Steak and Ale Pie?

It's not too much to ask, is it?  After all, if it's done well it's one of my first choices for a pub lunch.  But what have they done to my favourite pie?

On a cold winter's lunchtime there's nothing better to see you through the rest of the day than a good, well-made steak and ale pie.  I'd had a few good ones; the better ones having Guinness in them.  But there have been some disturbing changes recently that have quite offended me both aesthetically and in the taste bud department.

But first, let me tell you of the best steak and ale pie I have ever tasted.  It was about a year or so ago; I dumped a car full of teenagers off at Thorpe Park and headed off looking for somewhere to while away the time before collecting them, tired but happy, at the end of the day.  I drove aimlessly, and eventually saw the brown signs for Hampton Court Palace.  "That'll do!" I told myself.  They'd have food, shelter (the weather was iffy) and a history lesson all rolled into one.

So it was that I found myself ambling through Hampton Court Palace as lunchtime approached, looking for a likely cafe.  I found one within the older part of the palace, which they then called The Kings Kitchen (or Pantry, if forget which).  It had one main food item ... the most amazing, tasty and visually pleasing steak and ale pie in the known Universe.

Let me describe one to you.  A hand-crafted, hot pastry pie was served up, about the diameter of a circle you can make using the fingers of both hands and maybe three inches deep, with a hand-crimped lid. It bulged unashamedly at the sides, the calories straining but contained by the king of pastries.  It didn't end there, though.  The pie, on its plate, was raised to a large cauldron of chopped, sautéed onions as I nodded my consent.  These were piled in a large heap on top of the pie until no more would fit.  A second nod, and a ladleful of gravy cascaded down the onions and pie, pooling on the plate beneath.  My eyes bulged, my taste buds danced in anticipation. I really felt like I was in the King's Kitchen!

I sat at a long table made of thick wooden beams (oak?) and tucked in.  The taste was every bit as good as the presentation. It was magnificent. This pie had set the plumb line.  All other steak and ale pies now had to match this superlative experience that transported my taste buds back to Henry Tudor's table.

That was nearly two years ago.  I've sampled many a steak and ale pie since.  Did any of them come up against this paragon of pies and pass muster?  In short, no.  Some were good, but that's all. Just good.  Some you just had to take the chef's word for it that ale had come anywhere near the steak and sauce.  But this is no more than I expected and were not unduly disappointing.  The only pies that disappointed me on every level were made in a way that seems to have been quite recently invented, and they are sadly appearing so frequently that I am on the cusp of ceasing to order steak and ale pies altogether.

So, what are today's pub chefs doing to provoke such disappointment?  Again, let me describe.  Waiter service allows me to see my pie coming at a distance. As the waiter wends his way, tray in hand, I can tell instantly if it's "one of those pies" long before it is placed before me on the table.  The first thing is that, instead of a firm pastry supporting the pie beneath and to the sides, there is only a ceramic bowl in the shape of a pie dish.  This immediately demotes the dish to NOT A PIE status. The bowl is for cooking the pie in. It should stand alone when served up.  This is Great Britain. Pies, to earn the definition, are encased in pastry.  If the chef pours a ladleful of steak and gravy into a bowl, it's a STEW, whatever he perches on top of it afterwards.

And now we come to it.  I am increasingly dismayed with what is perched on top of my steak and ale stew-that-should-be-a-pie.  Chefs have taken to topping the ceramic dish with a pastry so puffed up it's like a super-giant vol au vent floating on the stew (rarely is this monstrosity actually touching the sides of the pie dish).  The last one I was served up with was three inches high of flaky, airy nothingness; a double insult to the plumb line set by the Hampton Court Palace pie, with its three inch deep golden shortcrust pastry sides.

A passable version of the puffed up pie.

I revisited Hampton Court recently.  I was hoping to repeat that memorable culinary experience that I had enjoyed previously.  But I realised all was not well when I noticed that the Kings Kitchen (or pantry) had been re-named.  Upon inspection, I was dismayed to see lasagnas and quiches with jacket potatoes where the magnificent hot pastry raised steak and ale pie had once reigned.  Oh, woe is me!  Thankfully, the reason for being there was mitigated by a visit to the Tiltyard* cafe where some hand carved gammon and delicious vegetables cheered me a little; but what had happened to the pie?  I shook my head in disbelief as I tucked into its replacement.  What is the country coming to?

A cruel mock-up of what Hampton Court Palace

used to provide to their paying guests.

* A Tiltyard was a place set aside for jousting (tilting) competitions.