Three slices of toast, two fillings, four cocktail sticks and a serrated knife. The order of the layers is what stops the whole thing sliding apart.
Named from the ingredients as written, including those carried in from sub-recipes. This is not a guarantee — check the labels on what you actually buy, and note that a product’s recipe can change.
Grill or fry the bacon until properly crisp and drain it on a rack.
Lay the tomato slices on kitchen paper and salt them lightly. Ten minutes draws out enough water to keep it from flooding the bread.
Toast all six slices of bread and butter them while hot, to the very edges. The butter is a waterproof layer as much as a flavour, and an unbuttered corner is where the sandwich goes soft first.
Mix the mayonnaise and mustard.
Spread mayonnaise on the first slice and lay on the chicken, then lettuce.
Put the second slice on top and spread mayonnaise on its upper face.
Lay on the bacon and then the drained tomato.
Wet things go against toast and dry things against the middle slice. Tomato directly on an unprotected slice is how the middle layer collapses.
Top with the third slice, buttered side down, and press the whole thing down firmly with your palm for a few seconds.
Push a cocktail stick down through each quarter, about 2cm in from the corner.
Cut diagonally into four triangles with a serrated knife, using a sawing motion and no downward pressure. Pressing down squeezes the fillings out of the sides.
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Salt from the bacon, richness from the mayonnaise, and the mild sweetness of tomato and chicken behind them. It is a sandwich that works by contrast rather than by any single strong flavour.
Bacon and hot toast.
The point of the third slice: crisp toast, soft filling, crisp toast, soft filling, crisp toast. Bacon that shatters and lettuce that snaps.
The first bite, if the bacon and toast are right.
Salt first, then fat, then a cool sweet finish from the tomato.
Warm toast and hot bacon against cold chicken and tomato.
Crisps, chips, or a few cornichons. Tea, or a cold beer.
Beginner. It is an assembly problem rather than a cooking one.
Low, and a good use of leftover roast chicken.
A grill or frying pan, a serrated knife and four cocktail sticks.
Lunch, or after a roast.
The tomato is the only thing that has a season, and in winter it is worth leaving out rather than using a poor one.
The bacon should be evenly brown and rigid rather than floppy — soft bacon in a club sandwich pulls out in one strip at the first bite.
Each quarter should hold together when picked up. If it slumps, the cocktail sticks are in the wrong place or the tomato was not drained.
If using leftover chicken, it should have been cooled quickly and refrigerated, and used within two days. Nothing else unusual.
Sliding apart: the sticks are too far from the corners; put them about 2cm in. Soggy: the tomato. Difficult to eat: it is too tall — use medium-sliced bread rather than thick.
None of it. This is a sandwich that is worse after five minutes.
None. It is made and eaten.
No.
No.
None by design.
Scales linearly with no complications.
Turkey is at least as traditional as chicken and is the classic American version. Leftover roast chicken is better than a packet of sliced. Sourdough works but the sandwich is easier to eat on soft white.
Contains gluten, plus eggs, mustard and sulphites from the mayonnaise. Dairy free if the butter is left out, at some cost to structure. Nut free.
Dry-cured streaky bacon crisps better than wet-cured, which releases water into the pan.
Made with leftover roast chicken it costs almost nothing.
Chicken and pork are the two lower-footprint meats, and the quantities here are modest. The most useful thing about this sandwich is that it is a leftovers dish by design — a club made from Sunday's roast is a use for meat that would otherwise be forgotten in the fridge, and using what is already cooked is a larger saving than any substitution.
Substantial. The mayonnaise and bacon carry the fat.
Drain the tomato and put the lettuce in the right place. Two decisions and the sandwich holds.
The United States, 1890s.
Club sandwich, or clubhouse sandwich.
Straightforward.
Almost certainly from the private clubs where it was served, though this is inference rather than documentation.
Recipes and mentions appear in American newspapers from the 1890s, and the sandwich becomes a hotel and railway dining staple through the early twentieth century. The double-decker construction with a third slice is present from the beginning and is the defining feature; the specific fillings have moved around, with turkey and chicken both long-standing.
The default hotel room-service sandwich worldwide, and one of the few dishes whose form is recognisable in every country that serves it.
Lunch, late-night hotel food, and a good use of Sunday's leftover chicken.
Toasted bread, layered fillings, secured with sticks and cut into quarters.
Very little, which is unusual. Fried egg and avocado are the main modern additions.
Turkey in most American versions; a fried egg is standard in parts of Europe and South America.
Nothing unorthodox — the layering order and the drained tomato are stated as steps because they are what determines whether it holds together, and most recipes leave them to chance.
None reliable.