
Chef Thomas
A British BLT
Back bacon crisped in a hot pan, a ripe tomato that actually tastes of something, crisp lettuce and real butter on proper toast. A sandwich that earns its place in the notebook.
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Created by Chef Thomas
Paper-thin cucumber between slices of crustless buttered bread, the quietest sandwich in the English kitchen and, on the right afternoon, one of the most satisfying things you'll eat.
June. The cucumber in the garden has finally decided to cooperate. It's warm enough to sit outside with the back door open, and the light has that late-afternoon softness that makes everything in the kitchen look like a painting. This is when a cucumber sandwich makes perfect sense.
There's almost nothing to it: good bread, real butter, a cucumber sliced so thin you can nearly read through it. That's why it's difficult. When a recipe has three ingredients, each one is completely exposed. The bread must be fresh and soft. The butter must be real, unsalted, at room temperature. The cucumber must taste like a cucumber, which means it must be in season. A January cucumber tastes of cold water and regret. Wait for summer.
I know people think of these as fussy. Something from a period drama, served on tiered stands by people in white gloves. Forget all that. A cucumber sandwich is one of the most honest things you can eat. It is bread and butter and a vegetable, assembled with care, cut neatly, and eaten with your hands. Your kitchen, your rules. I make them when the weather is warm and I want something light and cold and green, and I eat them standing at the counter without a plate. The Edwardians would be appalled. I don't mind.
The trick, if there is one, is attention. Salt the cucumber first to draw out the water. Butter the bread to the edges. Slice everything thin. Press gently. Cut cleanly. We're only making a sandwich. But a sandwich made with this kind of quiet care is worth writing down.
Quantity
1 large
peeled and sliced paper-thin
Quantity
6 slices
from a proper bakery loaf
Quantity
generous amount
softened to room temperature
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
a few drops
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| cucumberpeeled and sliced paper-thin | 1 large |
| good white breadfrom a proper bakery loaf | 6 slices |
| unsalted buttersoftened to room temperature | generous amount |
| fine sea salt | to taste |
| white pepper | to taste |
| white wine vinegar or lemon juice (optional) | a few drops |
Peel the cucumber. Slice it as thin as you can manage, translucent if possible. A mandoline makes this easier, but a sharp knife and some patience will get you there. Lay the slices in a single layer on a clean tea towel, sprinkle lightly with fine salt, and leave them for ten minutes. The salt draws out the water that would otherwise make your bread soggy. Pat them dry gently, then toss with a few drops of white wine vinegar or lemon juice and a grind of white pepper.
The butter must be soft. Properly soft, the kind that spreads without tearing. Take it out of the fridge a good hour before you start. Butter every slice of bread right to the edges, generously. The butter is doing two things: it tastes good, and it creates a barrier that stops the cucumber's moisture soaking through. Don't be timid with it.
Lay the cucumber slices over half the bread in slightly overlapping rows, covering the entire surface. You want a single, even layer. No gaps. Season with another whisper of salt and white pepper. Press the remaining buttered bread slices on top, butter side down, and press gently with the flat of your hand so everything holds together.
Cut the crusts off with a sharp knife. No sawing. Clean, decisive strokes. Then cut each sandwich into three fingers, or four if the slices are wide enough. Stack them on a plate, cut sides showing the pale green stripe of cucumber against the white bread. That stripe is the whole visual. Nothing else is needed.
1 serving (about 42g)
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