Out of the oven, the rolls are tender, light and crackling, with an unfashionably close-grained crumb. Buttered, toasted and smeared with a little mayonnaise, they're piled with sliced roast beef almost pastel in its dawn-like rosiness.
The slices aren't squashed, but cling to each other so that when you dip the sandwich in a ramekin of light, slightly wine-dazed jus, the sandwich holds. It saturates neatly, going from crisp to soggy at exactly the pace you set.
Much like the Hillstone group itself, the sandwich is pleasant, polished, a bit expensive, and utterly generic on the surface. But you'd never mistake it for another restaurant's version.
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