A crab stick and taramasalata baguette
I was young and carefree, living in Barons Court, west London, in the mid-90s. Chains weren’t a thing, and delis all had sandwich fillings laid out in silver dishes of a uniform, surgical shape, inviting adventure. Russian salad and ham? Sure, why not. The price structure was weird: sometimes everything was the same, and other times you’d accidentally hit a premium ingredient and your sandwich would be £3.50. That’s how I hit on the crab stick and taramasalata baguette, after a financial catastrophe involving actual crab. Crab sticks taste nothing like crab. They are, in fact, more delicious. So much better. And everything so pink. My life was like a fairytale. Zoe Williams

A vegetarian Christmas focaccia
Christmas sandwiches can be wildly underwhelming for veggies – but I’m still craving Glasgow cafe Boca’s offering: salty focaccia, stuffed to the brim with mushroom and chestnut roast, apricot glazed carrots and parsnips, cranberry and walnut agrodolce, sprout slaw and the option to add hefty slices of brie – which, of course, I did. Indulgent, Christmassy, and not a “festive falafel” in sight. Leah Harper

A hot smoked mackerel sarnie
Sometimes, it’s not just what you eat, it’s where you eat it. A hot mackerel sandwich from a little smokehouse on Brighton seafront, wolfed down at the shoreline with my wife. Astonishingly fresh fish, aromatic with woodsmoke, dripping juices so tasty I ended up sucking my fingers clean – all set to the gentle lap of the waves. Transcendent stuff. In fact, it was so good I spent the next 10 years thinking about it, until we decided to travel back to the seaside to eat it again. And it was every bit as delicious as I remembered. So delicious, in fact, that it inspired a passing gull to get one – right out of my wife’s hands. Sometimes a great sandwich is brilliant despite where you eat it. Alexi Duggins

Halloumi and grilled vegetables on Turkish flatbread
The greatest sandwich I know, by miles, is the mighty T9 from City Edge in Sydney’s Surry Hills. It’s toasted Turkish bread, grilled halloumi, sun-dried tomatoes, avocado, artichoke and leaves. It’s utterly delicious. But it’s more than just a sandwich. City Edge’s Tommy has a photographic memory and even now, when I haven’t lived in Sydney for well over a decade, and visit only once a year, I will walk into City Edge and he will smile knowingly and say, “Hello Kath, T9?” I’ve searched the world for a replacement and have not found one. Nothing beats Tommy’s T9. Katharine Viner

Tortilla and peppers in a crispy roll
Tucked down a sidestreet at the foot of the Albaicín in Granada, the Bodegas la Mancha was a local secret, always packed and lively at lunchtime, offering any sandwich you liked. My favourite: grilled green peppers with Spanish tortilla in a crispy roll, washed down with a beer or two. The perfect setup for a siesta. Rick Williams

A fish finger concoction
The morning after a late-night house party in Brighton, my wife and I shuffled into a sandwich bar on Trafalgar Street where our friends Alex and Nikki worked to pick up provisions for the train home. We chose the first sandwich, a perfectly nice ham, cheese and salad concoction. We let them pick the other: a white bloomer with fish fingers, Emmenthal, rocket, chilli jam and mayo. Totally delicious. The unlikely combination instantly became our favourite, and we’d attempt to recreate it for years to come. Nick Morgan

Brooklyn tuna melt
I’ve tried nearly every kind of tuna sandwich – hot or cold, deluxe or bodega (or even Subway), morning, noon or night. So I speak with authority when I say: nothing beats the tuna melt at Agi’s Counter, in the Crown Heights neighbourhood of Brooklyn, New York. Hearty, dill-forward, possessing some secret ingredient that makes the tuna melt in your mouth, this delectable sandwich has found a point between grilled cheese and gourmet deli so ideal it trumps my general disdain for paying $20 for a sandwich. In this one case, it’s more than worth it. Adrian Horton

