Who moved my chicken sandwich?

Ignoring all those sermons and self-help books that insist we all accept ‘change as the only constant’ and that go on to urge us to briskly move on with life and not whine ‘nothing remains the same’, some of us choose to, in fact, whimper piteously. No we are not nostalgia junkies, or status quoists stuck in some long-evaporated past. And of course we’re doing our bit to remain nimble, flexible and embracing of change and all that, just like gurus of all hues suggest. However, there are a few small fronts on which we really wish there would be some constancy and continuity with the past.
Take the simple chicken sandwich. Time was, when any little eatery that had chicken sandwich on the menu, would make it like so: soft flakes of cooked chicken, a dash of salt and pepper, well buttered bread, perhaps a smidgeon of mustard. That’s it. Wafer-thin sandwiches made of the freshest of breads (white, not some health-obsessed brown), and of course, the crusts trimmed off. You could wolf down four little triangles before anyone said tandoori chicken.
And there lies the problem; that national bird, the tandoori chicken. We don’t know when this happened, but the very western or anglo-Indian chicken sandwich has been virtually knocked off its roost by the crowingof louder, more colourful, and brasher desi versions. So today, when you ask for a chicken sandwich, you are more than likely to get nothing remotely like the subtle version of yester-year. You’re bound to get a chicken tikka or tandoori mushed up and crammed generously into two slices of bread, with some onions and coriander thrown in for good measure, maybe some lettuce for a pseudo-continental effect, but more likely strips of capsicum (green peppers). And then the whole is dusted with that thing that would make the Earl of Sandwich’s toes curl: ‘sandwich masala’. Guaranteed to make anything that looks like a sandwich, actually taste like a round of Chowpatty chaat instead.
Commonguys! We know India is the flavour of this decade all around the world, and that we’re putting our unique stamp on everything from food to music to movies to fashion and all. But please, can we go easy, and perhaps leave some foods unmolested by desi overdrive?
To add insult to injury, these brave new chicken sandwiches are heavily toasted/grilled, served with potato wafers/chips (which are themselves packed in every groove with some ‘chatpata masala’ type thing), and lashings of tomato sauce. Too much crunch, too much colour and too much mara-mari of flavours. Some may like it – but please, let’s not call it a chicken sandwich. Let’s think of a host of other names, that will signal to people like us, that what we are going to be served will be filling alright; and flavourful for sure; but not, the original chicken sandwich. A word of warning: several places now will even serve you something that looks and tastes suspiciously like someone picked boneless pieces out of a chicken curry, laid them out indifferently on a couple of slices of bread, and plonked it down in front of you. Now that’s not a bad sandwich to rustle up if you have left over chicken curry, but hello, it’s not the real thing.
How then to lay hands (and sink teeth) into the perfect chicken sandwich, outside of exclusive clubs and several-starred hotels? If you live in Mumbai, you could wend your way to Kayani (opposite Metro Theatre) where you will get a good version (and a superb mutton sandwich too, but the rapid vanishing of that star of sandwiches is another story). In Kolkata you could go to Peter Cat and come out purring with satisfaction, is what we are told. In Pune, Marz-o-rin does a good job. In New Delhi…oh well, why not just go out and make your own, actually?
While there’s nothing quite as wonderful as being served the perfect sandwich, putting one together is one way to guarantee that you will not be covered in curry or trammelled by tandoori, the next time you crave a classic chicken sandwich. Just remember to cook the chicken (preferably a breast piece) in a little water, salt, pepper and at the most a bay leaf). Mash it lightly with a fork, don’t pulverize it in a food processor. Make your sandwich when the chicken has cooled completely. Butter your bread liberally. Put it all together just 15 minutes before you eat (or serve it), and don’t stuff the sandwich till the bread is tearing. Trim away the crusts (wasteful-shmatesful – surely you can find something to do with the crusts). A dash of mustard and/or mayo, yes. A heavy-handed slice of cheese, no. Perhaps kids will demand cheese, and ketchup, and chips, and who knows, even chilly sauce. Get them pizzas or burgers or something. The perfect chicken sandwich is strictly for adults. A matter of matured tastebuds.
The restrained flavour of that other great tea-time chicken snack – the chicken puff – has been hijacked too. The soft, succulent white chicken in a creamy pepper sauce, enveloped in gossamer soft flakey pastry – is fast becoming a thing of the past too. In its place is the distinct shock of biting into too much chewy pastry on the outside and a tiny slop of chicken masala on the inside – and that too, more masala and less chicken. Now the original chicken puff is not something you can rustle up easily at home. So kindred souls will have to keep each other informed as to where a good puff was last spotted, managing to hold its own against vegetarianism, masalaism and pau bhajism.