It all started a few weeks ago when, on my lunch break from work, I went out to get a sandwich and just could not find anything I wanted. I stopped in at all the usual sandwich joints- Pret A Manger and the like- and not one damn sandwich on offer appealed to me. Eventually time ran out and I sulked back to the office with a grim egg mayonnaise and watercress on wholewheat in my hands, knowing I’d be spending the next ten minutes picking out the watercress because I just can’t stand it.

So, whilst picking out the dreaded cress, I contemplated writing a post about how impossible it is to get a decent sandwich in London. But once the cress was gone, and I’d liberally salted the under-seasoned egg mayonnaise, my mood improved somewhat and I decided that such a post would be really rather unfair, at least insofar as I could only legitimately write a post about how impossible it is to get a decent sandwich within five minutes walking distance from my place of work in London. I’m no authority on sandwich possibilities elsewhere in this great city, and anyway must admit that the British have, by and large, moved well on from the “if it can’t outrun you, butter it” school of sandwich making.

So, having given up the thought of writing a post about how Americans are culturally superior to the British at least in the realm of bread-filling ( I must pause here to mention that I for one consider the British Bacon Sandwich to be one of the All-Time Greats, but only if you add Brown Sauce and most definitely not ketchup), I started to wonder if my utter depression at being faced with an unsatisfactory sandwich was purely a male thing. So I tentatively asked two workmates, one female and one male, what their favourite sandwich was, and my nascent theory was initially confirmed.

The female replied, “I don’t really know. One without the bread?”

The male, however, paused thoughtfully, then gave a detailed explanation of what he considered to be the absolutely perfect cheese and pickle sandwich.

Aha! I thought, I’m right! Sandwiches are far more important to men than to women! Think of Dagwood’s heroic sandwiches in the Blondie comic strips! Think of the Hero Sandwich! Think of how sandwiches in delis in New York are almost always named after men! The Reuben! The Hoagie!

But when I asked a few more people, the women came up with answers just as detailed, and perhaps even more passionate. Of course there were a few of either sex who either responded along the lines of “I’m not that bothered. It’s just lunch, really.” or just looked at me like I was pushing carbs.

So the conclusion I came to was that sandwiches are not important just to Americans, or males. In fact, for such a seemingly humble meal, they tend to be deeply important to a great deal of the people who eat them.

Idiosyncratically and even intimately so. Some people, in answering the question about their favourite sandwich, gave recipes in tones ringing with authority. Others, however, confided, and came out about their midnight sandwiches, however eccentric or un-palatable they might seem to others.

So I started to really think about how important they are to me. I thought back to that day when I couldn’t find a sandwich I really wanted, and I realised that it wasn’t at all like one of those evenings when you’ve got three hundred cable channels and there’s still nothing on tv you want to watch. It was far more frustrating. What I really wanted, you see, was Ham and Swiss on white bread, absolutely plain, but with huge dollops of American mustard on the side of the plate, for dipping. That’s what I wanted on that day Had it happened another day, I could have gone straight to the last remaining “made to order” sandwich bar near work, and had rare roast beef, avocado, red onion, and iceberg lettuce with lots of salt and lemon juice on wholewheat. But it wasn’t that day. And the sandwich I truly desired was just not to be.

Because I believe that for each of us, there is a sandwich to serve every individual mood. I say individual not just because we may want one sandwich one day, and another the next, but because we express our individuality through our sandwiches. I know of no two people who like a tuna salad sandwich the same way. In fact discussions of how a tuna salad sandwich should be properly made can lead to rows or, as in the case of that sweet scene in “The Truth About Cats And Dogs”, be a form of courtship. I for one never buy a tuna salad sandwich; I make my own, and like no other. For me it absolutely must include mayo, Lemon&Pepper Seasoning, chopped spring onions, and chopped sour pickles, on white bread only, and must be served with chocolate milk. And it’s an “at home” sandwich for me; not one for taking into work. Such also is the grilled cheese sandwich, which must be made with Kraft slices and perhaps thin slices of liberally salted raw onion, and served with a bowl of tomato soup when you’re too ill or depressed to face the world. And, of course, the late-night peanut butter and jelly when you just can’t sleep.

But I also adore the great steak sandwich, in a baguette, with Dijon mustard melting over the rare steak, which in turn is bleeding into the crusty bread. These are best eaten in a bistro, with a glass of red wine, and sitting at an outside table just when the weather’s turning colder. Or tiny little smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwiches on brown bread, at High Tea with someone far older and more respectable than yourself.

So this is just a taste of what sandwiches mean to me; how there is for me a sandwich for just about any occasion. Other people have entirely different views about, and needs for, sandwiches. My survey continues, and all I’ll say so far is that I have it on very good authority that the Swedish Aristocracy, e predictably, all seem to favour smoked salmon- or Gravadlax- as well, but with horseradish on ciabatta.

Results of the survey are coming soon, so if you don’t want to be left out, reply with a comment on your sandwich choices, and make your voice heard.