The ShortRead of 3 December
The Meatliquor Chronicles: Chapter and Verse
Authors: Yianni Papoutsis and Scott Collins
What's the story: No matter how much you like meat, Yianni Papoutsis and Scott Collins like it more than you do.
Founders of the UK's immensely successful (and tasty) MEATLiquor restaurants, the MEATLiquor Chronicles is a fat slice of their best recipes, served up with a side of guest dishes, anecdotes and stories behind the mouth-watering meals.
The following recipe is for the ultimate hunger cure - the club sandwich - and a journey that led to its infamous position within the hearts of MEATLiquor's founders.
The Casino Club
Dead of night. A motorway. Any motorway.
The Road is far from glamorous: bleary-eyed from too many hours scaring down the centre line, mind lugged by all kinds of whitc-line fever, knuckles bulging and stomach knotted, the distant lights of tonight's sanctuary beckon.
The car's pretty much parking itself by this point.
A man takes a credit card in exchange for a key card.
Base instincts take over.
It's well past the witching hour. The restaurants are all shut up tight.
Any cook with any talent has left work and is currently getting messed up on their drug of choice at the closest/cheapest bar/brothel.
Every nerve cries out for sustenance: stimulants will only get you so far in this life, boy.
One choice remains: that stained and dog-eared rectangle of card buried at the back of the faux-leatherette 'Welcome (translation: 'Fuck you') pack.
Why even bother reading it? You know it better than your own address by this point: a cynical selection of nukeable nastiness that can be prepared by even the most exploited night-shift worker.
Bolognese (always with a really inappropriate pasta).
Caesar. Fucking. Salad.
And there, tucked away at the bottom, a glimmer of hope in a sea of culinary despair.
The last resort of the hungry insomniac:
The Club Sandwich.
It promises everything a peripatetic inebriate might require in a lace-night meal:
Juicy tomatoes, Hellman's mayo.
Trembling fingers stab at the buttons on the phone.
Half-understood insults arc traded with a disgusted operator.
Somehow an order is made.
Add a bucket of ice and...
Somehow this has cost forty quid.
Whisky is drunk.
Weed is smoked.
News is watched.
Ablutions are performed.
The anticipation reaches a zenith.
More whisky is drunk.
More weed is smoked.
Clean enough already: more weed is smoked.
The door opens.
Ganja smoke billows out into the face of some poor bastard who's pulled the night shift.
Eyes are averted.
Signatures are taken.
Grubby notes change hands furtively in exchange for discretion.
Somehow this has now cost fifty quid.
A cloche is raised.
A crest is fallen.
How can anybody get something so simplest fantastically wrong?
Soggy, cold, half-toasted bread; anaemic tomatoes; wilted lettuce; limp bacon; rancid mayonnaise; flaccid poultry.
No sodding crisps.
How do they fuck this up?
Every. God-darnned, Time.
Here's how not to.
WHAT YOU NEED
3 slices white bread
4 slices smoked back bacon, cooked crispy
1 mad chicken breast
1 large tomato
1 slice S2 155 cheese
Ready salted crisps
1 whale dill pickle
Build it like this
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(Image: Flickr/Kate Hiscock)