Undeniably, the French know a thing or two
about food. And fighting. So it takes no great leap of faith for one to believe
Napoleon Bonaparte was well-informed and indeed accurate when he claimed “An
army marches on its stomach”*.
We British, knowing less about food but nonetheless
agreeing with Boney’s sentiment, went on to conquer two-thirds of the world’s
landmass during the 19th century fuelling an army purely on beer,
beef, and pork pies (mixed with a cunning refusal to learn the native tongue).
Forced to retreat to these shores during
the first half of the 20th century, the reasons for the failure to
create an enduring empire became apparent as we returned to this Sceptred Isle
clutching such exotic delicacies as the balti, the pita, and the kebab. All
admirable and delicious foods in their own right, but not manna for sustaining an
occupying army.
Whilst the empire has long disappeared, fortunately
those three staples of beer, beef and pork pies remain in great abundance. The
first two are both well-known and have their own global iterations, so it is
for the pork pie to stand alone as uniquely British.
Today, civilisation is divided in to two
distinct spheres: those who adore a good pork pie, and those who have yet to
taste one. They have become something of an obsession of mine.
In common with all the world's finest food, their
concept is terribly simple. The traditional British pork pie consists of
roughly chopped pork cooked in a hot water pastry crust. The pies are unique in
that the base is raised by hand around a wooden ‘dolly’. The dolly is removed,
the filling placed in, and a pastry lid seals the deal. Yes. The French raise
their children by hand. The Austrians, no doubt, raise their veal calves by hand.
But we, the Brits, raise our pork pies by hand.
The crowning glory of the humble pork pie
is in its jelly. As the meat cooks it reduces, leaving a void within the pastry
casing. As any pork pie aficionado knows, this just won’t do. In order to
maintain moistness a jelly, made by boiling the pigs bones in water, is
injected through a hole in the now deliciously golden crust. Really, what’s not
to love?
And there you have it. A simple food borne
of the English huntsman’s desire to have a tasty snack while out shooting fox
and boar, and one that went on to feed those who felt the world’s riches were
there to be plundered in the name of the king (or queen).
Throughout much of its history the pork pie
has been associated with one town, Melton Mowbray. It is our Parma, our Kobe,
our region de Champagne. And there, amongst the hills of Leicestershire, it
lays quietly anticipating the second coming of the British Empire. It may be in
for a long wait…
* Yes, for the pedants amongst us, it is
far more likely that what Napoleon actually said was, “Une armée marche sur son
estomac”. But no one likes a smart-arse, do they?
