Day 6 - Apricot & Poultry Pie - Holt

Ladies of Holt out shopping in dresses
To grab something quick and easy for tea
They walk past the tourists, in heels with their baskets
And pops into Palmers (where parking is free).

Here in a shop where they feel quite at home
Hot running staff there to do as they're bid.
Silently moving as though they're on casters.
Displaying the goods but the prices are hid.

When offered a pie made from best local Poultry
With apricots topping and a thick crust
She looks with a smile at the size of the portion
Trying the deli's new pie is a must.

Finding just the right thing for "His Lordship"
Her daily trial chasing down a new taste
She gets the use of his second best Merecedes
He gets a plateful to stuff his fat face.

Palmer's exists for the discerning palate
The pies there are varied and tasty and good
This pie is toothsome and packed full of fine bird meat
Surrounded by jelly and hinting of fruit.

Its a grand pie to take home or have for a party
Sixteen quid for a whole is cheap at the price
All a friends want sliver that won't make them fatter
Without the fruit topping they wouldn't look twice.

So maybe its all about presentation
Pretty boxes, neat rows and uniformed staff
Palmer's may be a den of temptation
But abstracting money is dome without faff

To tourists its seems all the front is obnoxious
Elitist service for a landed class
They gawp at the prices and exotic ingredients
Pausing and then deciding to pass.

If Holt is a throwback then so are its virtues
Tidy store,  knowing floor staff all add to the mix
But where else will the expert jam fan or pieman
Find so many treasures to satiate their fix?

The poultry was tough and the crust a bit burnt
She knows he won't notice when wolfing it down
Nor will he look at the stupendous price tag
In Holt such things would just lower then tone.


With apologies to Betjeman

Day 5 - Dickinson and Morris Melton Mowbray Pork Pie

(After Murakami - with apologies)

The table went on for ever - like Daytona beach.  The child was eye level with it, curling her hair with one finger and sucking on a lollipop, looking at the present wrapped in paper in the centre, on a plate.  The chtz chtz chtz of her ipod drowned out her father’s words.

“Do you want some of this honey?”

She pulled the headphone pad from one ear - “What is it?”

“My business contacts from England brought it over and...”

“What’s it made of?”

“There’s meat inside I think”
“Ewwwww” the child squealed and ran out of the room.

“Fuck knows how he got it through customs”

He smiled at his wife and lent towards her, kissed the top of her head and whispered “What the fuck is in it?” in her ear.

She bent forward and pulled over the package and read the label in good but rusty English - 

“Ingredients: Pork 47%, Wheat flour, Lard, Water, Vegetable Oil. Pork Fat”

“What is Lard?”
“I dunno - something English I expect”

Her face wrinkled up in mock revulsion.

He lit a a cigarette and looked out of the window on the Osaka Sunday lunchtime skyline - in the distance the city gleamed bright.  He paused - listening to an entertaining moment of Artie Shaw’s artistry - a Sunday morning pre-requisite.  He swore he’d told the Englishmen not to come to Osaka unless absolutely necessary but they were coming the next day and they would expect an opinion on their present.

“Well, we’re going have to at least try it” he said, a long slow exhale spoke volumes about his enthusiasm.

“But honey...Pork fat!” she said, turning the object the right way up and read the rest of the label out loud.

“Dickinson and Morris”
“Since 1851” - she raised her eyebrows

“Dickinson and Morris of Melton Mow...mow?....bray”
“Mowbray - its a place near their head office in Leicester”

“Great - Taste - Gold 2010” her puzzled expression was answered by a shrug from him.

“Melton Mowbray Pork Pie”

“So it is a pie made of pork and water and fat and lard!” she summed up.

He went over to the CD player - put on another CD - George Shearing played standards in a classical style.  He poured himself another drink and sat on the couch.  She knelt next to him, rub his neck and he relaxed a little more.  She whispered “will you have this to eat every day in England?”

