Trodden

My next project is also inspired by this old island. From medieval kitchens to Sweeney Todd to Melton Mowbray, meat pies have a long, although as we know not always distinguished, history in England.  Today there are a wide variety of sustaining pies that are commonly cooked and sold; the archetypal collection include shepherds pie, game pie, steak and kidney pie, and the type closest to my heart—the pork pie. I won’t bore you with more long-winded eulogies to this estimable food (for that I’ll send you here), suffice to say I have a constant hankering for it and have often thought about making my own. Anything so scrumptious  in its store bought incarnation must be absurdly divine when made from scratch with with the best ingredients and your own sweat and tears, right? (Well, I suppose that’s a debatable statement, but I find the DIY version adds an impalpable element of satisfaction.)

Until now I have been hesitant to try my hand at pork pie; I’d heard that the process is long, complicated, and rather tricky.  But that challenge isn’t going to stop Grub & Grist from the relentless pursuit of culinary prowess! Also, now I’m in England, the task doesn’t seem as daunting. Surely a country of pork pie enthusiasts will reward my efforts with advice, inspiration, and a certain crucial ingredient. . .

Pigs trotters are the all important source of that cool, melty jelly layer between crust and meat.  In the US, finding trotters is an ordeal, as we’re shamefully short on butchers and generally lack an appreciation for any part of the pig that cannot be transformed into bacon. I’d assumed that in the UK the case would be different. Butchers still line many a high street and have not been entirely relegated to a dingy corner of the super market. In fact, there is a resplendent butcher’s shop by the name of H.G. Walter next to my local tube station that always proffers a gleaming display of meats and holds a fistful of awards for its products.

So I wondered over there this afternoon, determined to find a pair of trotters for my pie. The precise tone of my determination, however, would best be described as grim. It was Sunday and I was scowling at the sunlight, clutching my head now and then against the brightness and bustle of London. It had been a festive night accompanied by too many glugs of a deceptively innocent pink drink called a Hollywood. (You’ve always got to watch out when a drink is baptized with a California name. It may look like sparkles and sunshine but beware . . . ) My mood worsened still further when I had trudged to the butchers only to find it shut. Sunday, dammit.

Still fixated on trotters, I began walking towards Fulham on North End Road, hoping to find an open shop.  A cousin of mine had suggested I try a butcher in a poorer area. That made sense, I reasoned, given that poorer areas generally correspond to non-posh-white communities which in turn tend to have richer traditions of cooking with such products as opposed to feeding them to their pets.  I perked up. The road in question looked like just such a place, so I headed straight for the first butcher I spied.

What followed encapsulates the depths to which my compromised mental state had sunk. Walking in the door I stood in line, glancing curiously at the massive, curvaceous knives hung from the back-splash of the butcher’s work counter and sniffing dubiously at the air, potent with the odor of raw meat. “Do you have pigs trotters,” I asked innocently.

The man behind the counter smiled sweetly.  “We don’t sell pig.”

He pointed to as sign plastered onto the display case. “Halal.”

I turned red, garbled apologetically, and slunk out the door.  I need to go home now and stick my head in a dark corner for the rest of the day, I thought. Retreat for the night and try again tomorrow.