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.
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]