Awesome 3-course dinner

As cooked by the Sparkly One this very evening.

To start:

Parmesan-and-roasted-parsnip soup, made from local organic veggies.

The main course:

Fillet of beef wrapped in porcini and prosciutto; pommes dauphinoise;
carrots & greens.

For dessert:

Pear and apple pie; custard

And to drink (the Sparkly One can take no credit for this one, alas):

Beyerskloof Reserve Pinotage 2007

I can take no credit for the wine, either, as it was brought by our dinner guests.

Two Pies in One Day

This afternoon, steak and kidney pie (snake and pigmey (sic) as it appeared on the bill) at Pudding Face ("The Pie Place"), at the Crown and Tuns, Deddington, Oxfordshire.

And this evening, humble pie to keep the peace.

A Steak and Stilton Pie

I happened to find myself at a Farmer's Market yesterday, and there was, as ever, delight and treasure aplenty. Great bunches of rhubarb, neat little rubberbanded bunches of asparagus, punnets (that wonderful word!) of strawberries - all seasonal and local and freshly picked, hurrah!

Despite this fresh veggie goodness, though, my eye was caught by the earnest-faced man selling pies; neat circular packages that tempted and beguiled with their flaky perfection and suggestive names. I fell upon the stall - metaphorically, not literally - and studied the pieman's wares with a practised eye.

Alas, the rabbit pie - my first choice - had already sold out. Vacillating only briefly, I quickly settled (again, not literally) upon the steak and stilton - that hallmark of a piemaker's skill. How tender would the steak be? How well-balanced the piquant, creamy stilton? How rich the gravy? Ah, the tasty adventure ahead! Be assured, dear reader, that I did not swoon in heady anticipation.

But alas and alack! Yesterday was not the day to discover the answer to these questions, as I departed the office in a hurry, leaving the pastry-encased treasure in the fridge at work. Imagine how hollow my evening fare was, having been promised pie but receiving none.

Today, happily, memory served, and the voyage of discovery was begun.

I can report that the pie was extremely satisfying. The pastry was tasty, if a little soggy from my method of re-heating (oven, rather than microwave, for reasons discussed elsewhere). The filling was ample: tender chunks of steak in thick gravy, not too runny. The stilton was mild, more of a tang than a twang, not overpowering.

In all, a pleasant pie, honestly sized, well-filled and tasty. Just as it should be.

Bona fide pie

There is, in Reading, a restaurant of sorts called Sweeney & Todds.

It is remarkable for a number of reasons, including the fact that it has changed little in the 15 or so years that I have been aware of it, seemingly remaining under the same ownership, with the same staff, and serving the same things. Yes, the prices have changed (upwards, but not by that much), but the portion sizes have not gone down, and the quality of the food is the same as ever.

Their stock in trade: pies.

And what pies they are! Decently sized, well-pastried in the best kind of flaky way, filled with the right balance of thick and pleasingly-tasty filling. Sensible, uncomplicated, honest pies. And even better; rightly priced.

The daily list of pies is read out at the table for every group, and may contain such delights as Steak and Mushroom, Beef and Horseradish, Five Nations, Vickers (named for the butchers that provides the meat), Game pie, Venison and Wild Boar, Cheese and Vegetable, Steak and Oyster, Chicken Tikka, Chicken and something or other...too many to remember after a pint or two from the bar. Besides, tradition dictates that someone in the group must ask what the third one was, to the endless amusement of the serving staff.

Add some potatoes and a side of vegetables (half and half cauliflower cheese and coleslaw is always a popular choice) and you have a meal fit for a king, queen, tsar, emperor.

The place itself is, simply, unpretentious. The walls are interestingly odd, the seating areas small and tending towards the cramped side of cosy. But no one cares, because the place continues to do what it has always done; serve that basic human need for pie. And how!

Better yet, the pasties and pastries and pies themselves are available to buy cold, to take home, for half the price in the restaurant. Who could ask for more?

The Steak and Ale Pastry Sandwich

Today I discovered a completely new species of pie.

I dined this evening in the Greyhound pub in the village of Siddington, Gloucestershire, where I ordered - with a certain amount of anticipation, and not a little drool - the steak and 6X pie (for this is an establishment selling the fine ales of the Wadworth brewery).

