Bacon.

Good morning, hedonists. We turn now to a matter of national security. The Bacon Sandwich. This is not health food. This is... soul food. It is the anchor that holds the Englishman to the earth. But it must be built... with architectural rigour. First. The Meat. Smoked... or Unsmoked? Let us not pretend. Unsmoked bacon... is merely salted pork. It has no history. No mystery. We choose Smoked. Oak. Beechwood. We want the memory of a bonfire on the tongue. Cook it until it is crispy. Rigid. If you hold it up... it should salute you. If it droops... it is a failure. The Cheese. You have choices. Mild? Mild cheese is for children... and the infirm. It has no opinion. We want Mature. Vintage. Sharp enough to make your jaw ache. Slice it thick. Lay it on the hot bacon. Let it weep... into the meat. This is the marriage of the farmyard. Now. The Controversy. The Red Sauce. Ketchup. Usually... I would forbid it. I would call the authorities. But here... on toast? It is encouraged. Nay... it is mandatory. The vinegar cuts the fat. It provides the acid... to balance the orchestra. Apply a generous stripe. But do not let it drip! Dripping is amateur. Top slice on. Press down. Hear the crunch. That is the sound of victory. Wipe your chin. Apologize to no one. You are fed. Carry on.