“No, I will alternate it with McDonalds” he said, tracing her long hair round her face, onto her breast and pausing.  She rubbed his belly pointedly, smiling as she looked at the pie and him alternately.  He spanked her arse.

The girl ran in - raucous Katy Perry mixed with the mellifluous piano - she was breathless.

“Lard is cow fat” she announced “I looked it up on the internet”.

“Oh my God, pig, pig fat and cow fat - we can’t....”

He pulled two bottles of beer from the ice box and pondered whether he needed an axe or a knife to break the pie open.

“If it gets too bad the beer will take the taste away”

“What about me?” shouted the girl over her music

“Switch that noise off and we’ll see”
“Do I get beer?”

“No, you’re nine”

He took out a large knife and a chopping board and removed the packaging.  She brought in three small plates.

The girl sat at the table, but lowered her head as though she were some giant swimming onto Daytona Beach.  The pie was unveiled, disrobed, naked and bare to the world.

He stuck in the knife and was surprised how the pastry yielded. He cut the pie in two and the marbled innards revealed themselves.

He turned to the girl

“Get all the Tsukemono (pickles) you can find in the fridge - cucumber and ginger - I know we have that.”

She was a little transfixed by the bifurcated pie.

He cut one half in half again and then into three slices the size of his pocket book.

“Aren’t you going to cook it?” asked the girl
“I think its already been cooked, look at the centre, I think that’s the meat”

The girl looked dubious and took a reluctant sniff when he passed her a slice.  The woman looked even less convinced.

“And the English eat this all the time?”

“Morning noon and night in some places” he responded

“The women of Leicester and Melton Mowbray must be huge!”

“Yeah they are all giants! OK here we go, we’ll all try a taste after three.  1 - 2 - 3”

The girl chewed for a moment and spat it out, her mother chewed it for a long time and swallowed but immediately took three huge swigs from her beer.  He chewed carefully swallowed and tentatively took a drink of beer.

“Hmmm, that’s not too bad as he took a mouthful of mixed pickles - very ermmm what’s the word.....umami”

“It was horrible - so greasy and left this horrid peppery taste on my tongue and its not cooked inside - the pastry’s all white. And the meat is hard to chew and there are hard bits in it...” she paused, “can I have some beer?”

“No, you’re nine!  Anyway your cousin will be here any minute to take you to your dance class - go get ready.”

The doorbell rang a few moments later and the girl flew out the door, bag in hand, a rushed version of the morning’s events gabbled to an unsuspecting cousin and her mother.

“So what did you think?”

“Its awful”
“Really, I thought it wasn’t too bad - salty, greasy but like fast food, not haute cuisine”
“No, really its dreadful - if that’s the best England can offer they can keep it” she said

She wandered around the room, restless, she sidled up behind him as he read a book on the couch and massaged his neck.  He was unresponsive.  She went back to the table. Prodded the pie with a knife - she found scooped out and tasted off the end of the knife the clear jelly.

“Salty” she muttered

He was undisturbed

She cut herself another slice and tasted it again.  Salt and pepper in the mix, another slice and she found the pickles cut the fat taste.  She took him another slice and he picked at it as he read.  In fifteen minutes, they were eating into the second half of the pie.

With the final two slices: each the size of a paperback.  She brought his plate to him.  She ruffled his hair to get his attention, tickled him, he grabbed her wrists and pulled her onto the sofa. They played, they struggled, she squealed, they kissed: things got heated.

In an hour the pie had gone.  The plate was on the floor as were pastry crumbs, knocked off when they had made love on the table. The bookmark lost from its place, the book under the table, sweep across the room in a rush to clear the sofa. George Shearing playing on a never ending loop but no longer against the sound of lovemaking.  A chair knocked over in the midst, an empty bottle of massage oil, a belt no longer restraining, clothes scattered: some torn.  The Osaka early afternoon sun filtered through a blind onto their silky skin in embrace.

