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Every culture has its version of bread hugging something delicious. The Americans have their BLTs, the British adore their cucumber sandwiches, and the French make entire philosophies out of a croque monsieur. But in India, where food doesn’t bow to formality, the act of putting something between bread takes on its own meaning. Enter the vada pav, Mumbai’s reigning street food monarch, served fresh, fiery, and occasionally with a side of existential confusion.
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The Case For Its Sandwich Identity
From an anatomical perspective, the vada pav fits the textbook definition of a sandwich. There’s bread on the outside and a filling in the middle. It’s portable, convenient, and designed for busy humans who don’t have time for utensils, or patience. Like any good sandwich, it’s a democratic dish. Office workers, students, and millionaires stuck in traffic all line up at the same vada pav stall. And let’s not forget the variations, cheese vada pav, schezwan vada pav, even mayo-loaded ones that would make a club sandwich blush. In structure and convenience, it ticks all the boxes.
The Argument Against It
And yet, calling vada pav a sandwich somehow feels like flattening its spirit into something too tame. It feels inaccurate not because it falls short, but because it surpasses the category entirely. A sandwich often belongs to the realm of choice, customisable, curated, and occasionally expensive. The vada pav belongs to everyone. It was never created for the polite company of club sandwiches and paninis. It was born out of hurry, hunger, and defiance. A sandwich, in its Western form, often celebrates restraint, delicate assembly, minimal flavour, clean eating. The vada pav, on the other hand, is theatre. The vada pav rejects that symmetry. It is overwhelming in flavour, unapologetic in heat, unbothered by presentation.
Its greatness also lies in its availability. There is no wrong time for a vada pav. It waits for you outside stations, in office lanes, beside college gates, through rain and heat alike. Sandwiches might ask for a table; the vada pav asks only for a hand. It travels lightly, speaks the language of hunger, and disappears in four bites that somehow feel like an entire meal.
Image credit: Pexels
A Resolution Of Sorts
So, can the vada pav be called a sandwich? Technically, yes. Spiritually, perhaps not. It’s something else altogether, a street-born innovation that transcends definition. The sandwich world might have its sourdoughs and its gourmet cheeses, but none of them carry the poetry of a hot vada pav served on a rainy Mumbai evening.
