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.
Denne historien er fra August 23, 2023-utgaven av Country Life UK.
Start din 7-dagers gratis prøveperiode på Magzter GOLD for å få tilgang til tusenvis av utvalgte premiumhistorier og 9000+ magasiner og aviser.
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Denne historien er fra August 23, 2023-utgaven av Country Life UK.
Start din 7-dagers gratis prøveperiode på Magzter GOLD for å få tilgang til tusenvis av utvalgte premiumhistorier og 9000+ magasiner og aviser.
Allerede abonnent? Logg på
Give it some stick
Galloping through the imagination, competitive hobby-horsing is a gymnastic sport on the rise in Britain, discovers Sybilla Hart
Paper escapes
Steven King selects his best travel books of 2024
For love, not money
This year may have marked the end of brag-art’, bought merely to show off one’s wealth. It’s time for a return to looking for connoisseurship, beauty and taste
Mary I: more bruised than bloody
Cast as a sanguinary tyrant, our first Queen Regnant may not deserve her brutal reputation, believes Geoffrey Munn
A love supreme
Art brought together 19th-century Norwich couple Joseph and Emily Stannard, who shared a passion for painting, but their destiny would be dramatically different
Private views
One of the best ways-often the only way-to visit the finest privately owned gardens in the country is by joining an exclusive tour. Non Morris does exactly that
Shhhhhh...
THERE is great delight to be had poring over the front pages of COUNTRY LIFE each week, dreaming of what life would be like in a Scottish castle (so reasonably priced, but do bear in mind the midges) or a townhouse in London’s Eaton Square (worth a king’s ransom, but, oh dear, the traffic) or perhaps that cottage in the Cotswolds (if you don’t mind standing next to Hollywood A-listers in the queue at Daylesford). The estate agent’s particulars will give you details of acreage, proximity to schools and railway stations, but never—no, never—an indication of noise levels.
Mission impossible
Rubble and ruin were all that remained of the early-19th-century Villa Frere and its gardens, planted by the English diplomat John Hookham Frere, until a group of dedicated volunteers came to its rescue. Josephine Tyndale-Biscoe tells the story
When a perfect storm hits
Weather, wars, elections and financial uncertainty all conspired against high-end house sales this year, but there were still some spectacular deals
Give the dog a bone
Man's best friend still needs to eat like its Lupus forebears, believes Jonathan Self, when it's not guarding food, greeting us or destroying our upholstery, of course