He got up, put on some blues, went back to the naked woman on the sofa and slide next to her.  He smoked, she caressed him.

“What should I tell them about the pie?”

“Fucking amazing - for all the wrong reasons”

Day 4 - Larner's Chicken, Ham and Asparagus Pie

Chapter 4

In which the pie eating assembly are entertained by a wholesome company in Norfolk and table rich with vittles including an intriguing comestible encased in pastry.

On arrival at our lodgings immediately Sam the boot boy at the hotel and knocked on the door of our dining room procured for our privacy and the protection of the ears of residents from the senior Mr North's  bellowing account of the National Anthem at midnight.

Sam knocked cautiously and entered timorously

"Pardon me sirs, I've been biden to ask you if the company would like to sample one of our famous holt pies.  Mr Palmer's establishment have sent one over which is most becoming and if you are not inclined to sample it I must take it back immediately."

Mr North junior spoke for the company after looks of approval from our colleagues

"This is the most hospitable shire in all of the Queens domain." there were cheers, and further still after he spoke further,

"My colleagues and I would be entertained far more by any pie than the singing of our eldest member or for that matter my converse."

The group  chattered and the the younger North bellowed "Good Sam I bid you bring the pie up - if you can carry it - and if not bring it up in halves but I'll wager the first will be consumed by the time you bring its second half."

There were nods from the company already entranced by toast and quail's eggs, duck pate and boiled tongue, eager to start but spitting feathers for a drink before tucking in.

As Sam disappeared mumbling under his breath, The Junior North also shouted after him "and ensure there are pickles to match the pies radius at a ratio of five onions per inch of crust!".

I fear this entreaty was lost as the boy trudged down the worn staircase to the ale house below, as concomitantly there was a round of cheers and the first bottle of finest French claret was opened to be enjoyed with the entrees.

The pie boys of Holt had procured an entire pie and announced its value at near Nine Pounds per pound to the throng who agtehred round them as they triumphantly carried it down the street, past the costamongers and traders in Holt.  It was a town of great civic pride and the town's coat of arms had included a pie until the late 1980's when its was considered insufficinetly representative of the rural economy and was replaced with a carriage popular locally known as a "Range-rover".  The boys were proud to carry a pie or have some part in its transport - for the commerce of the town had always been much more responsive to teh rich visitor than the lowly inhabitants.

Sam brought up two pies of 10 inches diameter and they were placed either ends of our groaning table.  Mr North senior cut a slice which looked like this:

A deafening cheer rang out as our host was brought up and toasted by each of our company on the quality of his house, its livery stables, the local produce ranged before us and his close friendship with the house of Palmer that had made the pie eralier in the week. It contained the meat of two fat hens from their own hen-house, asparagus from the fields north of Thetford and ham from a local pig which breathed the sweet scented Norfolk air until its last breath.

After the pie had gone and further claret had been served we discussed its merits whilst awaiting a side of beef and its trimmings:-

Mr North senior said is was a fine pie and enjoyed its succulence.  Others commented that it was rather dangerous to consume so much pastry at such a late hour.  Presently, the younger North spoke, thus.

"This pie is moist but borders on wet, the asparagus is over cooked and the chicken tough and in pieces too large to consume with delicacy that dining in company demands. The pastry is thin on the base and thinner still near the centre, but thick and noisome at the edges.  As a pie for table it just passes muster for the freshness of its ingredients and the tastiness of them and the minimal seasoning, but for use in hand in labour or in transportation it is a dangerous mix of unaggregated meats and vegetable matter.  This pie could with the jolt of a wheel, or the nudge of an elbow be nothing but a hollow pastry crust"

The company were aghast, but he continued

"Our journey across Albion's soil must be unstinting in its praise for that which is good, but constructive in its criticism of that which it finds wanting.  My friends I have no complaint with the toothsome offering here in Holt, but its construction must be made more secure.  Tomorrow I will hither to Palmers and instruct them, with your support of our findings here. I trust I will have you behind me as I suggest that the pie lacks basic binding material and what it needs is.......an egg!"

