(To be updated soon with recipes included on my substack and this website)
What comes to mind when you think of a sandwich?
Ross Geller’s public breakdown at work when a colleague steals his lunch with the hilarious “you ate my sandwich?” “My sandwich…my sandwich…”
That Thanksgiving leftover Turkey sandwich with the extra slice of gravy soaked bread, what he called the “moist maker” was enough for him to risk his job. My kinda tsulul!
My love for sandwiches started young, presisely when I started teething and still follows me in every city.
Perhaps its most appealing trait is its simplicity.
A quick, effortless bite to eat.
Shiro sandwich
One of my earliest blurriest memories of a sandwich – or what we called “shiro sandwich”- was on a trip to the Isle of Wight, an Island in the South coast of England. A day trip with my Tigrinya Saturday classes run by the Eritrean Catholic Church in West London’s Latimer Road. As with most things in the Eritrean community in the 1990s, these gatherings and trips were frequent and harmonious.
Blurred early childhood memories like most are in bits and slices with strips of gaps. Leaving an air of imagination to fill the pieces. We did however, certainly have a large green cooler box with wide pink arms and a thinner white stripe at its center.
Inside the box our food took refuge -most probably from the wind and spits of rain- sat firmly on the ferry. That was where our shiro sandwich was gently placed for our post-swim teamot. Prepared the night before, my Mum and Godmother would have the fresh injera stacked and put a generous amount of shiro, evenly spread on the injera, folded in half and neatly packed.
Our “shiro sandwich.” We devoured it, on the beach, I think.
Kensal Rise’s Taste
In the months after graduating, I spent my weekdays usually in “Taste” café or Minkie’s Deli, in Kensal Rise. My pre-gym routine of lattés, cover letters, emails, brainstorming on ideas and more cover letters are still sipped in my memory. Sitting by the windows of Taste at the front near the door, you have a clear view of the streets where people walk by, perfect for daydreaming and people watching. The comfy sofa at the back was just what you needed to write whilst enjoying a hot beverage.
Run by a Syrian family, customers were spoiled by the endless choices of their delightful menu, with their sandwiches being a hit. With over 10 different sandwiches, my favourite two were the veggie and chicken sandwiches. The veggie sandwich had grilled vegetables, almost hidden in between the halloumi and the rocket salad. Piping hot, I would have to patiently wait for it to cool. The chicken sandwich with mayo, avocado and a surprise crispy bacon on top. The food was brought out by the mother, who you knew put extra care into every plate that came out of the kitchen.
At lunchtime upon ordering, the waiter or waitress would often interrupt me,
“You want veggie?”
“Uhhh actually I’d like a chicken”, I’d say in defiance, wanting to prove my versatility.
In the summertime, their pistachio ice cream was another hit and I was solely responsible for its frequent “out of stock” notice but I’ll touch on that later.
Carnival Egg n’ Bacon
J’ouvert marks the start of Notting Hill carnival and it’s an early 6am rise.
Every last weekend of August since 1966, Notting Hill is reserved for the thousands of people whining to soca with steel pans and liquor, drenched in paint and later chocolate, following the floats. With two years of absence due to the pandemic, summer 2022 had an air of excitement. An early start, hair covered in my new patterned scarf, laces tightened and proudly wearing my Mos Def shirt, I was set to go.
A few hours later, J’ouvert had ended and already half way into my rum, we needed a pick-me-up.
Stumbling across a local cafe in Ladbroke Grove, with no chairs outside and just a few customers, we entered. Not a cafè but a cafe. The old school type with no flat white or avocado on sourdough bread visible on the menu.
Like outside, the chairs inside were absent. Instead found neatly stacked and pushed aside against the wall, dismissed as though on timeout for bad behaviour. Approaching the counter, we were met with the warmth that mirrored the day.
“You alrigh’ darlings?” was all I needed to hear.
The menu on the black chalkboard with thick white chalk was wide, covering half of the wall and stood proudly. But not nearly as proud as the Queens Park Rangers football shirt and scarf, that was hung to the left of a QPR clock and above a poster, slightly bent with ripped corners. The entire menu was irresistible but the egg and bacon sandwich with brown sauce on a buttered baguette was the most persuasive.
