Halloumi and Roasted Vegetables
Thick halloumi seared until it squeaks and golds, laid against hard-roasted courgette, aubergine and peppers on ciabatta: a salty cheese made edible across a whole sandwich by sweet charred veg.
Journey into the delicious depth of our Submarine Sandwiches category! This is your one-stop guide for understanding the fascinating world of subs. From the rich history of this sandwich classic to regional variations, we explore the length and breadth of flavor-packed creations. Whether you're a fan of traditional Italian Subs or you love to experiment with gourmet twists, we've got you covered. Dive into our recipes, tips, and tricks, and prepare to submerge your taste buds in flavor!
Thick halloumi seared until it squeaks and golds, laid against hard-roasted courgette, aubergine and peppers on ciabatta: a salty cheese made edible across a whole sandwich by sweet charred veg.
The haggis supper roll packs the chip shop's battered, deep-fried haggis into a soft morning roll, a brittle fried shell on spiced offal pudding eaten on the walk home.
Hot crumbled sheep's pluck, oatmeal, suet, and pepper pressed into a soft Scottish morning roll before the suet sets, with no sauce arguing back.
The full Burns Supper plate compressed into one Scottish morning roll: tatties against the bread, haggis warm in the middle, drained neeps on top, no sauce.
Salt-and-sugar-and-dill-cured raw salmon, never smoked, sliced thin onto buttered Nordic rye with Swedish hovmästarsås mustard-dill sauce; the medieval Bothnian-coast cure named for the burial pit.
The umbrella of the British goat's-cheese cluster: chèvre is one bright chalky-sour note, so the sandwich is really the question of which sweet or earthy partner you set against it.
The British high-street goat's cheese sandwich reads on a sweet allium cooked to a jam. Chevre's grassy tang wants a sweet-savoury foil, and the jarred onion marmalade of 1999 made it a year-round.
Soft fresh goat's cheese smeared to the crusts of seeded granary, deep-pink roasted or vinegar-sharp pickled beetroot in coins over it, the white running crimson at every contact point.
A Welsh vegetarian sausage of grated Caerphilly, leek, breadcrumb and egg, bound and fried, slid into a buttered roll. Lady Llanover printed it in 1867; George Borrow caught it earlier.
The Patum Peperium anchovy sandwich, where the whole craft is dosing the loudest paste on the English shelf down to a faint film over butter, cut small for the tea tray.
A cured pork hind-leg steak grilled until the fat blisters and folded into buttered white: the gammon sandwich eats like a small salty chop in bread, the pub carvery plate stripped down.
Grilled gammon steak with pineapple in soft white bread: the fruit's sugar and acid cutting a wall of cure, the cafe leftover of the 1970s gammon-steak-and-pineapple plate.
A bare slice of Spam left still on a hot dry pan builds a deep caramelised face over a soft middle, no batter anywhere, closed warm in buttered bread with a sharp sauce to cut it.
A scrape of strong potted fish paste on lightly buttered bread: the Victorian preserve that kept fish in a cupboard for months, salted so hard the discipline is using almost none.
Built on a product with a launch year: a brittle-crumbed breaded fish finger, and a soft loaf, butter, and sauce all arranged to protect that crumb for the four bites it survives.
The word butty does the describing: buttered white bread, a row of hot fish fingers, no fuss and no plate. The fish-finger form said in its plainest, fastest register.
Tartare turns the nursery fish finger adult: a hot crisp coating against soft buttered bread, capers and lemon cutting the fried oil from inside. A 1955 Birds Eye baton, a sauce older by a century.
The fish-finger-and-mushy-peas sandwich uses stiff marrowfat peas as a bed that grips the breaded fingers in place, chip-shop logic moved between two soft white slices.
Choosing ketchup over tartare picks a whole sandwich: sugar up front, vinegar on the finish, a body that clings, keeping the breaded fish in its sweet, plain, childhood register on purpose.
The melted-cheese fish-finger sandwich is the comfort reading: cheddar run over the hot fingers welds four loose batons into one bound slab, the second trip to the grill the ketchup and tartare.
A breadcrumbed disc of white fish and mash, deep-fried and tucked into a floured bap with tartare. Ask in Sheffield, though, and you get a slice of fish between two potato slices in batter.
A fish butty is the chip shop's own battered fillet put plainly between soft buttered bread: the seated, plated fish portion turned back into something you carry and eat in both hands.
A fish barm is the chip shop's whole window in one hand: a battered fryer fillet, often with chips, peas and scraps, folded into the soft floured roll of Wigan and Lancashire.