IT’S like this from quarter to 12 until about 4pm,’ says Paul Rothe, surveying the hectic scene inside 35, Marylebone Lane, London W1. ‘One minute, there’s nobody around; the next, all hell breaks loose.’
His sandwich shop, the capital’s oldest (established in 1900) and most famous, is a glorious time capsule: Formica-topped tables are arranged cosily under shelves groaning with pickles, mustards and ginger biscuits. At the heart of it is a deli counter, where the Rothe team assembles sandwiches from scratch, to order: if you want a bespoke sarnie, this is the place to come. Can you really have anything you like? ‘We once had a young lady coming in asking for a sardine, pork sausagemeat and Branston Pickle sandwich,’ Mr Rothe remembers. ‘I thought she must have taken down an order from her boss and got it wrong—but she came in every day for the rest of the week and had the same sandwich.’ He pauses. ‘I think she might have been pregnant.’
Variations on the sandwich are, of course, eaten all over the world and always have
