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To be honest, I’d
promised her dinner to compensate for dragging her along to
observe the strange rituals of the Pork Pie Appreciation
Society. Every Saturday evening, members gather in a
reserved section of the town’s Old Bridge Inn and, if
nothing else, a pie goes very well indeed with the excellent
draught bitter brewed by Timothy Taylor’s. Members are
exclusively male and middle-aged. Conversation is punctuated
every now and then by a volley of flying crumbs. After all,
the main business of the evening is the dissection,
discussion and analysis of pies. Rarely in the field of
human discourse have so many words been devoted to pastry,
jelly and meat. “We don’t chat like women at a coffee
morning,” says society secretary Peter Charnley. “We meet
for a purpose.” Wives and partners are apparently quite
happy to stay at home, watching Casualty or whatever.
“They’re glad to get rid of us,” says stalwart pie-eater
John Hirst, licking crumbs from his lips before inserting a
small cigar.
The only exceptions
to the men-only rule are visiting spouses, like my wife,
whose views on pastry are listened to with respect. That’s
quite an achievement in a way because these are Yorkshiremen
with trenchant views. The pies they like are Yorkshire pies
with a dry crust and pink meat (Melton Mowbray varieties, on
the other hand , have centres the colour of roast pork).
“We’re very passionate about pies,” life president Kevin
Booth had told me a few days before our arrival in Ripponden.
He’s away on holiday in Benidorm tonight. A pity. I wanted
to question him further about the recent wedding of his
brother, Stuart. Instead of a cake, apparently, there was a
three tier pork pie with a miniature bride and groom on top.
In Kevin’s absence, it’s down to other officials to keep
order. Bob Letven, the society’s scribe, is taking a full
minute of the proceedings, recording almost every word in
black ballpoint in a thick, hard-backed diary. He writes
with the neatness and deliberation that you might expect
from a primary school head teacher. Among the other members
are a lorry driver, a haulage contractor, a brace of
engineers, the health care development manager of a
pharmaceutical company and someone from human resources at
Yorkshire Water.
Origins
Believe it or not, this disparate crew
first came together through the local health club. They were
in their late 20s and early 30s at the time. After a
strenuous work-out, they did what Englishmen tend to do.
They adjourned to the nearest pub, whereupon one of the
company started tucking into a pork pie, supplied by his
wife. The others looked on enviously, until someone had the
bright idea of bringing in pies for everyone from his local
butcher. Somebody else did the honours the following week
and, eventually, a rota was worked out. Rules, too. And the
number one rule was that pies should be purchased from a
traditional butcher or baker rather than a supermarket.
What’s more, it should be bought on the day of consumption.
No preservatives, thank you very much. Meat should be of the
highest quality and seasoned with salt and pepper, with
perhaps a few herbs. Pastry should be so packed with meat
and jelly, or ‘gravy’ as they call it up here, that there
are no holes or ‘rat runs’. |
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Tonight’s fetcher is
Peter Charnley and, by tradition, he feels obliged to defend
his choice of pie against criticism from all-comers. First
into the ring, after removing his cigar, chewing
thoughtfully and swallowing with an almost pained
expression, is John Hirst. “It’s a classic looking pie,” he
concedes, “squat and round like a French aircraft carrier.
But mine was a pie of two halves – one slightly burnt and
the other a bit lardy. The gravy had run to one side. It was
nice tasting gravy; I’ll give you that. And the meat was
quite succulent. All in all, a poor effort. Four and a half
out of 10.”
Peter gasps in mock
horror. “Hang on,” he protests. “You’ve got to say a bit
more to justify a mark as low as that.” “All right,” John
sighs exhaling smoke. “It had a rat run like the Mersey
Tunnel and it wasn’t seasoned too well. All I could taste
was salt. On second thoughts, I’m revising my mark
downwards. Four out of 10.”
Before Peter can say
another word, there’s an interjection from one Graham Haig.
“I tend to agree with John,” he says. “And I’m not too keen
on a crimped edge. As for the texture …”
“What’s wrong with
the texture,” Peter demands.
“I don’t know. It
just didn’t suit my palate.”
There’s even worse
to come from other members. This is Yorkshire after all, and
blunt speaking is obligatory. Peter is forced to bounce back
off the ropes and defend his selection. The pies were
procured, he reveals, from a normally reliable source in the
suburbs of Huddersfield. “My God, they were fresh this
morning when I bought them. It’s sharp is that pastry. If
you hadn’t got a full set of teeth it could cut your gums.
It was left in the oven a bit too long,” he concedes. “As
for the meat, I was looking for flavour but I got
after-burn. They’re not the best the man has cooked; I’ll
give you that. But I still say they’re good pies. Eight out
of 10.”
By now it’s nearly
9.30 but they’re still arguing away happily, enjoying the
banter and the beer amid flying crumbs and floating cigar
smoke. Your reporter and his wife slip away into the night.
We have a restaurant reservation to secure. The pie has
sustained me quite adequately. But the pints have given me a
sharp appetite.
“Bon a-pie-tit,” as
they say in Yorkshire.
Over 50 butchers
and bakers from all descend on the Old Bridge every spring
for the Pork Pie Appreciation Society’s annual
championships. On members’ say-so are reputations built and
destroyed. Last year’s supreme champions, Wilsons Butchers
of Crossgates, Leeds, reported a 50 per cent surge in sales
in the aftermath of their triumph. |