There was a sullen silence about the room.....

I need not detain you with the whys and wherefores of the next day.  The bibulous evening did nothing to sharpen the younger North's spirits or wits and the discussion he had taken to be his company's acquiescence was in fact a discussion on the quality of roast beef.  He was unable to persuade Palmer's of Holt to add egg to their crumbly pie and had at that meeting no-one to support his proposition.  The resultant shouting disorientated young North and he did not see Sam and his colleagues gesturing for him to leave the shop.  the proprietors onslaught was filled with bitter invective.  North did however get a the full gist as the local constable waved a bill for over 30 pounds for two pies beneath his nose and marched him to their lodgings where his travelling companions emptied their pockets for funds to meet the officer's demands.  They left Holt somewhat regretful but wary of future pies which promise much and deliver less than expected.

Day 3 - Sunday - Bray's Cottage Pork Pie - Pt 2

She'd fallen off her bike.  She had to walk home that night. Damp, dirty and unfulfilled.

I got the goods home and paused before throwing away two seventy five in a fit of hunger. These Brays know how to make a pie look like its home made.  The pastry was rough hewn and speckled with glaze and the overflowing juices from cooking.

I cut it open and was amazed - this was the good stuff - the first pie I'd seen in years that didn't look like the ingredients had been mixed together for a fortnight.  The centre was firm - not tough - and the pastry was short, short like a jockey at a basketball game.

The pastry crumbled when the blade cut in - this was a good sign.  I read more about the Brays here.

I was too pre-occupied with pie to think any further about the woman.  I need now to take the final step the one they'd all said could never be retraced.  A giant leap in pie consumption had hit this town a little after the Brays holed up here. I was going to be part of that now.  I checked the phone - no messages, I locked door and I put my .38 in easy reach.

This was a magnificent pie - the taste were subtle and smooth, the texture varied and never once hinted at gristle.  There was no jelly, no hint of bulking rusk or overcooked onion.  It was truly a wondrous filling.

And the pastry was so short I coulda been eating a sand castle: but my it tasted so good and complemented the pie exquisitely.

It was in the words of Times Food critic Giles Coren, "the most extraordinary pie I've ever known" and you know what the guy is right.  This is the best pie I've ever tasted.  Where could the rest of my week go, how was I gonna fill my time.

The phone rang, it was the women the pie shop,

"Yes?"
"It's me" I paused
"From this afternoon, in the shop. Remember?"
"Kinda.........how did you get this number?"
"The Brays."
"What the f.....how did they-"
"They know everything, pies only go to people they know will appreciate them"
"Hmmm, I can understand why, I just tasted it, it was incredible"
"Tastier than me?" her voice dropped an octave "I can pop round if you need to check."
"Nothing doing sweetheart" I said "I'll see you tomorrow when I come back for more, much more.....pie that is."

She slammed down the phone.

I thanked God for Brays Cottage Pork Pie.

Day 3 - Sunday - Bray's Cottage Pork Pie - Pt 1

The assistant looked me up and down as I eyed up her pie, it's was a close thing I thought, if I'd been packing a 38 perhaps I'd have been served quicker.

"Can I help you?"she said with that accent that drives some men crazy and others to the bottle.  I held my nerve concentrating on the prize in the room.  No way was I gonna blow a cover I'd been working on for a week.  But it turned out the plan needed to go into the trash as soon as I'd stepped through the door.  I don't swoon like some flimsy dame, but she was the kind of dame you'd break a law for, several I think would be worth it. I was getting too close to the treasure I'd sought to lose my nerve.  Her Norfolk accent was the cherry and she knew it. I was getting drawn in and I loosened my tie in order to concentrate.

I narrowed my eyes.

"Where's you pies sweetheart?"

"Why Sir, you are VERY direct.  I have enjoyed the company of many tourists in my work but your's has been the most business-like to date."