Turkey, salami and white cheddar
Mad Max. That’s the name of my favourite sandwich. First split between my boyfriend and me while on a hike in Montana, where we had moved on a whim. Surrounded by wildflowers and tiny blue butterflies, we gobbled down layers of turkey, hot soppressata (salami), sharp white cheddar, fresh basil, pepperoncini, piquillo peppers, red onion and mayo. If all the food here is as good as this, then we can stay, I mumbled. Jessica Reed

An egg and cheese baguette, Senegalese-style
At a tiny stall in Saint-Louis, Senegal, the chef whipped raw eggs into a frenzy then poured the goop into boiling oil, where it frothed into a chiffon-like fritter. He threw that into a baguette smeared with Laughing Cow cheese and dusted something savoury over the top – Knorr chicken powder, if I had to guess. Heaven! Little did he know I’d still be thinking about it 15 years later. Estelle Tang

Cheddar, piccalilli and leek fritters
“Just had the greatest sandwich of my life!” That was the message I WhatsApped my wife in 2021 after visiting 40 Maltby Street near Tower Bridge in London. I plumped for cheddar and piccalilli on toasted focaccia, but the star – as is so often the case with an elite sandwich – was the crisp. In this case it came in the form of delicately battered leek fritters. I sat on a random park bench and spent 10 minutes experiencing nirvana. Tim Jonze

Crab with caper mayo
It was the brioche that did it. I’ve never seen the point before, but this airy, buttery roll was sublime. We were on a family holiday in Scotland last year and had stopped at Inveraray, beyond the jaw-dropping Rest and Be Thankful. Forget the view; I’m still dreaming about that lunch. Fresh white crab meat in a caper mayo dressing served in a savoury bun. The genius touch: a side of tortilla chips for crunch and spice. Anita Chaudhuri

Homemade steak-and-onion bun
One Thursday in 2024, my boyfriend told me he would be out for the evening – a rare occurrence, because he tends to be more of a homebody during the week. I decided to make myself a fancy sandwich for dinner: a (perfectly cooked) rump steak, onions (fried in a little sugar and balsamic vinegar), rocket and a (thinly sliced) juicy sun-ripened tomato on thickly sliced fluffy white bread. The sandwich was finished (slathered) with mayonnaise that I mixed with mustard, garlic and lemon. Louis Staples

Merguez and a parsley fried egg
I’ll wager that Italo, a charming little delicatessen in Bonnington Square, makes the best sandwiches in London. I still remember devouring this Levantine delight: merguez sausages, sumac red onions, tomato, cucumber and a parsley fried egg – lubricated with delicious, garlicky toum. Jason Okundaye

A delightful improvisation
My partner and I were in his camper van on the Yorkshire moors. In his fridge we had precisely: two carrots (grated), an avocado, a pot of hummus, and an ancient packet of mushrooms that emitted an inky substance when we fried them. We loaded up our baguettes and lacquered on about half a bottle of sriracha. I have no idea why this sandwich worked so well, but I still think about it – and the sheep that stared at us as we ate it – to this day. Abi Millar

The bánh mì I’d been waiting for
When it comes to the food expectant mothers are supposed to avoid, a traditional Vietnamese bánh mì thịt is packed with contraband: raw-egg mayonnaise, pâté, cold-cut meats, pre-cut salads. Of course, when pregnant, it was the food I craved the most. After a dramatic birth, my husband delivered the sandwich to my hospital bed. Watching the bánh mì crumbs fall in my lap as my newborn slept in his bassinet, I understood the meaning of delayed gratification. Yvonne C Lam

Catalonian jamón baguettes
1993. Barcelona. A stag weekend. Camp Nou for Barça v Atlético. A night of overindulgence; dire hangovers all round. The magical local remedy turned out to be a steady stream of “bocadillos” – palm-sized baguettes with jamón or chorizo or calamares or steak, etc; no butter, no salad, no relish – with cava accompaniment in a lively garage/lock-up at 8am. Heaven in my hands. Christophe Gowans

