THERE is much to be said for the Scotch egg. A proper one, of course, not those neon-hued abominations that lurk in the depths of service-station chiller cabinets, all wan, gristly meat, squash-ball-textured white and yolk the colour of despair. These grim ovoid mountebanks are fit for nothing, save weapons of mass indigestion. ‘Can you smell my breath?’ asks north Norfolk legend Alan Partridge, in I’m Alan Partridge, of his long-suffering PA, Lynn. ‘It smells a bit like gas,’ she replies with a grimace. ‘It’s those Scotch eggs we had at the petrol station last night.’ I rest my case.
As it is with so many great British snacks (pasty, pork pie, sausage roll), the devil is in the detail. A good free-range egg, boiled for no more than six minutes, so the yolk, the colour of a chocolate-box sunset, sits on the jammy side of oozing. And that egg, held in the loving caress of good, free-range pork, judiciously seasoned and tasting of a life well lived— before being coated in breadcrumbs, gently lowered into clean oil, smoking hot, and deep fried for a few minutes until burnished and crisp. As Oisín Rogers, pub master and creator of the Scotch Egg Challenge (about which more later), so rightly points out: ‘It’s an absolutely magical thing. And, of course, you can eat it standing up with a pint in your other hand. What’s not to love?’ What’s not to love, indeed.
Esta historia es de la edición August 23, 2023 de Country Life UK.
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Esta historia es de la edición August 23, 2023 de Country Life UK.
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