Home is the sambo, home from the pub

In the family pub through childhood and my early teens, sandwich making duty was a daily chore.

The bread came in catering size white sliced pans. The fillings were thin cut on a silver electric slicer, either of orange-crumbed hams delivered by a van man from McCarrens in Limerick, or from catering-sized blocks of Galtee cheese that came in softwood boxes.

It was simple fare. The square bread smeared corner to corner with butter slightly melted to make the job more efficient. A slap of ham or cheese, the ham slice usually larger than the bread, hanging out the sides.

The sandwiches were stored inside glass cabinets on the bar counter, pan heels put on top of the stacks to stop the bread underneath from curling. That wasn't a real danger — the three buses that came through each morning would have enough hungry passengers to clean out supplies before lunch. The job was a recurring one for the evening buses coming back.

On occasions like the Punchestown Races it was 'all hands' the night before. Family and staff making many multiples of the normal requirements. The sandwiches were repacked in the pan wrappers to keep them fresh overnight. Almost everyone on their way through Kilcullen stopped at The Hideout for nourishment before the afternoon's contest with the turf accountants. Those who took their sandwiches away got them in small greaseproof paper bags, sealed by holding the top corners and swinging bag and contents through two or three loops.

Even after the Hideout became famous for more sophisticated fare, grilled steaks and pork chops, freshly cut chips sizzled in a deep fryer, the ham sandwich remained a true staple. In subsequent years, when motoring the roads myself, other places offered the same simple but essential fare for roadgoers. The original Red Cow pub, for instance. The final option to stop before leaving Dublin proper, they had a particularly good ham sambo that went very well with a Club Cola — the pub was a last stand against the more expensive Coca Cola import. In Morrisseys of Abbeyleix the proprietor would slice the ham or cheese and make the sandwich up fresh. The Black Horse in Inchicore did a rare good one too. Some places used home-cooked ham. But that could be dodgy, sometimes cut too thick and with annoying chunks of fat. The 'real' ham sandwich was always made with commercial pressed hams.

Most small rural pubs didn't officially do sandwiches. But if someone came along around lunchtime and asked, the barperson might happily go next door to the grocer for the ingredients. It was even easier if, as was often enough the case, the pub and grocery were part of the same business.

What prompted this recent meander through memory is the realisation that, as far as I know, there's no pub in Kilcullen any more where one can get a simple ham sandwich. Either they're into the full restaurant business or the Bill of Fare stops at crisps and peanuts. Those that provide bar food offer exotic concepts like paninis, with rabbit food trimmings. The ordinary sandwich, plain or toasted, is unavailable.

In Fallons, you can get a ham 'sandwich' at lunchtime, up to 3pm. But though tasty, it's of the fancy 'open' kind. Doesn't qualify at all for what the Earl of Sandwich is supposed to have invented. It's the kind of food you have to attack with a knife and fork. Doesn't have the form that you can lift with two hands and chomp. It certainly wouldn't survive a swing in a greaseproof bag ...

Next door in McTernans, the situation is simple. Only crisps and peanuts. Fair enough, though it wasn't how Joe used to do things. In Bardons, you get plates of sandwiches gratis on some occasions, and just recently there are available from a new bar food menu what are hopeful sounding 'doorstep' sandwiches. But only until 3pm. Billy Dowling in The Spout isn't in the food business either. But nobody expects it. It's a sports pub where screens and access to Ladbrokes are the important things. Then there's the Hideout, where this all started. You can get a sambo at lunchtime, until the Coffee 'n Cakes section closes at 3pm. After that though, it's either the starter or the full meal.

For most of us looking for parallel nourishment as we down our quota of pints or wine, a simple food option is all we want. No chips. Nor even 'french fries'. No chicken wings. No lasangne starters. Just two slices of buttered plain bread with a filling of choice. Preferably not with a handful of crisps. A bottle of Chef brown sauce, or a dollop of English mustard, a welcome bonus.

There's a national worry about overweight. Amongst us in the drinking class, I blame this on the necessity to eat more than we want, because what we want isn't available. Makes too often for a fat-focused side-trip to the take-away on the journey home.

The local pub that could give me the ham 'sanger' on demand that I remember is the one that would get pretty well all of my business these days. Meantime I keep a slab of cheese at home in my fridge, along with a quarter pound of sliced ham, and the plain pan in the bread-bin.