Having not eaten pie for a seemingly long time, my expectations of the imminent feast were quite high, if a little guarded. One can never completely predict the nature of a pie in an unfamiliar establishment, as has been noted elsewhere.

In short time, the plate arrived resplendent with what can only be described as a pastry sandwich. Indeed, at first I mistook it for a baguette, and was about to summon the waiter briskly back to the table with a tart complaint about the wrong order.

My rebuff died on my lips as I fully beheld the construction before me. A piece of puff pastry - a sizeable piece, one would generously allow - had been baked in the oven until tall and crisply robust. It had then been sliced in a plane parallel to the plate, as one would a croissant, perhaps, or a curly roll.

The so-called filling of tasty steak and Wadworth's Finest had subsequently been sandwiched - there is simply no other word - between the pastry pieces. By which I mean it had been poured over the lower piece, and the other piece had been perched with some ceremony and gravitas atop.

The whole was presented with a reasonable portion of chips, peas and a generous quantity of gravy - the latter due in no small part to the fact that two pieces of pastry with flat edges will not contain stew for any length of time, however thick the gravy sauce.


I was quite surprised, a little put out, but fundamentally undaunted (and rather peckish). So I tucked into the thing with as much relish and gusto as could be summoned.


It was, on balance, rather pleasant. For my money, the filling could have been a little more peppery, a little more spicy. The steak itself leaned towards wholesome rather than tender. And the gravy could have been richer. But seeing as it wasn't my money that was paying for this feast, I smacked my lips and cleaned my plate.

It wasn't a True Pie, though.

Night Noodles and Thai Pie

Here's one for the fusion food fanatics: Thai Pie.

Imagine, if you will, a yellow chicken curry - Massaman Kaeng Gai, perhaps - lovingly encased in deliciously flaky pastry and served hot. Biting through the satisfyingly home-grown pastry reveals a mouthful of spicy exotic flavours. What a combination!

This evening, I went along to the Night Noodle Market, part of the Sydney Morning Herald's Good Food Month. All week, in Hyde Park, a bunch of stalls from the many local restaurants were dispensing excellent Asianesque food to the lucky picnickers.

This was where I had the very good fortune to sample the genius of pie-fusion. Although, in truth, the concept was better than the realisation: the filling was disappointingly dry and stodgy, rather than light and piquant. But think of the possibilities! Where will it end?

And I fulfilled a lifelong ambition to eat noodles out of a box, using chopsticks. Sometimes it really is the simple things that matter.

A Pie Down Under

Sydney, New South Wales.

Harry's Cafe de Wheels deserves more mention than "pie cart". But in many ways, that is precisely what it is. And what pies they are.

I ate there - or, more specifically, thereabouts, a-fastening the nosebag in the vicinity of a railway sleeper on the nearby wharf - on my first full day in Sydney. Perusing the short, simple menu, I choose the "Tiger". Despite the Australian reputation for a straightforward approach to the Naming of Things, no massive feline was delivered to me.

Instead, and rather more sensibly in my estimation, the dish involves a meat pie - fully pastry-enclosed, please note! This is fully a True Pie! - and a full complement of accompanients.

Before one's eager eyes, the pie is lovingly placed on a serving plate, then the top is breached, and covered with a layer of mashed potato, itself subsequently covered with mushy peas. Finally, a well is made in that uppermost green layer, and gravy poured in, over and around.

The whole is then presented to the enthusiastic diner with a plastic fork and - sometimes - a smile. Eaten perched on a wooden sleeper, looking out over Finger Wharf, it is an excellent pie, spicy and rich. Mine lasted no time at all, as you might imagine.

What a splendid place this is.

My definition of pie

Almost anyone can open a dictionary, or browse to a website, to find a definition.

I mean, young children generally can't, given that they generally lack the motor skills and inclination. And someone without access to a computer would have a pretty tricky time browsing the web. But given these fairly basic premises, my point is that it's a pretty straightforward thing to do a bit of research about what other people mean by pie.

I've been doing just that, and have formulated my own conclusions. Because I can.

So, let's see what we have.

Firstly, let's think about what we mean by a pie, in terms as general as possible. For me, it's like a covered bowl, a shell that encloses and contains a secret, tasty filling. What forms that container is, however, the nub of the matter.

