Max's Sandwich Shop, N4
Sandwiches, but not as we know them
You can learn a lot about a sandwich by where it's from. A European sandwich is typically austere — crusty bread, a bit of ham or cheese, butter if you’re lucky. In the US it’s more likely to be piled high, deli meat stacked like an architectural exercise. The idealised British sandwich comes in thick cut slabs from a tin loaf, a couple of primary fillings bolstered by chutney, mustard, or some other crucial condiment.
The sandwiches at Max’s Sandwich Shop could never be accused of austerity; not only are they constructed with weight and heft, but the laundry list of fillings is the antithesis of a humble jambon beurre. But these aren’t American either; if salami, mortadella, or gabagool have ever crossed the threshold here it’s never been on any of my visits. And yes, these are made by a Brit in Britain, but I’m not sure you could really say that there’s anything quintessentially British about slapping a load of lasagne between two slices of bread.
Max’s sandwiches are, well, Max’s. And I wouldn't have them any other way.
It starts with the venue. His small bar-cum-café by Crouch Hill station is cramped and eclectic, wooden tables crammed together and surrounded by action figures, porcelain ducks, and a decade’s worth of other detritus that clearly tickles founder Max Halley’s rather specific sense of humour.
You won’t see many plates while you’re there either. Whether you eat in or take away, sandwiches are delivered in neatly packaged bundles of brown paper, not-so-little presents for you to greedily unwrap. This feels at once a touch of flair, an effort to avoid washing up, and an acknowledgement that these doorstop sandwiches don’t always get finished in one go.
Then there are the hours. Max’s is the only sandwich shop I’ve ever found that’s open more often for dinner than lunch, the latter running just three days a week. Even the Friday lunchtime option is a relatively recent concession; at launch the only days he opened before 6pm were the weekend, giving a simple enough explanation for the choice: he didn’t want to have to come in at 8am to bake the bread.
The evening sandwich still feels a little like perversion, but by bolstering the menu with cocktails and something threateningly called a ‘negroni shot’, Max has made it work. The most mentioned term across the shop’s 1,042 Google Maps reviews is currently ‘beer’, which is both a testament to the buzzy late-night atmosphere and just one more thing that you could only really say about Max’s.
I suppose I should actually talk about sandwiches eventually. The menu is short, four or five options at a time, with only one that’s ever-present: the ham, egg, ‘n’ chips. The greasy spoon classic is reinvented here as slow-cooked ham hock, topped with a fried egg, piccalilli, and malt vinegar mayo. The true touch of genius is resisting the temptation to turn this into a protein-packed chip butty, instead swapping the chips for the shoestringiest of shoestring fries, hair-thin strands of potato ready to shatter at the slightest invitation.
It’s this touch that betrays the deep thought that goes into the construction of every sandwich for sale here. Whether you order a ‘Tikkanother Piece of my Heart’ or ‘This Is How We Spring Roll’ (remember that specific sense of humour I mentioned?), you can be guaranteed that some laws of sandwich construction have been followed.
The bread itself is soft but thick, in shape adjacent to focaccia but with the dense crumb of a good tin loaf, and kept lightly salted and seasoned to serve as a neutral base for whatever goes inside. The heart of the filling will be something tender, meat braised or poached, vegetables steamed soft. There’ll be something saucy to moisten the bread, and something sharp and acidic to cut through it — occasionally one and the same.
And there will always, and I mean always, be something that crunches. It might be shards of fresh spring roll or samosa pastry, chunky croutons, or even deep-fried macaroni, but some element of the sandwich is guaranteed to hark back to the age-old British tradition of tearing open a packet of crisps and stuffing a fistful just below the top piece of bread. It’s a touch of textural variation you won’t find elsewhere except for the crunch of a truly crusty baguette, and really the only consistent giveaway that an Englishman was involved.
The sides are almost as impressive as the sandwiches, which is saying something. Deep-fried jalapeño mac-and-cheese balls are the staple side, a couple bites worth of warmly spiced comfort, while I have it on good authority that the chicken wings are an unexpected strength — they just never seem to be on when I’m in.
I’ll admit that there’s something that seems inherently English about pairing a pork sausage with a generous dollop of marmalade, but if it’s a deep-rooted culinary tradition of ours then it’s one that’s passed me by. That’s not to say it doesn’t work though; the bittersweet hit of orange conserve proves a remarkably effective foil for the savoury sausage.
In a way, it’s a pretty perfect microcosm of the menu here. Something that sounds a little odd but feels a little familiar, something you wouldn’t find anywhere else but assembled here with care, precision, and a fundamental awareness of just what makes food — and especially the food you find between two hunks of pillowy bread — work in harmony, the varieties in textures, and flavours, and temperatures that elevate the ordinary.
These aren’t American sandwiches, or European ones, or even especially British. They’re not sandwiches as I would ever make them at home, nor are they the sandwiches you’ll find in supermarkets, chain cafés, or even the capital’s bougiest bakeries.
They’re Max’s sandwiches, and there’s simply nowhere you’ll find their like outside of Max’s Sandwich Shop.