with the crustiness of a pan-fried slice of a good white loaf, the second slice seals the butty. On top, the béchamel is slathered on, before another visit to the grill renders it golden and magmatic. 

It's hot, it's cheesy, and it's probably a threat to your coronary health if consumed on a regular basis. Even if it's not the idea lunchbox fodder, it's exactly the type of thing you'll want in your belly as the nights draw in.

[thebutty]

Flatiron steak with chimichurri sauce

The steak sandwich an entry that's been requested of this blog relentlessly over the last year. It's one of the few hot sandwiches, alongside the cheese toastie and bacon sarnie, that you can guarantee virtually every omnivorous Brit on the planet has eaten at some point in their life. The classic nature is a problem - there's certain expectations, and everyone claims their own version as superior. This steak was a response - a horrific, gristly, overcooked experience in a central London pub made it clear that it was time for The Butty to tackle this beefy mainstay.

First up - STEAK. You could blog about steak all the live long day, and still not even cover half of what makes it such an awesome foodstuff. Even while writing this, it's clear there's no way that the sandwich above is going to be the last variation on this meaty theme that you'll see on here. At any rate, the meat in this beast is a butler's steak, or flat iron, if you're an American (or a glorious little London steak restaurant by the same name - check it out). It's filled with a lovely amount of fatty marbling and very little gristle - exactly what you want for a tasty sandwich.

For this sandwich, the steak's cooked medium rare - you don't want it bloody as hell when you're eating, or the bread will end up looking like a field dressing. Season it with salt and pepper, and chuck it into a screaming-hot dry pan, turning it regularly until it's cooked to your preferred level. While that's resting (vital for a juicy steak), you can knock up a Chimichurri sauce.

Chimichurri is basically just a whole bunch of flat leaf parsley (just the leaves); around eight cloves of garlic; a couple of red chillies (don’t use ferociously hot ones – this is about flavour, not heat); three teaspoons of oregano; about 75ml of red wine vinegar and 100ml of olive oil. You can blend it, but it's better to chop it by hand – it gives a nice, coarse sauce rather than a green slurry. You can adjust the amount of olive oil to make it drier or wetter, but try to keep it about the same as a good pesto.

With some fresh ciabatta toasted and buttered and the meat rested, the steak's cut into mouthful-sized morsels (nobody likes mauling at their sandwich like a miffed lion), and layered along the sandwich - on top, a liberal smattering of the Chimichurri and a small handful of rocket finishes things off. 

A practical change that makes it easier to scoff, and a variation on the usual ketchup or mustard topping to make it a little more exciting to eat, but at the end of the day, it's still the same steak sandwich you've always eaten. Just better in every way.

[thebutty]

Duck egg French toast with bacon, sausage and brown sauce

Brunch may well be the greatest meal in the world. Allowing you to mash together elements of both morning and afternoon dining, served up at a time when you're not at risk of dozing off on your plate. If the mood takes you, there's even the option of a glass of something a little more potent than your usual Twinings. What's not to love?

Brunch sarnies are no exception to all this - it's a time when the usual rules can be cast aside, and some truly magnificent brekkie-lunch combinations can come together. This offering is leaning a bit more towards the breakfast side of things, but don't let that put you off.

To start with, the bread isn't just buttered or toasted - it's French toasted. With duck eggs. The bigger yolks in these puppies mean the result is a bit richer than regular French toast, but don't worry if you have to use hen's eggs - it's all good. The bread (a nice white tin loaf) is left in the mixture for as long as possible, soaking up all the eggy goodness before being gently fried in a mix of butter and oil until golden.

For the filling, some Oscar Mayer bacon is grilled just short of super-crispy, and stacked on liberally. The rest of the internals come from some fried sausagemeat, salvaged from several bangers with seriously high pork content (you want 90%+ or it won't work). The sausages are sliced open and their meat dumped into a hot pan, before being broken up, seasoned with a little crushed chilli and fried until golden. Given this is a resolutely savoury sandwich, there's no maple syrup - just some decent brown sauce, dribbled liberally over the meat. 

It's big, eggy and hearty, and given how much of it has spent time in a frying pan, it's certainly no heart-healthy option for a Sunday morning. It is, however, ridiculously tasty... and goes worryingly well with a little hair of the dog.

[thebutty]

The Reuben

American sandwiches have something of a mythical quality in the UK. If you've ever drifted towards Dave on a lazy Sunday, you'll see Adam Richman of Man vs. Food fame, pounding through some inordinately large pile of meat and bread, invariably accompanied by a small lake of marinara sauce and more cheese than a small West Country dairy punts out in a week. They're usually stodgy, and rarely subtle, but now and again, there's a Yank tank that's truly a think of beauty.

The Reuben is probably the most famous sandwich in US history, and has a history all of its own - no less than three conflicting stories exist around its origins, and it's been a stalwart in the States for decades. Regardless of whether you think it was a grocer or one of two deli owners that came up with it, the regular version calls for US corned beef, which is essentially what we'd call salt beef in these fair isles, not the tinned crap we'd normally associate with that moniker in the UK.

This version subs that corned beef out for ridiculously lush sliverside pastrami, giving a magnificently moist meat, and technically making this into a Rachel. But stuff it - if the name's good enough for Mishkin's pastrami version (London's finest purveyor of deli sandwiches), then it's good enough for this blog. The meat's steamed, heaped recklessly high, and loaded with sauerkraut. On top of this, there's molten Emmental, grilled until it's golden, bubbling and dribbling down through the meat, and a liberal smothering of home-made Russian dressing. America's other great contribution to sandwiches, the pickle spear, finishes off a ridiculously loaded butty.

It might be a little bit obscene when you compare it to our gentrified, Anglicised perspective on sandwiches, but its absurdity carries right through to the taste and shameful satisfaction. Just remember that unless you're normally a bit Floridian with your usual portions, then finishing it off might prove a challenge...

[thebutty]

The Butty does The Lexington

Following on from the epic success of the Day of the Butty at Brewdog Camden, The Butty's popping up again - this time, at The Lexington on Pentonville Road. This Saturday (June 15th) from 6pm, you'll be able to bag one of two sumptuous sandwiches, with fries, and the option of a carefully matched beer from the bar. There are no tickets, and it's first come, first served - when there's no more food, that's it! On offer, we'll have: The Reuben - Utterly gorgeous pastrami, served with sauerkraut, Swiss cheese and home-made Russian Dressing.

Beer pairing: Widmer Brothers Pitch Black IPA from Portland, Oregon (6.5%)

The Fin - Oven roasted mackerel, cooked in a honey-whisky glaze with crushed fennel seed and red chilli, and served with pickled cucumber and dill. 

Beer pairing: Kona Brewing Co. Big Wave Pale Ale from Kona, Hawaii (4.4%) Each sandwich is £5, or £7 with fries, and the matched beer is available from the bar. Keep an eye out for a combo deal on the night!

See you there!