Sunshine Coast Hinterland Times

If someone were to stop you in the street and ask you to state who, in your opinion, has been mankind’s greatest benefactor, what name would spring to your lips?
Naturally, you would first take a quick look round for the hidden camera and the carton of margarine that beats all the rest for taste and spreadability. But having assured yourself that your questioner was fair dinkum, what name would you you come up with? Thomas Edison? Leonardo da Vinci? The Wright Brothers?
If you are a TV fanatic you would probably go for John Logie Baird. A photographer would doubtless opt for Louis Daguerre, while a truck driver would be be likely to air a preference for Rudolph Diesel. On the other hand, anyone on the way to the dentist to have a wisdom tooth out would undoubtedly award the guernsey to William Morton, the man credited with the introduction of anaesthetics. It would be a hard choice to make on the spur of the moment, for there are many worthy contenders to choose from in the pages of history.
Personally, my choice would be John Montague, the fourth Earl of Sandwich; the man who bequeathed sandwiches to the civilised world. So keen on the gaming tables was the doughty John that he was loath to leave them even for nourishment. So, he hit on the idea of having the servants bring him cold roast meat between two slices of bread, which he ate while continuing the game. And so the sandwich was born.
In my opinion, the benefit the card-playing earl bestowed on mankind has always been taken too much for granted. After all,where would the picnic or the worker’s quick, handy lunch have been without him? Or, if it comes to that, the injury-free cocktail party?
This last benefit was brought dramatically to my notice the other evening, when I attended one of those stand-up-and-eat functions, so popular these days for promoting conversation and reducing washing-up.
As is usual at such affairs, the food was of the kind that can be conveniently consumed one-handed – a glass, of course, being firmly clutched in the other.
Being personally devoted to sandwiches, I usually experience no difficulty at such soirees. And my wisdom in this regard was rather sensationally confirmed by a misfortune that befell a member of our small conversational group.
The catering was of high quality and efficiency. Waitresses were busily circulating with plates of tempting victuals, and one of them came alongside our litle group with an appealing collection of asparagus puffs – those delicacies that look like chocolate eclairs without the chocolate.
Already being equipped with a sandwich, I declined the offer, but one member of our quintet took one and gave it the great Australian bite. The next moment there was a sound like a soda siphon being discharged, bits of asparagus puff sprayed in all directions, and we found we had a victim of first-degree burns in our midst.
He had literally bitten off more than he could chew. The puffs, succulent and toothsome in a rested state, when straight from the oven proved to be as deadly as anything that might be thrown through the window of a Colombian police station.
While the commiserations and the mopping-up were in progress, several reminiscences were exchanged of similar traumatic experiences involving puffs, vol-au-vents and like delicacies at other parties. Indeed, the conversation took on quite a ‘these-wounds-I-had-on-Crispin’s-day’ tone. I said nothing, but simply clutched my sandwich and thought kindly of the noble earl.
You don’t run that kind of risk with sandwiches. Not unless they’re toasted cheese, of course. And you couldn’t blame the earl for that. They didn’t have toasted sandwiches in his day.