The first time I had a butty it was on Thanksgiving at the Mayflower in San Rafael. I was surrounded by sweaty, grown men who'd woken up early to go play soccer on a damp field. They were muddy, tired, getting drunk, and very happy. Football--the real kind with the ball that rolls on the ground--was on the telly and some old guy was about to sing pub songs. I felt like the only non-Brit in the place. Which I probably was.
Just when I thought we'd all be blitzed by noon, out came a cherub-faced lady with a platter of sandwiches. They were passed around and I sunk my choppers into it, expecting turkey (it *was* Thanksgiving, afterall).
Instead, it was a dry, dry sandwich. Drrrryyyyyyy. Half-stale white bread, a thin spread of butter, and some really thick steak fries. It needed salt, mayo, pepper, ham, tomato and lettuce to make it palatable. All I had was half a pint of Newcastle. I was starving, so I downed it as I ate.
And wouldn't you know it, by the bottom of that pint, the Chip Butty became the best thing in the world. I wanted to chase that lady down for more. And I look forward to the powder-dry Chip Butty now every year.
In my current pregnant state, a bacon butty sounds even better. Or a bacon sarnie, perfectly made with just the right bread. Focaccia? Dutch crunch? Sourdough!
Of course, there's no place around here that will grill me up a bacon butty for lunch. I wonder if anyone in the office would mind if I cooked me up some bacon in our kitchen?