(Try and) Findus

The following news story really had me snorting and pawing the ground and champing at the bit when I read it. Any unauthorized additions to the story appear in [brackets.]

(NEWSER) – First British and Irish consumers were aghast to discover horse meat in their hamburgers. Now, horse meat is turning up in frozen beef lasagnas, with 11 of 18 tested Findus products containing horse meat in the 60% to 100% range, reports the AP. Findus pulled its beef lasagnas [is lasagnas really a word?] from stores and apologized immediately, saying it had "fully resolved" issues with its meat supplies.

While horse meat is not considered a hazard per se, [or at least not one we would pay for, says the NHS] food safety officials are testing the meat for the veterinary drug phenylbutazone, which is banned from entering the food chain. Many food officials are pointing fingers at Irish beef exporters, who in turn are blaming Polish suppliers [who in turn are blaming the lax disposal methods of royal polo ponies.] The UK Food Standards Agency is calling for more comprehensive meat testing to ensure labels accurately represent products.

[End of news story]

May I note that I have never seen an Irish consumer aghast? This thought itself is a mental treat to me in my news story reverie. Truly. An Irish consumer in a genuine state of aghastment, perhaps sitting on a curb/kerb with his/her head in his/her hands, perhaps a horse lover forever disillusioned with his/her trusted government meat inspectors. Did you know you can buy bison meat in the U.S. - all ground up to make bison burgers out of - right next to the ground beef packages in the meat display case in some supermarkets? Well, you can. But you won't mistake it for ground beef because it is too red and lacks all the fat of American ground beef.

Extra tidbit at no extra charge: Did you know that when Arizona cops stop you for DWI and give you a breathalizer test, they ask you to try and say the word phenylbutazone while blowing into it? Then they laugh at you and arrest you anyway, and take you to jail where you are fed Sheriff Joe's green baloney sandwiches with rattlesnake protein mixed in it.

Finally, here is a gratuitous photo I stole from Soubriquet's wallet, just to see if he reads all the way down to the end of the post. Ta.

More British food. Sort of.

In the past we have talked extensively about Britain's fine gastronomical delights such as Yorkshire Pudding, Cornish Meat Pies, Fish and Chips, and so much more. ("So much more" mainly meaning mushy green peas.) Not quite extensively enough, however: today we marvel at something lovingly called "British Rail Food."

If you are an american reading this, you may jump (naturally) to the same conclusion I did at first. Rail food. Right. You make a box lunch and go sit on a railroad track and eat it. First one squashed by a train loses. A game, not food. Au contraire mon frere.

The British rail network was nationalized (or "nationalised", as the Brits like to hiss) between 1948 and 1994. Some of the sandwiches from that era are still under heating lamps waiting to be sold.

Not true, you say?

Then you would be wrong, for I can readily document the period of nationalization of Britain's railroads.

Oh. The food under the heating lamps, you mean. Yes, perhaps an exaggeration. But legend has it that the test for the sandwiches finally being thrown away was when their corners curled up more than 1 inch. That's a fact. No, wait. I said that was a legend. So NOT fact.

True, however, were the nasty comments and jibes this rather regimented "food" took from Britsh travelers during that period. Or "travellers" as the British like to say, in their uppity consonant-wasting way.

Uncovered at last is a 37-year-old document which listed some rules for the making and displaying of fine rail food during that era.

Issued in 1971 and authored by Director of Rail Catering, one Bill Currie, whose name would be especially apt today, himself now 37 years older than then, or perhaps actually dead and buried, as his food was and should have been, but here contributing only to this post's longest run-on sentence, gave several tips and instructions.

To make the sandwiches attractive (and probably to be able to tell what was inside) at least a third of the filling had to be placed in the center where the diagonal cut would be made and the contents seen by the, ahem, "consumer."  Translated from the American into your standard BritishSpeak, this would be written roughly as follows:

"The average consumer could expect to find ⅔ oz of meat in their sandwich, but if a frankfurter took your fancy you got a whole 1oz! Filling a bread roll with chicken and cress required even more precision, as catering staff were charged with the task of calculating one twelfth of a punnet. Tasty treats like cheese (¾ oz) and gherkin (¼ oz), luncheon meat (⅔ oz) and cress, and sardine (⅔ oz) and tomato (⅓ oz) were whipped up all over the network."

