“But it’s just a sandwich!” social media cried when it emerged that Harrods, the luxury retailer, is selling one for £28 – making it the most expensive butty in Britain.
Seen out of context – or rather in the context of “just” being a sandwich – the price boggles. Yet, in Harrods’ defence, there is nothing “just” about two slices of fresh sourdough ensconcing truffle butter, “gold” mustard mayo, mushrooms and seared steak sourced from Japan. These ingredients don’t come cheap: wagyu beef can only come from three breeds of cattle from Japan’s Kasai region and is sometimes referred to as the Rolls-Royce of beef on account of its luxuriant texture and high price tag; black truffle usually costs about £1.50 to £3 a gram, and even the bread takes days to ferment and prove and is baked on site.
If Harrods served these foods on a plate alongside some rocket and braised onions, the price would not make the news. But it is serving them in a sandwich. There’s nothing like putting stuff in bread to get British people riled. What (and how much) filling, what type of bread, how thickly the butter is spread – these subjects stir strong feelings, and that’s before you get to how much it costs.
It was these criteria I took to Harrods Food Hall and applied to the wagyu beef sandwich I ate in the middle of the Brompton Road. Ten of the most expensive mouthfuls I have ever had were consumed between buses, Lime bikes and black cabs, mayo-flecked hair blowing in their slipstream. Every bite was about £2.50 and, with each, I asked myself whether it was worth it, whether I’d buy it again and whether I’d recommend it. My answers varied according to the composition of the bite, which is often the way with sandwiches, but £2.50 a mouthful really focuses the mind.
The first bite was, like most first bites, the best – in part because I was hungry, and the sandwich was filled to the edge, as it should be. Harrods’ sourdough is dense, intense, moist and tangy. Whether you think it’s the correct bread for sandwiches depends on your taste, and your tolerance for butter and mayonnaise oozing on to your fingers through the holes. The wagyu beef was generously cut, medium rare and the perfect foil for the “gold” mustard mayonnaise which is not, in fact, made of gold, but dijon. The second-best mouthful came when the beef, mustard mayo and rocket collided with the beer-braised onions, creating a quartet of contrasting textures and tastes: jammy, peppery, savoury and hot.
Then the truffle and porcini butter arrived, and a grilled, but chilled, portobello mushroom, and everything slid downhill on a tidal wave of umami. Truffle is like perfume, delightful in microdoses, and that truffle butter was too much even without the mushrooms.
I wanted it to stop. I agree a sandwich isn’t always “just” a sandwich, and admire the creativity of those pushing its boundaries. But whether it’s a £3.50 meal deal or a £28 number from Harrods, the one sandwich criterion on which we can all agree is being able to finish it without feeling a bit sick.
