You know how much I love a new place that an influencer has decided to tell the internet about. You can generally guarantee it’s going to be one of two things: the best thing that has ever happened to mankind, or an unmitigated disaster involving a £19 plate of eggs and a queue that stretches halfway down the street.

There is very little middle ground.

Social media is awash with vacuous people telling you that a ham sandwich is the best thing they’ve ever eaten, or that there’s an unbelievable amount of legroom in economy on a 14-hour flight. And nine times out of ten, these same people are raving about Smashburger, which I frankly find very difficult to get excited about.

Anyway, I saw Green Street Sandwiches on one of these platforms, accompanied by the usual influencer engravings about how wonderful it all was. Then a few of the office team suggested we pop down, and, having been thoroughly softened up by the marketing department of someone else’s business, I was in.

And do you know what? Green Street is really quite good.

The layout is modern without being soulless, with chunky wooden furniture, plenty of seats and the general feeling that somebody involved actually knows what they’re doing. The queue wasn’t too long, and there was someone taking orders as people waited, which is a small but perfectly sensible touch. Drinks are sensibly arranged in a large fridge by the counter, with the coffee options tucked away in the corner. Nothing revolutionary, but everything works.

Then comes the menu. Or rather, the lack of one.

Chicken. Beef. Porchetta. Tomatoes.

That’s more or less your lot. No encyclopaedia of fillings, no bewildering list of sauces, no need to spend 20 minutes studying a menu while the person behind you develops a nervous twitch.

And therein lies the genius. Keep the selection tight, concentrate on doing a few things properly, and the sandwiches arrive without an interminable wait. It’s a good idea, and one that more places could learn from.

But it does create a rather significant dilemma. What do you order?

The porchetta is the obvious choice. Lovely crunchy edges, sweet, juicy pork in the middle. It sounds magnificent. But sometimes, just sometimes, you want to resist the obvious. You want to be the person who looks at the crowd heading in one direction and confidently marches off in the other.

So I ordered the roast beef.

On the face of it, this was a perfectly reasonable decision. The beef was good. Nothing wrong with it at all. But neither was it the sort of sandwich that has you cancelling your afternoon meetings so you can sit quietly and contemplate what you’ve just experienced.

A solid six out of ten. Dependable. Entirely respectable. Unlikely to trouble the sandwich-based entries in your memoirs.

Unfortunately, there was one small complication. Every single one of my colleagues had gone for the pork.

And while I was perfectly happy with my beef, they were busy tucking into their porchetta and making noises usually reserved for people who have just discovered a previously unknown Beatles recording. The tech boys, in particular, were absolutely insufferable about it.

There is nothing quite like the creeping realisation that you have made the wrong lunch decision, followed by the public humiliation of having to listen to your colleagues explain why.

I had been seduced by the marketing, resisted the obvious choice and ended up with the perfectly decent alternative. A cautionary tale, really, about the dangers of overthinking a sandwich.

The lesson? Go with your heart. Don’t overthink it. And when everyone is ordering the porchetta, perhaps there’s a reason.

Green Street Sandwiches is well worth a visit. The place is well run, the format makes sense, the service is efficient and the sandwiches are good. I suspect the pork is rather better than the beef, although I accept that this conclusion is based on the entirely scientific method of watching other people enjoy their lunch while I quietly regretted my choices.

As for the influencers? For once, they may actually have been onto something.

Just don’t ask me to admit that too loudly.