Tuna mayo on fresh-baked focaccia
One late morning, springtime in Charlton Park, south-east London, my husband ordered his bacon roll at the Old Cottage Coffee Shop Cafe. Not my normal time to eat but the sun was shining, friendly neighbours were out and about – I thought, why not. I selected the chewy and oily focaccia, fresh that morning and tangy with sea salt and rosemary. No butter, just tuna mayonnaise. Perfection. Especially as my husband paid. Martha Gowans

Thai-spiced Philly cheesesteak
As I took shelter from a blizzard during a brutally cold January trip to New York, the converted streetcar of Lower Manhattan’s Thai Diner was a balmy haven. It seemed to be filled exclusively with influencers filming their plates, but the Thai-spiced Philly cheesesteak made the place worthy of the hype. Packed with bird’s eye chillies, Thai basil and slices of tender beef all soaked in a mouthwatering cheese sauce, the soft sandwich was a steaming revelation. Ammar Kalia

Mortadella and mozzarella in Rome
July 2016. I had escaped the wreckage of a Brexit-vote-ravaged UK for Italy, determined to pledge my undying allegiance to Europe by eating my way through it. I still remember one world-redefining sandwich – two slices of gloriously oily focaccia, generously spiked with rosemary, filled with pale pink mortadella piled high in sculptural curves, fat rounds of mozzarella and sumptuous tomato slices. I gobbled it down inelegantly on a sunlit Roman street, each bite a religious experience. Eleanor Biggs

Mum’s ‘picnic loaf’
During a visit to my parents’ house in Devon in June 2021, my mum set my partner and me the task of making a “picnic loaf” from a recipe she had seen in a food magazine. Much like carving a pumpkin, it involved cutting out a little crusty lid from a round loaf of bread and hollowing out its centre. We smeared the inside with pesto and layered tomatoes, mozzarella and roasted vegetables inside before popping the lid back on and flattening the whole thing under a baking tray stacked with cans of beans. It was a ridiculous amount of effort, especially because we then carried the loaf, along with a bread knife and chopping board, to the top of one of Dartmoor’s tors. But sometimes it’s good to be ridiculous: you might just end up surrounded by beautiful scenery, taking a bite from a slice of a delicious giant sandwich. Lucy Knight

Bacon with chestnut stuffing
Early 1990s. Dispatched from the head office of the Express and Star newspaper in Wolverhampton to the magistrates court for a morning of reporting on everything the area’s minor criminals had to offer. Which was rich and varied. Next door was a greasy spoon cafe that specialised in bacon and stuffing sandwiches. The bacon, stacked in several layers, was crispy. The stuffing, chestnutty. The bread, white. The effect … heavenly. Nick Hopkins

A tale of Peter Rarebit
I just wanted to see Mr McGregor’s garden! On holiday in the Lake District a few years ago, we heard tell of the place where Beatrix Potter spent the summer, the place that inspired her to write her classics. My kid was obsessed with Peter Rabbit at the time, so it was a dead cert for a day trip. Lunch at the cafe was just an afterthought – one that I now think about all the time. At the lovely Lingholm Kitchen, I had the greatest toastie of my life: the Lingholm Rarebit. Perfectly crispy sourdough oozing with cheese and wodges of buttery, garlicky tarragon mushrooms. Life-changing. Kate Abbott

Chicken club unlike any other
I’ve spent an embarrassingly long time trying to work out what was in this defiantly non-standard chicken club, bought from the Squat and Gobble sandwich shop in London for an extravagant seven pounds back when a pint was only five. Chicken? An enormous amount. Bacon? None. Pesto and avocado? I think so. Mayonnaise? Absolutely lashings. Served on some sort of weird outsized flat bap, this sandwich was my comfort in hard times. Joel Snape