"Don't play coy sweetheart" I said in a lower voice "I've come a long way to get my hands on your goods."

Her face turned to a broad grin and she played with her hair, I noticed her figure-hugging uniform for the first time.  Her goods were showing well - they can wait I thought.

"What's the best pork pie you have, sweet cheeks, I have as much dough as the deal will take." I said hoping to cut through too much obfuscation.  The room was quiet - if it was gonna get nasty there would be no witnesses.

"Do you want the pie or the goods?" she smiled so sweetly you could almost taste the sugar syrup dripping from her lips.  This was a well practiced line she towed.

"Honey, if the pie measures up then I may come back for the goods - both look pretty tasty from here but  I've been disappointed when I taken a bite in the past so I'm not promising' nothing for now sister, not even with sauce on it!" She sashayed to the end of the counter and pulled out a tray with a selection on it.  She was still in the game but knew I was gonna be a tough man to please.

"These are our best" her tone was suddenly business-like. I shook my head.

She leant over the counter "Ah c'mon buddy give me a break, I bust my ass 7-7 here every day and you know these pies will be good." she ran her fingers through her hair, like a sales rep who's got a ticket. "C'mon Mister"

"Listen lady - you're good but you know I'm after what the guys who run this town call real pie - those Brays know how to make a pie - show me the quality goods or I'm outta here and not coming back"

She looked around, the shop was empty.  She brushed imaginary crumbs off her uniform and slipped through a doorway and opened a fridge which was locked. I was onto the good stuff.

She walked out carrying a tray, a tray with a cloth over it, and all the time she looked out towards the shop door.  She set it down and went to pull back the cloth, but I grabbed her wrist.

"Is this the real deal?" I snarled
"Its more the real deal than you'll ever be" she snapped back, I gripped her wrist tighter
I pulled her closer
"You play tough honey but the sweat on your top lip gives you away"
She stopped pulling her arm away
Her eyes looked at mine for a moment longer than necessary then she looked down.  I relaxed my grip.
"These are the Brays" she whispered
"How much?"
"Two seventy five"
"Jez, these Brays must be mopping it up in this town"
"My brother likes to gamble" she muttered
"Show me the pie" I didn't acknowledge her admission

The cloth came back and she revealed this unimpressive item:



















"I'll give you the dough then skedaddle"
"OK" she said looking relieved, "in cash?"
"This better be worth it" I said as I paid her the two seventy five.
"You'll be impressed with everything with Bray stamped on it" her coy smile returned and she bit her bottom lip for going a bit too far.
"We'll see"

She wrapped the goods twice and handed me a small brown paper bag.  We both looked around again as I took the bag and she pocketed the money.  That was nearly ten times more than I'd pay for a regular pie.  I turned and left the shop without looking back.  The next day they found her in a ditch covered in muddy water, her uniform ripped on the brambles.

Day 2 - Pukka Steak and Kidney Poi

In the dreary accommodation of polite society it often behoves those holding the floor at a gathering or dinner to recount some small background detail to add colour and impetus to the substance of their discourse and with this nicety in mind I offer the following diversion.

At many Saturday afternoon's many years ago I was accustomed to go to Hillsborough to alight on a game of Association Football.  In the interval between ends there were sellers and hawkers of all manner of sundries including piping hot savouries for our delectation.  I happened upon the finest pie of my entire life at one such.  This "meat" pie was of great delicacy and wholesome beyond belief against the wintertide winds and chill, so much that I marked in my diary thus:

"Wednesday stuffed by West Ham at Hillsborough Donkey Sanctuary: best thing about proceedings - the pie"

This was my first encounter with a pie from the manufactory of Messrs Pukka and Pukka, pie makers to gentlefolk.

There dear reader, I have set the scene I hope with a morsel of humour and humanity: I believe it falls to the kind of writer of the sort to which my aspiration is set, to be brief.

