It goes down like the devil in leather trousers. Soft, oozy, all butter and cheese held in the warming embrace of toast the colour of David Dickinson’s tan. It has probably taken about a week off my life expectancy but it’s worth it – for there is no finer food in Christendom than the cheese toastie. And it is not just me who thinks so. Ask the good people at Greggs, traditionally purveyors of pasty and pork. The star of the new menu is the cheese and honey mustard toastie.
The toastie is a familiar friend. It can be posh, it can be cheap. You can pay £12.50 at the Wigmore in central London – if you are crackers – or make it at home for about 20p. You are a saviour when I still need something warm. You can be béchamelled and truffled, you can be made of gruyère and, at Borough Market’s Kappacasein, you might be Ogleshield, the West Country’s answer to raclette. You can be American cheese, flimsy, plastic and with all the depth of a penny. You can be adorned with gherkins and pickles and scattered with alliums of every variety. You can cuddle shallots and take on leeks. You can be married to Marmite and have an affair with stilton.