Hot conveyor-belt ham and cheese
There’s nothing more drab than a ham sandwich. Or so I thought, until I followed my high-school soccer teammates into a fast-casual spot called Potbelly – or Potbelly’s, as we’re wont to call it in Chicago – and took possession of a “hot” ham and cheese from an oven conveyor. The quality may have dipped since the shop went national, but that hasn’t stopped me from chasing the thrill of that first bite: sweet, flaky, faintly hickory. I’ve struggled to take cold sandwiches seriously ever since. Drew Lawrence

Chocolate sprinkles on a baguette
July 1992. I’m on the Costa Brava with my Dutch stepfamily. The heat is so ferocious my sister and I are ordered to have a siesta. Do we sleep? We do not. Still, our reward for staying in a locked room for two hours? A third of a baguette, salted butter and fridge-cold chocolate sprinkles – a version of the Dutch snack “hagelslag”. It was the last thing we needed in that heat, which of course made it all the more delicious. Morwenna Ferrier

Chicken schnitzel with pickled cucumbers
“Everything bagel” seasoning is seemingly everywhere right now, but Mondo Sando, in south London, using it as a crumb coating for crispy chicken thighs? Genius. Wedged between slabs of sourdough from next door’s Toad Bakery, the chicken meets the slick acidity of brined cucumbers, with a kale ranch dressing. Moist and magnificent, with extra points for extra pickles. Georgia Bisbas

Tuna mayo by a waterfall
A humble tuna mayo salad, on cheap brown bread, lives on in my memory. It was part of a picnic that was made for our family by the staff of our regular holiday resort in Muskoka, Canada; every summer we’d eat it by a picturesque waterfall. Each year the picnic was, pleasingly, exactly the same as the last. My tuna sandwich had far more cheap mayo than my mother would ever have put in, which I loved – and her relaxed happiness at not having to feed us kids herself, for once, made it extra delicious. Carrie O’Grady

BBQ mushrooms and coleslaw in a baguette
I spent my last birthday in Oaxaca, Mexico, and hit the mezcal pretty hard. The day after, I dragged myself to a veggie cafe. Since I turned vegan a few years ago, the only time I really struggle is when I’m hungover – plant-based food just doesn’t satisfy my cravings. The barbecue torta at Nanita was a glorious exception. I scoffed a whole bolillo (like a short, fat baguette) stuffed with sticky barbecue mushrooms, avocado and coleslaw. The side dish was just as good: roast potatoes topped with bean chilli and cheese. Sometimes triple-carbing is the only solution. Rachel Dixon

Cheese and brinjal pickle with red peppers
My dad was king of the eccentric, antisocial, fusion sandwich throughout my childhood. My favourite was always cheese and brinjal pickle with red peppers on wholemeal bread. Opening this in the lunch hall of my secondary school comprehensive in 1998 was always an interesting moment – surrounded by a sea of ham in white sliced, I could so easily have become the target of teasing. But he always included a little note, folded in between the bread and clingfilm. Sometimes it was a joke, sometimes a hand-drawn cartoon; on days when he woke up early there might even be a version of Lost Consonants, a pub quiz question, a poem. Somehow, this became a point of honour among my peers – and despite the smells and textures of my somewhat unconventional sandwiches, I pretty much avoided any harassment. I don’t know if the same could be said for my dad – who took his sandwiches to work on the building site every day in my old, pink Spice Girls lunchbox. Nell Frizzell

The ultimate smoked salmon
The clingfilm-wrapped sandwiches on the counter of the seafood hut near Oban’s ferry terminal may not look like much next to their trays of lobsters and langoustines – brown sliced, iceberg, a token squashed tomato – but my favourite is crammed so full of deliciously oily, home-smoked salmon that I once managed to eke it out all the way to Glasgow. Next time I’ll buy two. Felicity Cloake