Now, that's precision! Holy Ronald McDonald!

Now, right about now, the three or four Americans reading this far down in the post are probably saying to themselves, "Wha' the feck is 'punnet'? Wha' the feck is a cress?" And rightly so, but not germane to this post, since the Brits already likely know what that stuff is, and probably eat it all the time. Unless a punnet is not edible. Perhaps it is a napkin. Though napkins were unlikely to be served with food back then. I assume. Since a napkin would have cost more than the actual amount of food one received.

And, to be absolutely fair, an American, whose usual evening fare consists of a two-day-old Earl Campbell hot link purchased from an Indian all-night convenience store and washed down with a raspberry slurpy, would hardly be in a position to judge fine cuisine as would your average on-rail British "consumer." One would think.

Former BR caterer Myra Tuddenham, from Newcastle, said the reputation for stale BR sandwiches probably dated back to when they were kept under glass domes on the counters in refreshment rooms until the corners indeed turned up:

"They probably were terrible, particularly when the tomato made the bread go soggy, but people still bought them by the thousand. They are all pre-packed now and standard is much higher these days - I think the food is fabulous now," said Myra.

"Myra retired in 1999 after 28 years on the railways but is still a regular East Coast Main Line traveller. Indeed despite their reputation, BR sandwiches were undoubtedly a big seller among the passengers. Records show that in 1993 Inter-City customers munched their way through no fewer than eight million packs!"

Relax Max reckons Myra's face still displays a rather pronounced tic when she utters the words "Standard is much higher these days - food is fabulous now!" Picture Myra's head jerking sideways and snapping a bit backwards as the word 'fabulous' comes gushing out, and her left eye tic-ing rapidly, uncontrollably, at the very memory of chomping down on one of those wretched 37-year-old pickles. Ah, yes. We all believe you, dear.

Unfortunately, none of our readers are old enough to remember the grand nationalized rail era.  Too bad. Your comments would  be marvelous. 

Soul food

Soul Cakes are an echo of the sacrificial foods of the Celtic festival of Samhain held in early autumn. These little cakes were traditionally set out with glasses of wine on All Hallows Eve for the souls of the dead. On All Saints Day children would go "souling" calling out "Soul, Soul, for a Soul Cake: pray you good mistress, a soul cake".

Well, we missed Halloween and All Saints Day, didn't we? So maybe I will make some soul cake for Christmas instead.

3/4 cup butter

3/4 cup caster/superfine sugar
4 cups plain flour, sifted
3 egg yolks
1 teaspoon mixed spice
1 teaspoon allspice
3 tablespoons currants
a little milk

Cream the butter and sugar together
Beat in the egg yolks.
Fold in the sifted flour and spices.
Stir in the currants.
Add enough milk to make a soft dough.
Form into flat cakes and mark each top with a cross.
Bake on a well-greased baking tray in a hot oven until golden.

Cream? Beat? Fold? Stir? Form? I can stir. And probably form. I know "bake".

Don't want to embarrass myself but it sure looks like a donut to me.

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Peter, Paul & Mary > Movin'> a'soalin':

Hey ho, nobody home, meat nor drink nor money have I none
Yet shall we be merry, Hey ho, nobody home.
Hey ho, nobody home, Meat nor drink nor money have I none
Yet shall we be merry, Hey ho, nobody home.
Hey Ho, nobody home.

Soal, a soal, a soal cake, please good missus a soul cake.
An apple, a pear, a plum, a cherry,
any good thing to make us all merry,
One for Peter, two for Paul, three for Him who made us all.

The streets are very dirty, my shoes are very thin.
I have a little pocket to put a penny in.
If you haven't got a penny, a ha' penny will do.
If you haven't got a ha' penny then God bless you.