Obviously, there are cottage pies and shepherd pies (and the many variations on the theme), where the container is made of stoneware, and the lid is formed of mashed potato. As delicious as they are - and they often are - they're not what I crave when I fancy pie. If you promise me pie, and deliver me mashed potato, I'm afraid I'm going to be disappointed. I'll still love you, but my face will fall a bit. It's not you, it's me. That's just the way I am.

So we come to the pastry pie, which may be one-crust, where the lid alone is pastry, and a dish or a bowl forms the remainder of the shell (I have previously referred to this style of pie as the opposite of quiche). Alternatively, there is the tart (sometimes known as a quiche), where the pastry forms the container, but comes without a lid (or crust).

Again, as delicious as these pies-with-bits-missing may be, I do not consider them True Pies. They may aspire to pieness (they may indeed have had pieness thrust upon them), but they do not achieve it. Again, if I'm expecting pie, and I get one of these faux pies - Pie Lites, if you will - then there's going to be a certain amount of disappointment on my behalf. If you're going to serve a tart (or, daringly, a quiche), then by all means call it by its proper name. But let us not pretend that it is a pie.

For me, a pie must be two-crust, meaning that the pastry forms both the basin and the lid, completely enclosing the filling in pastry goodness (alas, too often, pastry badness is served). I can understand the reasons for the other variations and indeed enjoy them from time to time. But they lack that essential Pieness that I demand.

Pies, as I have observed before, are presents wrapped in pastry. When it's as simple as that, why change a thing?

Variations on the theme of pie

The steak and ale pie I had this weekend, at the Betsey Wynne in Swanbourne, was yet another variation on the broad theme of Pie. It was, essentially a stew served with a kind of puff pastry biscuit.

The stew itself was delicious; the steak was extraordinarily tender, in a thick, peppery gravy. The consistency was rich and thick. The puff pastry lozenge laid on top was buttery and perfectly crisp - an advantage of it being cooked separately from the "filling".

Despite all of this tasty goodness, I felt somewhat...disappointed. For me, part of the joy of a pie is the unwrapping, the broaching of the covering, the digging around inside for the rich rewards to be found. This particular "pie" (and I am even less sure of the meaning of the word now) offered none of those delights. From the start, it was laid bare, a pie that revealed its inner workings. If it was a pie at all. Oh deceptive food!

It struck me that this is yet another example of the kind of deconstructed style of cooking that has been a feature of the menus of the top-of-the-pile restaurants for sometime, and is beginning to filter down into the mainstream. It is playful, for sure, and when the food tastes as good as it did at the Betsey, who am I to argue?

But I would like to see the essential characteristic of the food being retained. For me, this was outside the definition of pie.

Damn tasty though.

A present wrapped in pastry

I rather fond of pies, a fact I've mentioned before.

Indeed, I like the very concept of pies, adore their whole chirpy-cute simplicity.

Those individual, sized-for-one pies are the best, because they're like little presents, pastry-wrapped, just for me.

The Opposite of Quiche

Tonight at my local pub (the very excellent Royal Oak, well worth a visit if you happen to be in the area), I had a Steak and Ale pie, and very tasty it was too. It was that sort of pie that is no kind of pie at all; the earthernware bowl (filled with juicy steak, mushrooms and a delicious gravy) was topped with a crisp butter pastry sheet.

The more I think on it (and I do think on it, believe you me!), it was more of a - oh, let's call it a lidded soup.

Now, I have nothing against this kind of construction, and am rather fond of them in the right context (which is: on a plate in front of me). But I've developed a lingering suspicion that they're not really pies in the truest sense, where I would expect pastry to form the entire enclosure - the whole house - floor, walls and roof - rather than solely the roof.

It seems to me that in the case of the lidded soup, the pottery is doing the lion's share of the work, but the pastry is somehow getting all the credit (when I originally typed that, it came out as creut. Coincidence or conspiracy?).

I was pondering this injustice, when I realised that it's not so much a soup with a lid, as the precise opposite of quiche.

A quiche, as everyone knows, is a kind of pastry trough - the pastry forms the base and sides of the dish. Essentially, it's a tart, a lidless pie - an open pie, if you will. This is an important thing to realise, as many people will tell you that Real Men Don't Eat Quiche. But call it an open pie and it's a whole different matter.

Once I'd realised that where quiches use pastry to contain the filling, lidded soups use pastry to conceal it, I realised that they're no kind of pie at all. They're anti-quiches.

Still very tasty, though.