Falafel with aubergine
On the first day of an interrailing trip when I was 18, I woke up in Paris to find I could not open my mouth: my jaw was locked. It was my first holiday abroad with friends, and amid the excitement, I must have been a little anxious, too. I remember rising panic and excruciating pain whenever I tried to force my mouth open, and a couple days spent largely subsisting off (admittedly excellent) torn-up croissants. This may have coloured my memory of the falafel sandwich I bought from an unassuming stall soon after my jaw unlocked. But it remains to this day, my best ever: tahini coating the herby green falafel, cucumber, tomato and – the winning element – grilled aubergine, nestled in a pillowy pita. Clea Skopeliti

Tuna with raw onion and avocado
I’ve always considered myself to be a dedicated sandwich hater – they’re too bland and boring to be my preferred lunch option. But that all changed when I bit into a tuna sandwich while on holiday in Alghero, Sardinia, with a friend. We were frazzled from walking in the sunshine and made a quick pit stop at an unassuming deli. To liven up the tuna, I went for raw onion, avocado, sun-dried tomatoes and a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil. The bread was chewy and pillowy soft, the tuna mix sweet and creamy – carb heaven. I went back the next day to eat it again. Ann Lee

Egg and cheese on an everything bagel
One of the first things I did when I arrived in New York for my six-month semester abroad was order a bagel. It was egg and cheese on an everything bagel, with generous layers of green lettuce and sliced beef tomato, from Murray’s Bagels in the West Village. One bite, and I was hooked. Four years later, I still try to recreate it at home, but it doesn’t quite hit the same when I’m not surrounded by yellow taxis and tenement buildings. Sinéad Campbell

Dutch goat’s cheese, honey and walnuts
There were eight of us in Amsterdam, all hungry, irritable and tired from too much Vermeer. We stumbled on a busy corner cafe serving bagels. I ordered one with rocket, goat’s cheese, honey and walnuts. Those last two ingredients blew my mind: the peppery rocket sweetened by the honey, a nice crumble of nuts. We sat by the canal in the sun and all felt 100% better. Hannah Booth

Cream cheese, anchovies and olives
Back in the, ahem, last century, I was a waitress in a small independent cafe called Upper Crust, way out in the ’burbs of greater London. One lunchtime someone came in and ordered – slightly off-piste from the menu – cream cheese, anchovies, chopped olives and chilli flakes. It sounded like it came straight off a hostess trolley in a 70s sitcom, but later that day I knocked one up for myself and it hit the spot. Years later, that salty-sour-spicy combo still does it for me. Mel Bradman

Egg mayo with vinegar and anchovies
I’d long accepted the egg mayo as a dowdy workhorse of a sandwich – until discovering its apex form at Paul Rothe & Son, Marylebone, London, a retro idyll of a cafe-deli. The fundamentals of bloomer bread and homogenous egg mayo mix remained, but the addition of vinegar and anchovies was revelatory: a zesty, umami hit that felt like a light switching on after a lifetime of fridge-cold supermarket pap. From there, it was down the rabbit hole; zealously perfecting the homemade version (malt vinegar, always) and a pilgrimage to a famous egg sando vending machine in Tokyo’s Sumida City, wolfing five in a row in Kewpie-soaked ecstasy. Thomas Howells

Fresh crab meat on brown
It’s March, it’s raining and the mist in Little Haven, Pembrokeshire, is clinging to my skin like glue. I can’t remember when I was last properly dry. But I’m sat on a rock, my hood up, the seaweed waving in the shallow water below me, and on my lap is a sandwich. Brown bread, a slather of salty butter, and crabmeat so fresh I almost feel sorry for the little fella I’m chewing on – he was probably scuttling around this bay just hours ago. But that view and that sandwich are divine. Jenny Stevens

A falafel that had it all
After a gruelling final university exam in Leeds, I walked out more relieved than excited, looking for something to mark the end of it. I cut straight through Leeds city centre to Falafel Guys in Northern Market. They handed over a wrap so full it barely held together: three types of hummus – earthy black, beetroot, and a smooth classic – layered with sweet chilli, tahini, pickles and perfectly crisp falafel. Most falafel wraps blur into one; this had contrast and texture. Sundus Abdi

