Have we reached Peak Sandwich?
My enthusiasm's wilting like lettuce left out too long. Also, you tell me about cheese and I'll tell you about a lovely foundry for your autumnal bakes.
I’m a bit over sandwiches.
Sorry.
I say this as someone who cut their teeth at The Dusty Knuckle in London, which, a lot of people would agree, was the birthplace of the artisanal sandwich. At the start, it was revelatory to grab two planks of focaccia and fill them with sumac-dusted pumpkin, labneh and stalky herbs. It was a meal, but in bread. Word got out and TDK’s queues grew deservedly long (their sandwiches are still incredible, if you’re ever in London, you need to go get one).
That was ten years ago. Since then, sandwiches have exploded hard and fast, like a supernova. They seem honest, unpretentious. A little nostalgic. A touch kitsch. They’re perfect for Instagram – in fact, I can’t think of a better pairing. Who doesn’t love double-tapping on a cross-section of a sandwich?
Now, we have sandwich bars. Pizza-sandwich hybrids. Sandwich influencers. Places that were minding their own business – the falafel stall, the bánh mì joint – are being dragged into the frenzy. Is a falafel wrap a sandwich? Does it need that 🥪🥪🥪🥪 rating?
Do I sound awful?
Sorry.
I’ve had every type of sandwich conceivable: the meatloaf, the egg salad, the peri peri chicken… there’s nothing you could shove between two slices of bread that’d truly surprise me. Okay, maybe two pop tarts and a spoon of gochujang mayo. But truly, I think we’re arriving at Peak Sandwich.
It’s escalated to a level where I often think, ‘wow… but couldn’t I have the insides as a plate of food, with the bread on the side?’ Because an aubergine parmigiana sandwich – however drool-inducing, sl*tty-sounding, Instagram-clicking it might be – isn’t, at the end of the day, an enjoyable eating experience. It’s horrendously messy, too rich and there isn’t enough acidity inside to balance out the salt on the focaccia. Some foods don’t belong in bread.
It’s a question of form, I think. The form is starting to wear. Especially when it comes to price. Generally speaking, I’m someone who will defend the high price of artisanal food. No one’s costing anything to be greedy, and a good sandwich takes days to put together. You’ve got to cucumbers to pickle and romesco to blitz. But when a sandwich nears €12, I begin to ask myself what else I could have for only a few euros more. Example: an incredible bowl of noodles.
All that said, I’ve eaten some very, very nice sandwiches in Amsterdam. I thought Ranchi was a gastronomical success. So well-constructed, down to its precision-cut bread. It’s the hotel bed of sandwiches, practically ironed. I enjoy how it’s delivered as an experience: you pull the neatly tied string around the white box to reveal cute branding.
Fort Negen’s Sandwich Bar is also excellent, but then it was always going to be. The aubergine schnitzel really shows how far sandwiches have come in terms of technicality. The choice of brioche, the use of esoteric seasonings like kosho, the reservedly dressed slaw to protect the bread’s integrity – every element has been considered. It’s High Sandwich stuff.
I’d be wrong to not shout out Bakkerij Wolf, whose sandwiches are a little more sandwichy, but better for it. I adore the mortadella and burrata, a chin-dirtying, supremely satisfying lunch. I also think Davie’s do a very solid, classically minded sandwich. It’s executed better than a thief in the middle ages. The pastrami is perfection, the pickles are good… but I just don’t think I’d go back for another. I can’t tell you why. Perhaps this is the fatigue I’m talking about.
I recently went to Dough Studio, an offshoot of Pizza Project. This is a bread-first kind of place – they make schiacciata, which is not a nerve problem in the legs but a Tuscan flatbread. It’s the star of the show, with its crispy exterior and pillowy insides. I had the ragu sandwich with provolone, and it was made with love. In fact, this whole place said ‘love’ to me.
As much as I enjoyed all of these sandwiches, and really I did, what remains – other than a mound of dirty napkins – is the creeping feeling that we’re overdue something new. What would that look like? I’m not sure yet. I’m looking.
Does anyone agree with me? I know the sandwich is here to stay. It’s great that people enjoy them. But when the new place opens, I won’t be first in line anymore. Sorry.
A kaaskop in the making?
I recently spent a weekend in the French Alps. I’d not done a summer mountain trip since childhood. My god. The glacier-fresh air, the chemical-blue sky, the fantasy book views - everything was an exaggeration. I loved it. I came back to Amsterdam, stepped out my front door and could see no mountains. This feels like a shame. I’ll write to Gemeente Amsterdam about it.
I also ate a LOT of cheese, reblochon and beaufort and the rest.
Now, I was never a massive cheesehead. I don’t get a kick out of eating a manky blue that smells like feet. But since moving to the Netherlands, I’ve begun to notice a shift. I love this country’s cheese. It’s pleasingly solid and accessible and it melts ever so well between two slices of sour (uh oh, am I now defending the sandwich?? A toastie is different, okay??).
But it’s also made me realise that my knowledge of Dutch cheese is shockingly bad. I know:
Gouda
and that’s it. Help me.
I did go to Kaasbar. If you’ve not been, it’s a true one-off: a cheese conveyor belt. I must have eaten 15 different cheeses, some potent, a few mild, nearly all delicious. That night, my dreams were so powerful I gained telepathic powers to match Jean Grey’s.
I thought Kaasbar placed too much emphasis on the accompaniments that came with the cheeses. They ranged from honeycomb to mushroom XO. A few were unhinged. I wanted to know more about the cheeses themselves, who made them and how. Nevertheless, as a place to take a visitor, Kaasbar is unbeatable. The spectacle of travelling cheese never ceases to amaze an out-of-towner, bless them.
I also know De Kaaskammer in De 9 Straatjes, a gorgeous shop filled with golden wonder. Nigella went there too, and we Brits love Nigella. But is it the place for cheese? Or a tourist trap? And is there cheese beyond gouda? How do I find out? (See how I avoided the obvious gouda I find out? pun – very demure).
I’m just a baker, writing for my Amsterdammers, asking for a cheese education. Let’s go.
Netherton Foundry
A reco for you: Netherton Foundry, whose bakeware is unbeatable. It’s hunky and heavy and holds heat, always leaving me with a crisply baked bottom.
I say this because pie season is almost here. This is when my baking goes into overdrive. I’m not really a summer baker. The only thing I can countenance making is meringue, and that’s only because a meringue can hold a pocketful of berries. In summer, I only want to eat fruit.
But, pies. They’re coming. Something tells me the Dutch harvest is going to be a good one. I will be baking all the splendour into caramelised pastry. A pie is probably my third favourite bake, which might sound low on the list, but at the very top is bread, which is what I specialised in, and then cookies, because I make a damn good cookie. It comes naturally to me.
Anyway, if you want a pie dish then check out Netherton. They deliver internationally. You will cherish yours for life, like I do mine.
OK BYE!
Spreek je snel! 🇳🇱
Go to Kef!
Tomek, if you want to know about cheese in Amsterdam, Abraham Kef is your place. The OG of cheese tasting and learning. They even have a cheese class at their Noord location.