We came back for seconds, just half an hour later.
(Blame the rum).
A family ritual: Tea and pitta bread with peanut butter
Tea and bread were staples growing up at home, with tea being its unshaken centre. A family ritual since (at least) 1987. My Adey’s tea was a pot of ቐይሕ sha’he (kay’ye sha’he) with kemem and unknown spoons of sugar served in a small upside down triangle-shaped glass, with the piercing red shining through. The tea pot with swimming cinnamon and cloves however, was not to be left unprotected. There was always the mekdene that looked like a wool hat, preserving the tea’s heat. Its shield was comforting and brought warmth to the room. Our tea cover had thin green patterns and a subtle white exterior that matched one of Adey’s classic dresses. I later learned that its correct name was “tea cosy cover” that brilliantly describes the sentiment it brought.
If Adey’s tea was fixed, then the bread that Mum often grabbed on the way home was flexible. Varying in its type from baguettes to pitta bread or Eritrean kitcha that Adey would make. The pitta was often bought from the Lebanese Rayan bakeries in North West London found in countless shops throughout the city.
I vividly remember Adey’s favourite being the toasted pita, not so much for the bread but for what was spread on it. If there was a jar of peanut butter in the cupboard they would have a generous spread on toasted brown pitta cut in half, with crunchy being their first choice.
As kids and teenagers we adopted this afternoon tea, referring to it as our “Teamet,” but in favour of a mozzarella ham sandwich, himbasha or rich tea biscuits. In recent years we referred to this tea and pitta as a “tea party.” My Adey and her girls would have tea and the bread of the day to ground us all and soothe my Adey.
Half-term Tuna
Another childhood-pitta flashback was during the half term in the early 2000s. A specific memory comes to mind of warmer spring-like weather that freed us from wearing coats. In the midst of playing football in the park and the usual mischief, our Adey found us. She was holding a picnic cloth and a large bag of pita sandwiches for not three cheraru but seven or eight children. Tightly sealed in cling film to contain its fishy smell and once opened, tempted the nearby pigeons. Squashed between each side of the pitta, was tuna drenched in lemon, with finely chopped tomato, cucumber and mayonnaise.
Proud of our closeness and prouder of our athletic skills she gathered her little herd on the park floor. Gently biting her tongue to the left, she handed out the half-cut pita sandwiches to all.
Once eaten she declared, ”Kedu te’tsawetu”
Montreal’s Schwartz’s Deli
A short four day trip to Montreal, back in mid-february of 2014. Or reading week for us students. Having completed the polar bear plunge in a frozen lake in Ontario a few weeks earlier, I figured Montreal’s weather would be tolerable, to which I was pleasantly surprised. I remember the endless snow, frozen toes and the boundless steam that would appear as we spoke.
Catch-22 of the day: buy a hot beverage to warm up but risk frozen fingers or fuck the hot beverage, for warmer fingers nestled in my pockets.
This was of course before our planet became significantly warmer.
Talk of an old sandwich shop had been surfacing with friends, to which we finally went to check out on our last day. I had envisioned a diner that mirrored DC’s Ben’s Chili Bowl. Opened for generations and enriched by their meticulous repetition.
Schwartz’s Deli exceeded our expectations, with its popular smoked meat sandwich and generous spread of mustard taking the limelight. It would not be a classic diner without the white retro paper menu that sat beneath the white plate, where the sandwich proudly lay. Dropping in during a mid-week afternoon, we avoided the queue or the “line” and peacefully stuffed our faces. Just shy off a century years old, this historic shop still prompts long queues today in Montreal’s Saint Laurent Blvd.
Williamsburg egg & cheese sandwich
Having gone on the hunt for a quick morning cream cheese sesame bagel on our street in Williamsburg, (Brooklyn) surprisingly we failed. Frozen and hungry, to our delight we opted for a warm egg and cheese bun, wrapped in newspaper.
I can still remember the warm bun.
Zara Tewolde-Berhan 