Tag Archives: bread



Club sandwich: the publicity image

If nothing else, dear handful of readers, I do hope Average Food Blog, when in full flow, has proved that mediocre foods can at times transcend their mediocrity and provide a stunning experience.

This is something no club sandwich anywhere has ever done.

There is mediocrity and there is mediocrity, and the club sandwich represents the most soul-sapping sort of foodstuff available. It is the menu option offered by lobotomised pseudo-chefs snorting coke in the back tooled up with the note they robbed off the last club sandwich eater.

Recently, I have eaten two club sandwiches. This, admittedly, says as much about me and my current mental state as the kitchen coke fiends mentioned above.


Club sandwich: the half-eaten truth

This plate-based melee of proteins and carbs is the Cinderella’s ball of blandness, never anything but spectacularly disappointing. Crap meats between toasted but still slightly-soggy bread, a straggling bit of lettuce and tomato offering a pale parody of health food as you continue your headlong plunge into the grave selecting this consumable, when there could potentially, possibly, be art and beauty all around you.

You’d think that the few slightly-overdone chips would be the end of the insult, but oh no. The stick. The wooden stick of the type only associated with plant pots and club sandwiches, holding this shitshow together. Note to club sandwich-offerers of the world: this is not a gourmet flourish.

I would go as far to conclude that the club sandwich is not even a food; merely a reminder that, beneath our t-shirts and hair-cuts and music tastes and football fandom and affected interest in experimental theatre we are all average; so damn average.

Stop the tape, this is done.

Club Sandwich: [no rating]




There’s no easy way to write this, so I’ll write it the hard way: paninis are shit.

They are the bread equivalent of eating a fucking panini. That’s right; paninis are so bad they transcend their food genre and become a benchmark of badness.

It’s basically eating a slimline, slightly-rounded brick with anaemia and a tan as an afterthought. Eating a panini is a chore akin to cleaning the sand out of a well-used pair of astroturf football boots.

Paninis detract from any filling you could possibly put in a panini. Wraps, baps, buns, baguettes, scones, crackers – these and all other bread-based products are superior to this pointless, not hard, not soft, not flexible, not inflexible grillable nonsense.

If that’s the only fillable option you can think of in a given moment when standing gormless at the counter of your local cafe/deli/whatever, just order the filling, in your hands.

It’s almost as if paninis thought they’d be given a free ride forever, just for having a Mediterranean-tinged name. This cheap con trick is over.

And let’s make this clear; paninis have no direct connection whatsoever to sticker manufacturer Panini. The latter’s stickers, though grossly overpriced, provide hours of entertainment for children and adults alike. Much distance should be placed between these two paninis, outside of this blog.

I strongly recommend to governments everywhere: deal with your housing crisis by forcefully commandeering all existing paninis and building homes with them.

All this considered, I will still give them a single point simply for adding meaning to the day-middles of office workers.



Bread and butter and pudding

Do you like bits of toast with a vague cinnamon/ dairy combo atop? No? Well, you probably would not have liked my friend’s ‘bread and butter pudding’.*

“We don’t like raisins”, she said, speaking for herself and another friend whilst conveniently dodging the fact that dried fruit and/or peel is just about the only thing that makes bread and butter pudding a remotely appealing concept. Don’t like dried fruit? Then make a trifle, stat.

That said, even trifles fail when the ingredients of said afters are decanted into a container with a removable bottom. An oven-based dessert overflow is a brave and glorious mess; the pre-oven spillage of >80% of liquid ingredients is negligence to rival Serco or G4S.

A good guest in spite of all, I made great efforts to suggest personal enthusiasm towards my friend’s efforts, not least because I am relatively open to the idea of bits of toast with a vague cinnamon/ dairy combo atop.

“We don’t have any custard”, she said, speaking for herself and another friend whilst conveniently dodging the fact that even the perfect example of this dish cannot stand on its own one dish and needs to be allowed to swim.

A mid-meal supermarket trip later, we were back on track.

“We don’t usually heat up custard”, she said, speaking for herself and another friend whilst conveniently dodging the fact that nobody in the whole of fucking custard-acknowledging civilisation doesn’t heat custard intended as a pudding accompaniment.

I gave up, and just ate the thing.

All in all, this eating experience was a conundrum that Jonathan Creek in his prime would struggle with. There’s no way anyone would provide this ‘pudding’ with enough security clearance to escape from inverted commas.


