Club Sandwich Review 22

The latest episode of Subrosa's pointless quest to find the world’s greatest Club sandwich*

*for under £20 and within reasonable travel distance.

Check out that bar

Propellers whirl, 1940s jazz soothes, and half of the customers are dressed like they’re in a Raymond Chandler novel. Welcome to Cafe Boheme, a French bistro-late-night joint in the heart of Soho. 

It’s New Year’s Eve afternoon - the quiet before the storm. I bag a window seat and watch the action. A couple, big coats and trilby hats, prop up the marvellous central bar, perusing the wine menu with genuine knowledge. At the front, two guys who look like Scandinavian models (Scandi-mods?), pose for a series of contrived photos. Out on Greek St, a flotilla of tourists, foolishly thinking Soho might be pedestrianised, nearly get mown down, Grand Theft Auto style, by a mysterious dark car with tinted windows going at ridiculous speed. Who are these people who drive through Soho?

As Django Reinhardt starts to strum over the speakers, a bow-tied waiter delivers the menu. Before he can leave, I order: "club sandwich and a beer, please, err, garçon". His well-honed customer service mask hides whether he appreciates the direct efficiency or thinks I'm an absolute wanker.

Stairway to Lavatories

Now in its 4th decade, Cafe Boheme was established by Nick Jones, who would later create Soho House. While the private club, which is located above and still own Boheme, no membership is required to get into the cafe. So, whether you're looking to order an afternoon Blanc de Blancs pretending to know what you're doing, or simply satisfying a drunken 2am craving for a croque monsieur - I've been there - everyone is welcome.

In-depth research (one glance at their website) says Boheme was inspired by 19th-century poets Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud, who used to hit the sauce in Old Compton Street. To be honest, my knowledge of this period and its troubadours is lacking, so it's hard to assess the interior designers' success in capturing it accurately. But I appreciate their efforts. Long windows, Parisian trimmings, barstools and leather chairs, green glass lights, the brass-rimmed bar and fans. Faux, sure, but not theme bar false or, god forbid, Mr Fogg's.

The tables are tight. A Wes Anderson cosplaying couple take seats a foot from me while discussing the evening's plans. "You simply must not rock up trolleyed again, Harry". I've been there, Harry. Over the road, one of those random Soho queues snakes out from the entrance of Maison Bertaux around the corner. Who are these people with the patience and the time to endure that? Subrosa don’t queue.

Clubber Lang

Annette Hanshaw comes on the speakers (thanks, Shazam), footsteps tap on the mosaic tile floor, the merchandise arrives. The majesty and madness of the Club Sandwich. It’s lacking some of the classic Club trapes - no triple deck, no cocktail stick, not cut into triangles, and, wait, is that brown bread? Sacre blue!

But it’s tasty. As they probably say on Masterchef, the chicken to bacon to tomato ratio is about right. Arguably, the key to a Club is the clash of fries and tangy ketchup with the, let’s face it, ridiculous sarnie and this one works well, especially paired with a fine pint of lager.

As I dig in, the bar couple casually order a second bottle of Petit Chablis. The Scandi-models sit back, arms draped, chinos splayed, radiating confidence and sipping espressos. A man, clad all in black and with the face of someone who flogs fags in downmarket pubs (what happened to wandering DVD salesmen?), bundles through the door. Before I can purchase 200 Lucky Strikes for a tenner, he's joined by his associate and a pair of battered guitar cases. It turns out they're the afternoon band.

While I am vaguely intrigued to see what this musical outfit have to offer, the arrival of a large bowl of Moules marinière at the Wes Anderson's table changes things. I give the universal sign for cheque to the waiter, but, at first slurp break, and join him uninvitedly at the till, debit card in hand. His well-honed customer service mask hides whether he appreciates the direct efficiency or thinks I'm an absolute wanker.

Before the New Year's Eve mayhem descends on central London, it’s time to bid au revoir to Cafe Boheme, c'est magnifique. Je reviendrai. I'm all out of basic French.

Atmosphere: 9

Club: 7

Value for money: 8