Sandwiches · 30 August 2002
Since coming to this country (where he who has ordered a coffee at the same time as his sandwich can expect to be regarded as though a swastika has just appeared on his forehead) I’ve wandered through – what, seven? – kitchen stores and at least a dozen , forever on the lookout for what has become a sort of holy sandwich chalice: a simple, wood-handled of sufficient size to aid the easy application of mustard to bread, butter to toast, cream cheese to bagel. You may agree that the pleasures of finding such a tool close to hand in the kitchen cannot be overstated.
As far as I can tell, after a year of looking, sandwich spreaders – rather like World War Two collaborationists and luxuriating former dictators – do not officially exist in France. This is irksome and saddening. It amounts to an admittedly tiny but nonetheless palpable droplet of pain introduced to the clear waters of this modern lifestyle: insignificant in volume, perhaps, but its presence has tinctured all. Something like that.
Anyway if someone would be willing to send me one (or two: small kitchen things tend to require backup), I’d reciprocate with a bottle of the local wine or some such.
UPDATE: Done. In 18 minutes(!). Thanks to Jonathon Miller.
* * *