More latterly and this very week to be precise, I revisited that earlier reverie and undertook a re-tstaing of that purveyor's produce which came for commercial solicitation at the advantageous price of two pies for two pounds and for myself I regard any pie which costs less than a Guinea as worthy of consideration.

In the absence of good porter or stout, I settled myself at the kitchen table with fresh peas from the garden and boiled new potatoes and a chastening mug of light beer.  Here is my offering rendered in coloured pencils, at the moment of it's serving by his Grace, the Bishop of Huddersfield who is a enthusiastic amateur water-colourist, pencilman and gentleman of fine standing.  His Grace gave us such a Grace before this repast that my soul was elevated to quite heavenly disposition or through the lacking of any sustanance of any fortiftude that day.  Such was the stirring of his Grace's grace that I was overcome.  And both he and I were grateful for the bounty the Lord had bestowed on us in this meal - so at least cook was not put to the trouble of pudding thanks to that rare sweetmeat of coconut, from the Indies, and both plain and milk chocolate.

My anticipation was not well met.  The distant memory of the sporting field was not relieved in taste, or mellifluous odour, or the beguiling velvety texture mix of viscous gravy and lavish portions of meat to gristle.  It was my folly to be sentimental of those days.  War, economic destitution and social inequality has rendered both footballing success in North Sheffield and the fortunes of Messrs Pukka and Pukka equally dismal dear reader.  The thickened glutenous matter such lodged the meat with a mixture of subterfuge and camouflage was such a non-descript brown amalgam that has no hint of jollity or taste in it.  That meat there was could scarcely be described as wholesome, but hard as a nut but of less substance.  The offal which so often provides relief from chewing was invisible and untasted in the alluvium of the the pie.  Only in the crust did I find a modicum of delight.  But as he Grace retorted "Madam, this piece of crust is but a facile shadow of the goodness our Lord provides in pastry rough formed in oven up and down the land from high houses to lowly sculleries by daughters and wives for the plates of their fathers and husbands.  In short, Ma'am, this short pastry is short on everything but hot air."

My acquaintance with these products across a dining plate may take a decade or more by which time his Grace will be higher in our Church and by that time one might venture, husbands and fathers might be equally occupied preparing pastry for their wives and daughters.  Society may only value the prettiest of pies, but this is nothing but affectation.  In substance we will judge our politicians, our clergy and our pies and those - like those of Messrs Pukka and Pukka which do not pass muster must by virtue of sporting sufficient meat, be relegated from society.









In the style of Jane Austin (to be read with harpsichord music in background)

1 Day - Morrison's snack sized pork pies

We are in well-travelled territory for me today mateys

In the dog eat dog world of the mini snack POI there's a important set of boxes for the very best POI to tick to get my hard earned, oh yes:

ONE - Get-at-ability - no time wasting packaging
TWO - can I get my gob round it?
THREE - is it jam PACKED with taste and goodness
FOUR- no GREASY residues, I have enough explaining to do to the Missus when I've been to the chippy!

So I was as pleased as PUNCH when I was handed a brown paper bag with five gorgeous MORRISON'S pork pies in it. 

Getatability rating: Best In Show. 

Label off and we're in there quicker than gettin' in Pam's pants on a Saturday night.

They are a nice handy size.................Never a problem with one...........two is more than a mouthful.


LOOK AT THIS matey:-

These pies are just FULL OF IT, packed with meat til they bustin. 

No jelly, wasteful fresh air or telltale shrinkage - ya just couldn't cram any more meat in!!! 

How do they do it for the price. 

I'm well impressed mates and I'm a man who's fucking hard to impress POI-wise 

I can tell you!



Not only that this saltly savoury mix of pigs parts and stuff, is a dream on the tongue, it won't dent the wallet either at £1.49 for five yes five.....yes I said.........five   

Awesome value!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AND play mates there's no sticky residue - I know how you ladies hate that ;-)

So straight out the brown paper bag these little beauties are cuter and sweeter than Kylie's a                                  redacted for legal reasons