As Simon Loftus explains, the gist of Bacon du Bedat is this: cook the bacon and keep it warm. Make the toast. Lay cold smoked salmon on the warm toast, spread with (mango) chutney, add hot bacon and the final layer of toast and eat at once. A minute or two's delay ruins the effect. I know I have written of this superlative sandwich once before on these pages but, by enthusiastic default, you now have it once more.

I guess that the main reason for the recent popularity of consuming the British sandwich (believe me, it has never been exactly "great") is how very easy it is to find this pre-packed phenomenon: supermarket, corner shop, petrol station, department store and Boots, where, apparently, it is a particular speciality. The fortunes of the manufacturers of those triangular plastic packets will, I have no doubt, soon overtake those of the "Tetrapack" brothers. In the process, however, sandwiches have been reduced to the lowest common denominator: something essential when you happen to feel like it, but not in the least bit necessary if you don't. For instance, as an assorted layering of both the irritating and the familiar, I was deeply shocked recently to see a pre-packaged sandwich filling which comprised the following trio: chicken tikka (Indian), sun-dried tomato (Italian) and feta cheese (Greek). In a flash, all I wanted were two slices of Hovis with salty butter and Shippam's bloater paste. And, do you know, perhaps the latter wasn't quite the poor sandwich I remember. At least it was uncomplicated. And nothing fell out when you ate it. So, truly, which one would you prefer?

Now then, here's another thing. Whenever we think of a French sandwich, we call to mind generously gashed lengths of crusted baguette, a scrape of Normandy, thin slices of jambon cru, jambon de Paris, saucisson et cornichons, gruyere et salade ... Yet, of late, I have come to the conclusion that some of the most delectable sandwiches I have ever eaten are those of the pastry shop and tea room Laduree, just off the Place de la Madeleine in Paris. These ever so thin and tiny (think the dimensions of a Milky Bar), individually wax-paper-wrapped sandwiches au pain de mie are the very essence of delectable and as delicate as can be: the bread so thin you might think it has been sliced by a trained sashimi chef, excellent butter, immaculate ingredients and - because this sort of thing matters to those who really care - so neatly wrapped that it also makes me think that there is an expert in origami there too. I once witnessed a slip of a girl consume at least 10 of these in no more than 20 minutes. My friend Sue and I once made a veritable feast of them coming home on the Eurostar.

It was the delectability of those very sandwiches at Laduree that inspired my involvement with the new Bibendum coffee and sandwich bar in South Kensington, by the flower van in the Michelin building's old tyre and loading bay. Now, some of you may happen to know that I have long had an association with Bibendum, and that this is simply an excuse for a huge, huge plug. And you would be right. But alerting you to places of excellence has always been to the fore whenever the situation arises. So think around about a mid-June opening, OK?

To slightly assuage the mild guilt that I have over promoting the BIBENDUM COFFEE AND SANDWICH BAR ("Excellently packaged take-away sandwiches a speciality ..."), it has long been my intention to furnish you with various ideas as to how to make truly excellent sandwiches for picnics, coffee mornings, a weekend run-out to Alton Towers, a few rubbers of bridge. Shooting oneself in the foot has never been more precisely aimed ... Oh, and we will be serving hot chocolate, too!

The last word on the subject must be that of Arrigo Cipriani, proprietor of Harry's Bar, Venice (taken from The Harry's Bar Cookbook): "We've served sandwiches in Harry's Bar from the beginning. They're the ideal bar food - light, easy to eat, not too expensive [without wishing to put too fine a point on this, and taking into consideration that they serve some of the finest sandwiches I have ever consumed, the phrase "not too expensive" is not, how shall we say, relevant here]. The secret of a perfect sandwich is that everything be absolutely fresh. The eggs are freshly boiled every morning, the chicken and shrimp freshly poached. We use creamy, newly made mayonnaise. When a plate of pale yellow egg sandwiches, spiked with salty anchovies and rich with mayonnaise, comes to the table, customers find it irresistible. Harry's Bar sandwiches have a characteristic overstuffed hump - a shape that's been imitated throughout Venice." If you still crave an M&S chicken tikka sandwich now, then I fear I have lost you forever. &

O Bridge rolls I have always been led to understand that the origin behind the naming of these sweet little eggy, almost cakey, torpedo-shaped bread rolls, is that they had, at some indeterminate moment, become the favourite finger food of ladies at afternoon bridge parties. ("Finger rolls" is the other slightly more prosaic term for them.)

I shall never forget a splendid story told to me by the host of one such bridge game many years ago. Elinor - having, perhaps, decanted a little too much amontillado too soon and too generously to herself and her guests - had briefly slipped away to the kitchen to prepare more rolls. Whilst quickly unwrapping a packet of Philadelphia cream cheese to make her very popular cheese, spring onion, curry and prawn whip filling, she absent-mindedly (sherry, have you noticed, has that effect around 4.30pm) omitted to discard that quite useless extra layer of foil between the exterior wrapping and the cheese itself (this was long before it was all pumped into easy-spoon cartons and became "Philly Lite"). Of course, as it all went into the new-fangled Magimix, it was far too late. Elinor was never allowed to forget quite how much those tiny little bits of silver paper played merry hell with those Cheshire matrons' fillings.

Fine, thin sandwiches, Laduree style

If you can find pain de mie (a slightly sweet, more cake-like bread than that of the usual sandwich loaf) then you will be quids- in here. Employ your finest slicing skills for best results; naturally, sharpening the knife first will help. Serve crustless. Traditional, thickly sliced brown bread sandwiches Seafood sandwiches, above all, seem to taste best when made from slices of freshly baked brown bread. Here, the intrusion of crust is an essential part of the biting pleasure. Most importantly, whenever making sandwiches of any sort, do please remember that they are not simply something that should in any way be thrown together. A good sandwich, carefully constructed, can be one of the finest things it is possible to eat. Three essential pointers: the best bread, the finest butter you can buy and the availability of a very sharp knife. @

Freshly picked white crab meat, lemon juice

and spring onion