If you live in Finsbury Park or Crouch End you know about Max’s Sandwich shop. You know because every time someone is playing the “Inside knowledge of Epic Londoners” game you dust off Max’s and win instantly. Watching someone eat their first Max’s sandwich is like watching someone fall in love, but with more gravy. The food is the type of thing you’d happily put on your list of last meals, even if you were making a list of meals that were the actual cause of your death. They make you realise that from the Pret you scoff down at lunchtime to the service station Ham and Cheese monstrosity you consume on a road trip, every sandwich that’s not made by Max’s loving hands is an insult to an artform. And I haven’t even gotten to Max himself. Max is the type of guy that every group of mates needs. Energetic, personable and always two seconds away from hysterical laughter. Every time I go in there I find myself wishing we had met aged 8 and spent long warm Summers playing Pirate Sandwich Kings of the Spanish Main. He’s a gent, a lad and a character. Who makes really bloody amazing Sandwiches. Go to Max’s.
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