Soal, a soal, a soal cake, please good missus a soul cake.
An apple, a pear, a plum, a cherry,
any good thing to make us all merry,
One for Peter, two for Paul, three for Him who made us all.

Listen to a free short clip of A'Soaling. (click on start button in center of page)

The best and the worst

Here are some much better pictures of Whitby than the one, above, that I had found. Check them out - they will give you a MUCH better idea of the flavor of this fun place to visit! [Photos by, and courtesy of our good friend Soubriquet]

The post before this one was the 200th for BritishSpeak. If I had known, I would have tried to make it more interesting. Or at least make it about Britain. Too late now.

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Food for thought.

One of the subjects we have definitely NOT neglected, either here or over at the pub, is the subject of food. In looking back over some of the food posts for both blogs, I discover that the best fish and chips in the UK (and thus the whole world) can be found in Lincolnshire at the late Mrs. Longden's in Upton village. At least they were when she was still alive. And the worst (assuming you don't count Scotland at all) are to be found also in Lincolnshire, along the east coast in the tourist eateries there.

As an investigative American, I soon found that the above was only a subjective opinion, and one or two of you had other ideas as to the winners at both ends of the scale. But, then, Americans are not really qualified to advance an opinion anyway, since (number one) they don't ever eat fish and chips in the UK, and (number two) they have been raised on Fish 'N More at Long John Silver's all their lives.

Despite the above authoritative opinion from expert British sources, I find that an award for the best fish 'n chips this year went to, generally, the town of Whitby in North Yorkshire. This, according to the online version of the Mail. I'm guessing that is a newspaper in the UK. Should you not be in the mood for delcious fish 'n chips, Whitby also offers delightful coastal walks and donkey rides. Hmmmm.

Still obsessed with food

Not too long ago, I did a post on Canadian Bacon. I found out several things from the comments to that post. Mainly, Canadians don't know what the hell it is. Some Canadians thought Canadian Bacon exists only in the American imagination.

But, at the same time, the conversation turned to bacon in general. The concensus was that American bacon was worst of all, and British bacon was the best stuff on the planet. This from the British of course, most of whom have never tasted American bacon.

American bacon is very fatty and is an acquired taste for foreigners. It is smoked. Hickory smoked is the most common, followed by maple.

British bacon is much leaner, obviously cut from a different part of the pig. Canadian bacon (yes, there really is such a thing) is more like ham in my opinion - not really bacon at all. But that is what they call it.

At the top of this post is a picture of what British bacon looks like, for those of us who have never seen it. As you can readily see, it is much, much leaner than American bacon. I don't know if it is smoked or not. Probably is. Couldn't find that out before I got bored of  Googling this morning. I'm sure the Brits will tell us if it is, as long as we listen to their stories of how they once had American bacon and it was so bad-tasting they had to throw it away.

Just from looking at the picture on top, they may be right.

World's best fish & chips? Apparently debatable.

Excerpted from "The Amazing Toad":

Lincolnshire is the fish 'n' chip capital of the world. I once met a chap who said: "Yorkshire has all the best fish and chip shops". With total confidence that no court would convict me, I took half a step back, sprang forward and struck him hard with a clenched fist to his throat. "You sir", says I, "are a confounded liar". He said nothing in reply - the silent testimony of the guilty, I suppose.

Haddock and chips from the late Mrs. Longden's in Upton village certainly were the best, when the venerable old soul was still shovelling coal into her 1930's fryer. Her nephew carries on with the business, I'll let you know if they're still the world's no. 1 when I've reviewed them again. Grimsby has a plethora of very good fish 'n' chip shops. My favourite in Lincoln is the Elite on Tritton Road. Mr. Chips in Louth are good too. These places are the tops - Rick Stein ain't in it.

Whatever you do, don't eat fish 'n' chips in the sweating, groaning, hell-holes that pass for holiday resorts on Lincolnshire's East coast. They cater for the troglodyte masses of Nottinghamshire and South Yorkshire, who think that what they're eating is "reet gud" on the simple premise that it isn't gruel. You eat fish 'n' chips from Skeggy for a week and you'll be dead within the year. Fact.

