Prawn Marie Rose Sandwich

Some things you don't improve. You just make them properly.

The prawn Marie Rose sandwich is one of those. Plump, cold prawns folded through a pink sauce that is nothing more than mayonnaise, ketchup, a few drops of this and that, and the particular genius of a nation that decided in the 1960s that cocktail sauce belonged on everything. It's in the notebook: "Prawns, pink sauce, white bread, the garden in full sun." A Saturday lunch. The kind where you eat with one hand and hold a glass with the other.

The sauce is the thing. It sounds simple, and it is, but the balance has to be right. Too much ketchup and it tips into something cloying. Too little and you've just got mayonnaise with a blush. A squeeze of lemon sharpens it. Worcestershire sauce gives it depth. A few drops of Tabasco if you want a whisper of heat at the back. Taste it. Adjust it. This is your sauce, not mine.

Then there's the iceberg. I know. But trust me on this. You want the cold, architectural crunch of iceberg, not some tender leaf that gives up the moment the sauce touches it. The contrast between the crisp lettuce and the soft, pink-dressed prawns is the whole architecture of the sandwich. Butter the bread to the edges. Cut in half. We're only making lunch.