Full English in a bap
I’ve eaten famous sandwiches all over the world. I worked at London’s best deli (Monty’s, RIP) for a time, where I made more than my fair share, too. But my favourite, ever, came from Helen’s Pantry in Rhyl, Wales, in the late 90s. A full English in a bap: sausage, bacon, egg, mushroom, beans, black pudding on a soft white roll roughly the size of a bin lid. You had to eat it before the bean juice undid the integrity of the bread (not a problem). And it cost £2.30! Admittedly, it was the sort of thing you had to ration – I had a rule not to eat one between January and October, but would count down the months till I could have another. It’s been more than 25 years since I had one (or anyone else for that matter; Helen’s is long closed down), but I can still remember how it tasted. I could make my own, but it would never be as good, dripping in nostalgia, bacon grease and red sauce. Andy Welch

A succulent vegetarian bánh mì
The problem with bánh mì is that they are either too sweet (see the sticky doorstops from New York chain Lucy’s) or too dry (such as Chinatown’s Bánh Mì Cô Út). In my opinion, the V-Nam Cafe in New York’s East Village has perfected the combination of crunch, sweetness, and deep umami in their veggie bánh mì. With zippy marinated carrot, earthy coriander and soy protein that is – I promise – truly succulent, the sandwich walks right up to nap-on-a-plate territory but somehow never gets there, making it the perfect pit stop on an unforgiving errand day. Owen Myers

Cheese toastie, Breville-style
A Breville toastie was my go-to on Saturday lunch breaks from my job at a newsagent. It was as technologically advanced as a sandwich got in the mid-1980s. The Breville crimped bog-standard slices of bread into a toasted, sealed pouch as hard as a cardboard envelope. Inside was pure molten cheese. I’ve eaten a lot of toasties since, but nothing compares. Paula Cocozza

Chicken, pickles and soy sauce in Beirut
The Francisco sandwich represented fun and freedom. Chicken, cucumber-pickles, romaine lettuce, sweetcorn, mozzarella, mayo and, crucially, soy sauce – all served in a soft thump of submarine bread. Sour and sweet jostled and mingled, while the thick, Blu-Tack-like mozzarrella added heft. It was the work of Barbar, a 24-hour neon-blazing garlic-scented casino of an eatery that first opened in Beirut in 1979. I was living in a flat that was sandwiched quite literally between two branches: I could grab one on my way out, I could grab one on my way home. They were, in a way, a lodestar early on: when my shaky Arabic wasn’t up to directing a cab to my door, I could say “to Barbar Hamra” or “to Barbar Spears please”. From there I could find my own way home, Francisco in hand. Ellie Violet Bramley

An airport cream cheese bagel
In January 2007 I had a toasted bagel with cream cheese in Chicago airport. The bagel itself wasn’t especially memorable – warm? ample filling? – but what made it spectacular was being so hungry beforehand. I was on the way home from the Sundance film festival and somehow hadn’t eaten for a day or two. I’ll never forget the total heaven of that bread and dairy hit. Recreating the bagel wouldn’t be too tricky; repeating the fast would be the challenge. Catherine Shoard

Muffuletta with everything
Ten years ago a reader suggested I try out her take on a New Orleans icon: the muffuletta. It’s traditionally made in a Sicilian sesame bread, but she said “sturdy”, so I used a sourdough boule. You slice the top off, hollow it out and pack it with layers of deli treats: tapenade or pesto, rocket, capers, all the olives, cheese (provolone, but also cheddar or goat’s cheese), cold meats (salami, ham, mortadella), pickles (giardiniera, sure, but imagine this with kimchi), lots of mayo. She said to add fried pancetta and grated beetroot – I wasn’t complaining. Once it’s full you put the lid back on, wrap it up tight and weigh it down with something heavy overnight. Dale Berning Sawa

