I had lunch at this Edinburgh luxury hotel and it got me thinking about this humble pleasure

Gaby Soutar

As part of my The Scotsman restaurant reviewing gig, I recently visited the lobby of Edinburgh hotel The Hoxton.

I was there to try an upmarket sandwich pop-up collaboration with local chef Rob Casson, aka the King of Feasts, who is in situ for a couple of months. He has created some truly decent limited-edition doorstoppers, and this, along with a brief spell of picnicky weather, got me thinking about my relationship with the humble sarnie.

We’re pretty tight. That’s why they call me Gaby Two Slices Soutar.

Our love story began back in primary school. In the Eighties, you could only choose from four almost-entirely-devoid-of-nutrients packed lunch fillings - peanut butter, cheddar cheese, Marmite or egg. Ham was not a wafer thin affair. It was thick and gelatinous, like an orthopedic insole.

Sandwich Spread existed, but it was for grown-ups only. Too sophisticated for children, even though it might’ve prevented us from getting rickets.

The bread was white or brown Sunblest. We had no clue what focaccia was.

At least jeely pieces flung out of a 20 storey flat had died out, though my Glasgow granny still did a mean sugar sandwich with a sprinkling of granulated on pan loaf.

Anyway, I was a devotee to the peanut butter number, as it worked alongside my US obsession with ET, Madonna and Michael Jackson.

Mine had to be made with the smooth stuff, then squashed, totally flat. Lots of butter. White bread. Pressed with the hell of one’s hand until it was just a few millimetres thick.

The squishing happened by accident the first time, then I was hooked. One day, I will have my own cooking show.

When I was based in the office, there was nothing as basic as peanut butter sandwiches. I’d often cobble something semi-impressive together as a performative packed lunch, so I wouldn’t get teased in the break room. Pitta breads were the usual, with some vegetation in there. Maybe hummus, as I like to cultivate a wholesome image.

However, things have changed in recent years, since I started working from home. I’ve sacked the greenery and become very predictable at lunchtime. My sandwich routine rarely varies. I’ll do smoked salmon, tuna mayo or egg mayo. That’s it.

The mundanity has never bothered me. I don’t get plunged into existential angst by repetition. On the contrary, it soothes me. I have the same breakfast daily, so why not lunch too? As soon as I hear the bread bin lid rattling, I’m like Pavlov’s Dog. I suppose I’m a bit like a colleague who I used to sit next to in the office.

They had the same sandwich - ham and tomato - every day for years. I could be into that. Perfectly sensible. I was impressed. That’s mainly because, when hunger strikes, bang on noon, my standards and imagination drops. I don’t need to be tantalised. No delayed gratification. “Feed me, Seymour,” I say, like Audrey in Little Shop of Horrors.

Everything tastes totally delicious after noon. I never get a sudden ick for something I’ve been having too regularly.

My other half does. He’ll suddenly develop a diva-ish distaste for a random filling. Eggs, say. “I’m sick of them,” will be his random comment. “It’s all so boring”.

Whenever we do the weekly shop, he ALWAYS stops in the deli aisle and complains that he doesn’t know what to have for lunch. “Chicken slices?” is my stock suggestion, but he mumbles about sulphates. “An egg?”. No, don’t say that.

It’s a mini third world crisis. Sandwiches make him depressed. He’s enough to make the Duchess of Devonshire spin in her grave.

However, he can always be coaxed into a treat sandwich from our favourite, Alby’s, which has two branches in Edinburgh. They make me realise how far we have come since the peanut butter days. If only my childhood self could see me now. I love their chicken Caesar - a classic that often reappears on the menu.

Another favourite that was once worth making a pilgrimage for was a visit to the now defunct implosion of a business that was the Capital’s Bross Bagels. Their smoked salmon bagel featured capers, tons of fish, pickled red onions and about a whole pack of cream cheese that came oozing out of the O. I love it when you’re not in charge of your own portion control.

I only once deviated from that option, when visiting one of their branches. I went for the turkey and bacon club, and it was the soggiest and strangest bap I’ve had in my entire life.

It haunts me. Still, it was about £7, so I choked it down and pretended to enjoy it.

On a Friday, as a treat and to save myself from having to make something, I often go to a local bakery for their amazing smoked ham and ricotta focaccia number.

I’m devoted, even though I had a recent stand off with a member of staff. That’s because just one of the ready-made sandwiches under the counter was a real runt. I knew they'd give me that, if I wasn’t assertive. That always happens to me. So, I pointed to a better and bigger creation, and said; “That one, please”.

They were not happy, “We don’t usually do this,” said the staff member, while turning red and quivering. Still, it was worth invoking a bout of unwarranted rage.

Gaby Two Slices Soutar has got to have the best piece. Either that, or the same every day will do nicely.

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