How do! I’d love to say I’m merrily London bound, but instead I’m waiting in the boarding gate like a class-A schmuck. Maybe an economy class schmuck in all honesty. Not even economy plus. As a simple economy flyer, I don’t even get complimentary onboard meals. I noticed when I booked and thought “$15 in-flight meals won’t do. I could make better food, cheaper”, so in one of those rare Batman moments, I prepared.
When I say prepared, I mean launched into the excessive, seminal exercise of making loaf sandwich. It’s exactly what you think it is if you read those words with gluttony in your heart. It’s a flashy, gratuitous experience that makes sense if you’re preparing for four people, makes two meals for two people and for a single person it almost borders on pretentious.
Pretention being ill enough to deter me, an hour and a half before leaving for the airport, I hit the pavement with purpose. To the supermarket, where all of my dreams and supplies lay. A French loaf (not stick), which seemed like basic white bread, but with more substance than the Italian loaf. Franc-ly, everything else was 600+ grams and I was mindful of just how much bread I’m actually capable of eating. I hit the deli and looked for some protein. I already had about 70g of ham at home, but that was barely enough for a single sandwich, let alone a loaf. I got 50g of roast chicken, 50g of smoked chicken and 100g of Montreal smoked meat. As the Aussies would say, “we’re not here to fuck spiders.” Indeed, Straya, indeed.
With just under an hour before leaving, it was time to assemble this magnificent bastard. I cut the loaf in half horizontally and began to pull out bread like I was carving a pumpkin. What good was nutritionally void white bread when that perfectly good space could be used for heapings of toppings? I arranged the meats and amassed veggies. I wouldn’t want my mum to think I’m not eating a balanced meal. Cabbage, sun-dried tomatoes, mushrooms, onions, garlic, pickles and of course a pile of grated cheese. Is cheese a vegetable? I’m not gonna argue that, but it IS essential to any good sandwich. I will fight you on that.
I sauteed the onions, mushrooms and garlic with a little bit of olive oil, cumin and lemon juice. I slathered the bottom of the loaf with mayo and added a sprinkling of sriracha. Next up, a layer of ham, two layers of chicken and a layer of Montreal smoked meat. One again, not fucking around here. Coated that in cheese and sun-dried tomatoes. Next up the mushrooms were ready. I liberally jotted some Kaitaia Fire sauce on top to keep things interesting, then added a much needed pickle layer. I didn’t want this sandwich drying out, but I also didn’t want a mushy sandwich, so those sliced pickles were dabbed with a paper towel. Finally I coated the inner top loaf with homemade barbecue sauce, a treasured artifact of our rib dinner the other night. I threw the top on and wrapped it at least five layers of gladwrap. This was gonna be tight as a steel trap.
Now I’m sitting in the boarding gate, having already eaten a quarter of it. Let’s just say I’m greatly appreciative of every life choice that brought me to this moment. Especially those involving this beautiful creation I’ve birthed into the world. If the vacation at large has anything on this gargantuan bun, it’s gonna be a hell of a time.