Pie

By Maxim Griffin.

A visitor from away is here – you have shown them the sights – historic monument, church, river, seaside, etc. – their research has highlighted the area’s reputation for butchery and they wish to make further enquiries – you stand together at the window of a large and busy butcher’s shop – when you were a kid, going to the butcher was a weekly thing – in tow with mum on Family Allowance day to Dewhurst’s – now it’s your payday treat – not that you mind the expense – it should be expensive – a life sacrificed and the skill to dispatch the carcass into chops – the visitor has wandered inside.

The smell hits you – iron and marble – something slightly herby, fresh pastries – there are several counters of glass, each offering a different aspect of the arts of meat – the visitor stands before a curtain of sausages – apple, mustard, Lincolnshire, extra sage, spicy, coarse – handwritten labels declare key ingredients – the young man behind the counter offers the visitor a selection – one of each for a fiver – the spicy ones are quite spicy, he explains – sausage roulette is appealing – the visitor doubles their order and moves to the next counter.

The visitor is advised to take a number from the machine – a little red ticket dispenser is pointed to – a ticket is taken – number 9 – the patrons of the butcher are, for the most part, retired middle-class types – people with the time and funds to linger over their selections – “number 4, please” – you shuffle forward – the visitor is unsure what they are queuing for – there are no young parents with buggies in the queue, no faces from the school run – among the retired are estate agents and auctioneers – “number 5, please” – the visitor shuffles, peering over number 8’s shoulder to see the lay of the land ahead – you point out the beef poster and the visitor nods – an animal divided into cuts and selections – frontiers and territories, steaks and roasts – number 6 has been served – number 7 was with number 6 – number 8 wants a joint suitable for six people – “number 9” – you nudge the visitor – orders are agreed and approved of – “my personal favourite,” smiles the butcher, an older man whose face you recall from another time – he hands the visitor an envelope of bavettes and nods – “number 10, please.”
Local delicacies

There are ceramic bullocks and ancient cleavers on display – a framed newspaper cutting of an encounter with a minor royal – medals of excellence from country shows – a photograph of a pair of television chefs – a print of a local cow of some remark, Gracie of Stenigot, 1805 – pictures of men with beef – you’re not sure if this is some kind of nostalgia for a past that never quite existed or a collage of local history through the meat man’s eyes – there’s a Spanish painting from the 16th century of a butcher and their wares and the details are almost identical – some things are universal – two older ladies discuss the recent death of another older local lady, though neither is aware of the arrangements yet – yes, her coffee cake will be missed – the butcher remembers her from way back – worked in Parker’s – no, it was Boyes – no one is quite sure.

The visitor surveys each counter with appropriate respect and reverence – there are tumuli of mince and juggernauts of burgers, assorted fillets of chicken in assorted blends of flavour, ruby red meatballs and a plethora of kebabs – each selection is divided by frilly hedges of plastic grass – the burgers have won awards but the visitor passes them by – the visitor is keen to witness the local hams, pâtés and charcuterie.

Samples
The visitor paces before cured meats and approves of everything – the ham man beyond the counter knows his stuff – his grandfather was the butcher who worked his meats with homemade flint tools – salt and fat, that’s the key, he says – salt, fat and time – same as it ever was – you tell the visitor your theory that the first salamis were probably made out of mammoth and – the visitor has been tempted away by the ham man’s offer of samples – a plate of chine with vinegar appears – the visitor takes a roll of the parsley stuffed pork and considers it with their mouth – the herbs and vinegar cut through the fat and salt – the visitor takes another sample and gives the ham man a thumbs up – they are reminded of porchetta – the chine will make an excellent starter – you will eat well this evening.

The pie counter is more mysterious to the visitor – you explain that the contents of each pie is denoted by the little pastry shape on top – crescent moon for chicken – diamond for steak and kidney – star for sausage – growing up, sausage pie was controversial – sausage pie was a cheap tea and having it meant that mum and dad were, for the time being, skint – sausage pie was eaten dutifully but with no pleasure – returning to it as an adult reveals the folly of youth – it is certainly simple grub and it is delicious – you buy one for the visitor to try and one for your personal consumption – it’ll make a couple of good pack-ups when you’re back to work on Monday – you order a couple of fresh pasties that are warm in the hand and turn their paper bags transparent with grease – you can eat these on the way home.

The young woman at the till is the daughter of a friend and she is doing well, university in October – you pay – just shy of fifty quid – it’s payday and payday means nice things – the visitor insists on tipping the young woman – a twenty concealed in his handshake – a smile and a nod – it’s a sunny day, September – perched on a wall eating flaky pastry and warm meat from an oily bag – still a little warmth in the sunshine – the visitor brushes down their trousers and pats their hands dry – they point to the pub across the market place and grin.

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