The worst fish and chips are to be found in the South - no arguments. Scotland comes a creditable second place in the worst-fish-n-chips-in-Britain league. Roll on independence and then with a leader called "Salmon", they might pass the "Closure of Poor Chippies Act" (2007).

Comments welcome (apart from outright lies).

Any arguments from you soft southies?

Canadian Bacon—Fact or Fiction?

A Canucklehead recent post has got me thinking.

That in itself is a pretty dangerous concept, but, even worse, he has me thinking about food instead of hockey and/or beer. Which is all he usually talks about. Hate hockey. Used to love beer. Love other things now. Hockey and beer are pretty much what Canada seems to run on: hockey is the motivator, beer is the fuel.

But there is also a legend that they have a special secret kind of bacon.

I asked Canucklehead about this, but he won't answer. He just keeps babbling on about something he calls Greek Easter. So I thought I'd throw the question out to the all-knowing Brits. Unless Grumpus stumbles by and edifies me, which isn't likely. She knows everything. At least I'm pretty sure she does. Or maybe my favorite book lady. What's her name. The pretty one in Northern Ireland that claims she has mastered roundabouts. Not much chance of her showing up either, eh? (Yes, Catherine, I am aware that you can live in N. Ireland and still be a Brit. Don't throw the book at me.) A. would probably know. Or would lie to me authoritatively. Either way.

Claire wouldn't have a clue, but would be happy to talk about llamas or blow-up dolls. And I'd be happy to listen, too. You bet. Marmelade? She's either swearing at me right now because of my subject matter, or is simply screaming with her hands over her ears. Pork, you know. Sorry, my lovely orange one. You know I would never eat the stuff—I only want to know what it is. Ok? Marmelade?

Anyway. Every time I order breakfast in Canada, they bring me the same stuff as I get down here to the south. Same stuff exactly. When I ask them if it is really Canadian Bacon, they look at me like I'm stupid. "Sure it's Canadian Bacon, idiot. You're in Canada. Get it?" But I think they lie. (I don't actually eat it when they bring it, Marmelade. Nor the eggs. I only eat the grits and drink a little orange juice. I only order the bacon to see what it looks like. And the eggs just seem to come with it automatically. Go figure.)

So, is Canadian Bacon real? Or is it just a legend? Is it really just ham? Has anybody ever truly SEEN Canadian Bacon? If so, does it come in rashers or just plain American slices? Is this a real set of words I can add to my list? Or simply a myth? Is anybody listening to me?

Happily, I think M permits beer. At least I hope she does. Probably not hockey, though.

[Black bar over drunkard's eyes indicates this picture was

stolen from somebody else's blog, and identity of lush is being kept secret.]

Gone shopping

Well today I must get down to Tescos and do my shopping for the fortnight. I can’t bear going more often, it’s always chock a block and you have to queue for ages at the checkout. It’s handy though because it’s in a small shopping centre and of course you can save a few quid there. There is a chemist, an estate agent, a shop selling curtains and cushions, even a chippie so usually I can get everything I need, pretty much the full monty. There’s a petrol station too. It’s not far, down the High Street, left at the roundabout, a short way down the dual carriageway and bob’s your uncle.

You have to use a multi-storey car park nearby but they let you take the trolley across, you don’t have to cart your carrier bags along. There is a zebra crossing which also helps. On Sundays they occasionally hold a car boot sale in the outdoor part.

Anyway, today’s shopping list includes, salad cream, Scotch eggs, aubergines and courgettes. I can’t decide whether to do bubble and squeak or jacket potatoes for this evening. I also need washing up liquid, tights and some kitchen roll. I just hope I don’t get that bloke on the check-out – he really isn’t the full shilling, a total pillock.

And when I’m eventually home, I can have a cuppa with a couple of digestives to recuperate.

So there you have it folks, your starter for ten. Please add, embellish, illustrate with shopping examples of your own - to please Max who doesn't think we're taking him sufficiently seriously. Also to get me some Brownie points.