Sign up for the Hot Topics newsletter for hot style and sex tips
Thank you for subscribing!
Sign up for the Hot Topics newsletter for hot style and sex tips
We have more newsletters
Oh I do love a sandwich.
Don't we all in the UK? There's the nostalgia of unwrapping a slightly squished sarnie from the tin foil your parent had so lovingly, or haphazardly in some cases, made before your day at primary school.
And there's the momentary relief of getting out of the office to scran a BLT Tesco meal deal on your work lunch break.
READ MORE: 'I splashed £28 on Harrods sandwich but was forced to eat outside with pigeons watching'
Check out more Exclusive stories here
The simplicity of the sandwich provides solace whether you've been scrapping on the playground or crawling through to your break at the 9-5 slog. But one filling that never made it from shelf, to cupboard to lunchbox in my household was corned beef – the tinned relic of rationing.
For me, corned beef belongs in an era way before I was born. Even my mother grimaced at any mention of corned beef, and that comes from someone who puts ketchup on their roast dinner.
So that means I know corned beef MUST be bad. Therefore, I've avoided trying it so far in my life.
But, when I'm away I force myself to try the local cuisine so it would be out of character if I, a British person, didn't try one of the UK's defining sandwich fillings. If I can shove a grilled octopus tentacle in my mouth, then I'm sure I can handle some tinned meat, right?
I went to a greasy spoon café to give the processed meat between two slices of a white a go. But will I be a corned convert or concussed at the thought at what I've just shoved in my mouth?
Well, I'm not going to beat around the bush. It's safe to say that I haven't been missing out in my 24 years of corned beef abstinence.
The corned beef sandwich isn't gourmet and doesn't pretend to be – and thank goodness because I wouldn't be breaking the bank for one, even if it came with avocado or a sprinkling of rocket.
It was like a Bounty but in meat form. Chewy, bitty and the worse option out of everything else possibly available.
The corned – or salted – beef has a gritty like consistency which I reckon isn't too far from on old boot. I soon found my teeth playing tug of war with the sarnie, a game I did not want to be part of.
Can 'grittiness' be a taste? As that's the only way I feel like can describe it with my bank of sandwich connoisseur vocabulary. Despite having never chomped on a kangaroo's b***ock nor feasted on a Witchetty grub, I can only assume that they are the bush equivalent to a corned beef sarnie.
The texture made me feel like I was trying to win 10 stars for my campmates. After two mouthfuls, I realised that no one was going hungry on chickpeas and rice if I didn't finish it so I happily put the rest of the sandwich down.
Get all the biggest Lifestyle news straight to your inbox. Sign up for the free Daily Star Hot Topics newsletter
Will I be eating a corned beef sandwich again? Certainly not. The existence of it reminds me of my grandparents who loved a sarnie, so corned beef can a fragment of a cosy memory.
I exercised my 24 years worth of curiosity toward the corned beef sandwich, but that same curiosity made me feel like a contestant on I'm a Celeb. The bread and butter part was fine, the tinned meat part will never win me over.
Curiosity killed the cat, but in this case, curiosity has tarnished my taste buds. As always, give me a cheese and Billy Bear ham sandwich please. I know that won't hurt me, or my stomach.
- Exclusives
- Food
Source: Read Full Article