Emmenthal salad baguette on the beach
We’re in our 20s living our best life on a beach campsite near Biarritz in the 90s – surfing or body-boarding by day, drinking beers with pizza slices and olives (my first time trying them) by the campfire by night. Exhausted after a morning of battling powerful waves (a lifeguard had to rescue me from a riptide on the last day), we queue at a beach cabin to buy fresh, crusty baguettes filled with crisp green lettuce tossed in creamy, mustardy, peppery vinaigrette dressing, and slices of Emmenthal cheese or eggs – or both! – finished off with a generous slick of mayonnaise. Devoured with a cone of fresh salty fries, and washed down with a can of Coke, with the wind in my hair and joy in my heart, this was heaven (or heart attack!) in a baguette. Jane Richards

Crisps in a white roll
To truly enjoy a crisp sandwich, you have to feel you deserve it – or at least make a mental deal to have broccoli for dinner. On this day, when I really deserved it, I planned it – soft, doughy white roll from the organic bakery, and slices of fancy French butter, cradling supermarket own-brand salt and vinegar crisps. It cost less than £1, but it tasted of priceless luxury. Emine Saner

Ground lamb, tzatziki and mint
Back in 2007, when I was a pale and mainly drunk 19-year-old, I worked in a sandwich shop in Lower Manhattan called Swich. They sold something called a Trojan Horse: ground lamb, tomato, tzatziki and fresh mint on a pressed rosemary focaccia panini. Life has improved since then. But no other sandwich has come close. Eli Block

A forbidden chip sandwich
The best – as in, most romanticised – sandwich I ever had was a chip butty that I ate at my school friend Doug’s house in the early 2000s. I must have been a sheltered child because I didn’t know a chip sandwich was allowed, morally. Like eating Nutella with your hands. The wild west. Any reconstructions since have been failures. They all taste delicious because that’s what chips are, but I’ve never recreated the ideal texture of that first one: the squish of the supermarket bread against perfectly cooked oven chips with salt and vinegar. Alfie Packham

Tuna melt in a New England diner
I didn’t even order this sandwich: it was my friend Tom’s choice at the venerable Palace Diner, a 15-cover counter housed in an old-fashioned Pollard dining car in Biddeford, Maine. I stared at his lunch so long that he offered me a bite. It was even better than it looked, the briny, piquant tuna cutting through the richness of the oozing cheese and the buttery chollah perfectly, with a thick layer of cool iceberg adding texture. I found myself shaking my head in bewilderment at its magnificent, indulgent simplicity. Vincent Forrester

A cheese toastie complete with teeth marks
Interrailing around Europe at 16, we’d temporarily run out of food and money. Not my proudest moment – but certainly my tastiest – I yoinked a half-eaten cheese and tomato toasted sandwich from the restaurant carriage. Squeaky European cheese, freshly sliced buffalo tomatoes, and teeth marks in the crispy white bread – I quickly scoffed it without offering to split it with my equally starving friends. Rich Pelley

Thai-spiced sausage with eggs and ketchup
I’d lived in Singapore long enough to get used to a spicy breakfast. So one morning at Thai-American diner Chet’s in Shepherd’s Bush, London, I ordered the bodega sandwich – a Chiang Mai redo of the New York classic carrying the sort of capsaicin threat that would normally seem irresponsible before noon. Split in half and wrapped in deli paper, it had a glorious tension: an aggressively savoury sai ua sausage wrapped in molten eggs and a sturdy kaiser roll, with a small side of doubly punchy umami ketchup. It was so good I sat in quiet reverence, with that odd mix of awe and sorrow that comes with reaching any kind of peak. Alex Barlow

Roast chicken with watercress and tarragon sauce
Recently we made sandwiches for a Sunday walk in Dorset, from the previous night’s leftover roast chicken. A dollop of creamy tarragon sauce as a mayonnaise substitute, watercress, slices of thick, buttered white bread – that’s all it needed. We ate them in a stylish bird hide we stumbled on that would have looked at home in a Scandinavian design magazine, with a fine view across Poole harbour. Steve Rose