*On legal advice, I have been told to add that fact that my friend did make a nice curry in advance of the described debacle.



Of course the title of this article does not literally refer to shit. In fairness, I imagine wholemeal shit is no more foul than any other kind of shit (except girls’ shit, which is definitely like little soap balls from the Body Shop. OK I nicked that line off Peep Show. Sue me.)

No. The title refers to shit in the sense of ‘stuff’, which the author understands to be the contemporary vernacular of the kind of people who would beat the stuff out of me for using the word ‘vernacular’. (That last sentence was very witty, by the way.) So what I am talking about is wholemeal stuff. Which is shit.

OK, this is getting a bit confusing. Allow me to clarify myself: I do not like wholemeal stuff. Wholemeal pasta? An absolute monstrosity. If soggy autumn trees had intestines, I imagine they would taste like wholemeal pasta. And sauce will not disguise this hideousness – putting sauce on wholemeal pasta is akin to the utterly, utterly futile attempt to cover up the smell of shit (literal shit) with air freshener – the whole thing simply coalesces into an appalling miasma of putridity. And brown rice? BROWN RICE?? Don’t even get me started. It comes over here, taking our jobs…

The exception to my anti-Wholemeal stance is bread. I like a bit of wholemeal bread. Unless it has seeds in. Average Food Blog maintains, at all times, an anti-seed philosophy. Deal with it.

Wholemeal shit: 2/10


Photo: stolen from another blog. Includes erroneous egg.

I’m going to take you on a journey. But first; a very important question: do you like salt?

Good. Read on.

This journey began with my discovery that I don’t actually hate Marmite, which was just before I wrote a fairly bog-standard blog piece about my discovery that I don’t actually hate Marmite.

After this there are no more narrative bullet-points of particular note in the journey, until today.

Today I constructed and ate a bacon and Marmite sandwich with salted butter. The bread was a co-op brown French stick, for those interested, though if anything, this let the other components down a bit. There were no vegetable elements involved, unless you count various vegetable extracts in the Marmite.

Although this may well be construed as Average Food Blog’s first recipe, I do not think it requires me to spell out the full method of its creation. I do not make judgements or pile expectations upon you, the chef – but I do make judgements upon arteries.

Arteries are moaners. You should never listen to moaners. And most of all, you should not let death creep up on you; you should stare it in its face and see who blinks. This is something that I have already said before, albeit marginally less verbosely, in my piece about salt as a stand-alone food concept.

Anyway, the sandwich was absolutely delicious. Layer upon layer of saltiness, a tang of yeast – a succulent challenge to fate; an affirmation of the life-enhancing pleasures that can be found in the lower reaches of the barrel marked ‘food consumption.’



It’s not.

The best of both, that is.

Strangely, it’s not really the worst of both either. It’s sort of like a duvet made of just the bobbles that come off socks or every Jude Law film ever made: beige, lumpy, lacking in drive in any direction in particular, ultimately irritating.

It’s an insult to anyone that has really seen anything that has combined seemingly disparate elements to glorious effect. No, further: it’s in fact an insult to optimism as a concept.

If Hovis Best of Both is intended not as a foodstuff but a bold statement of racial harmony, realised through the medium of starch, then it’s even more of a dismal failure.

Alternatively, Hovis are producing propaganda openly advocating a segregationist system. As a Yorkshireman, I cannot be comfortable with this, so let’s just say it’s a really, really crappy bread.

To paraphrase Jacko: it don’t matter if you’re black, brown, wholemeal, sourdough, seeded, soda, rye, or white.

Hovis Best of Both as food: 2/10

Hovis Best of Both as statement: 1/10


Show me a Tesco sandwich that tastes of anything, anything at all, and I’ll show you a lying sandwich.

Mayonnaise minus any discernible acidic kick (necessary trait), meat that tastes like the Walker’s crisps flavouring carrying the name of that meat, and Tesco’s famously tasteless vegetable offerings: this all adds up to the fact that the Tesco sandwich is the anti-eating experience, a vortex for the salivary glands to disappear into.

The three out of ten is merely awarded for the satiation of hunger, and even at that they’re not particularly effective. Passable, perhaps, when thrown together with a tasteless banana and pack of Hula Hoops.

A close acquaintance has told me that the exception to this rating system is the supermarket’s offering in the genre ‘Ploughman’s’. This writer has not sampled this sandwich, but it’s too late for a hero. Far, far too late.