You Say Sandwich, We Say Yeah!

The Chip Butty is an institution I am not sure I want to admit membership of, but in support of true scientific research, I shall admit - though, only once - to consuming this monochromatic staple of British diet. You would think Britain, with its history of Sandwiches (think "The Earl of...") would be more inventive with their bread-based food products, but therein lies the genius of the Chip Butty - it is so classically simple, understated and unexpected: who would have thought that you could get so much starch and empty carbohydrates into such a small, compact space? That its nutritional content hovers somewhere between zero and minus 20 makes the perfect base (or cap) of a night's heavy drinking, and this is part of its success, particularly in Scotland and working class cities across the UK. Its single colour and single taste could only be described as "unexpected" - in that when you eat something, you would expect it to taste of something...

Running errands downtown, I had heard the former owners of Il Portico reopened a new French bistro in the former Krua Wilai joint kitty corner to the former Arlington. That's a lot of the past trying to relive itself, but checking out The Marc's menu online , and with a dear friend working as the barkeep, I sat at the bar and enjoyed his recommendation of the short rib sandwich. I know, the McRib really ruined a generation of rib sandwiches with their aggressive branding. But rest assured, this rib sandwich is actually slowly braised beef ribs pulled and shredded topped off with crispy shallot rings. Served on a seemingly small bun, the sandwich is actually quite filling. Too filling. I couldn't even finish the good fries served with a side of aioli. I did however try their signature Marc martini, which contains an ounce of Balvenie, and ya know, I have wanted to go back ever since I left.

Stopping in one weekend evening to take in some Yamazaki 18 and chacuterie, I was swayed by the Daily Special of a Lorne Sausage sandwich, done in the style of the Scots. Traditionally knee-deep in grease, this particular sausage was done in a much leaner style, perhaps too lean, as I was craving that particular fattiness one expects with a sausage sandwich. Done as a slice of sausauge rather than individual links, the sandwich was otherwise supreme with 3 year aged cheddar cheese and a sufficient layer of fresh greens between chewy good bread. The accompanying tomato and double smoked bacon soup, which was everything soup should be, fresh, aromatic, warm from the palette to the gullet, was finished with cream and made me want another cup. Instead, between the bartender and I, indulgence knew no boundaries that night with shared plates of Colston Basset Stilton paired with the hardy Hercule de Charlevoix, coming with an arugula bitter pesto and hot pepper jelly. I couldn't help but...