Crisp Sandwich

This isn't a recipe. I know that. You know that. Writing down instructions for putting crisps between two slices of bread is, on the face of it, faintly ridiculous. But I've put it in the notebook all the same, because some things deserve to be recorded not for their complexity but for the fact that they exist at all.

A crisp sandwich is one of those foods that divides people into two camps: those who understand it and those who haven't tried it. There's no middle ground. The combination of cold, salted butter on soft white bread with the crunch and salt of a packet of crisps is a thing that works on a level no amount of explanation can justify. It just does. Your kitchen, your rules.

Ready salted. I'll say it plainly, because this is a hill I'll stand on. Not cheese and onion, not salt and vinegar, not prawn cocktail. Ready salted, from a packet that crinkles when you open it. The flavour should be clean: salt, potato, oil, and the faint warmth of bread and butter underneath. Anything else is a different sandwich, and we're not making a different sandwich.

I eat one of these maybe once a month, standing at the counter, usually when the kitchen is quiet and I can't be bothered with anything more. It takes two minutes. It costs almost nothing. And there are few better feelings than that first bite, when the bread gives and the crisps shatter and you think: yes. Right food, right evening.