The Sandwich Shop by Ed Cumming

“Where shall we go?”

“Well, there’s this place I love called Max’s?”

“Sounds great. What does it do?”

“Sandwiches.”

“Sandwiches?”

“Yeah.”

“Like, stuff in bread?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.”

Except, it is and it isn’t. This little wood-panelled room at the top of Stroud Green Road might look like the bridge of an old ship, or an Alp-top chalet diner, but in its reinvention of the most staple of staples, the Great British sandwich, it has a revolutionary spirit.

Almost always the man is there himself, doling out London’s warmest welcomes, guiding newcomers through his vision. Almost always he will be dressed in shorts and a polo shirt, which give him the aspect of a piratical surfer. But in his bloody-minded quest for perfection, Max is closer to one of those Japanese ceramicists who spend 60 years spinning plain white bowls.