Say aye tae a pie

Two thousand years ago, the Romans bludgeoned their way into the north of England. As they subjugated the lowly, mud-dwelling populace, they made a very useful discovery. The locals had invented a method of transporting small amounts of gristly meat around, without having it spoil – or drip through the fingers. Encased within a fatty, crumbling sleeve of pastry, they proved to be an ideal foodstuff for fast-moving armies. Back in Rome, Caesar Augustus Piecus attributed the success of his soldiers to this fact, and as a result, they were named after him.

Fast forward to modern times, and although the Romans have gone – the pie remains. One reason for this has to be its versatility, as literally anything can be added to the filling. It needn’t even be edible, judging by some of the supermarket ‘value’ pies. Hailing from Preston, my most beloved is the style we gave to the world – the Butter Pie. The name is misleading (it’s usually less than 30% butter) – inside is fluffy mashed potato, a few ribbons of onion, and that’s it. Butter pie and chips, can of Tizer – that was my lunch at school for five years.

Clearly, it never did me any harm. I sometimes varied by going for potato and meat pies (not meat and potato. Not in Preston), or adding peas if I was in need of nourishment – but the pie is an old friend to me. These days, however, it is under threat. The great British pie has been gastro’d. Good friend of the BeerCast Gavin Aitchison recently highlighted this trend, as part of his celebration of (the currently ongoing) British Pie Week. Gavin solemnly charts the rise of the imposter. The fakers.

For instance, example one – a lovely chicken and mushroom filling, crisp, fluffy pastry on top. Served in a ceramic dish. THIS IS NOT A PIE. It’s a chicken crumble. Do not accept this. Example two – a lovely steak and stout filling, topped with a free-standing puff-pastry lid. THIS IS NOT A PIE. It’s slop with a top. Or as Gavin says – a stew with ‘pastry, floating like rafts on stormy sea’. Do not accept this either. Pick up the lid and throw it at the pub window, where it should a) stick, and b) serve as a warning to others, to the pie-curious, about what lies are told within.

If your collection of belongings was protected by a lean-to roof – you wouldn’t call it a house, would you? A pie needs four walls and a floor, as well as a lid. Shakespeare would be turning in his grave if he knew the threat to his beloved ‘pyes fill’d with rook and turnip’. If you can’t pick the whole thing up without fouling your shirtfront, leave well alone. We need to celebrate the classic British pie – it’s the perfect drinker’s food, after all. You can’t eat fish and chips standing up with a pint of mild in the other hand. Soak up that beer with a pie.