Sausage rolls

Sausage rolls can be a delight or not worth eating. As a general rule, the smaller they are, the better. I tend to like the artisan ones with roughly cast pastry.

Mustard

Let me begin with the villains. First, so-called French mustard which I say is so-called because I doubt it has ever been anywhere near France. Brown, slimy and sweet-tasting, it will often be brought to the table in a pub following a request for "French mustard".

Then there is the sweet American mustard. Just about acceptable on a bad hotdog if one wishes to eat one.

Next, pointlessly flavoured mustard. Whisky-flavoured mustard or, even worse, truffle-flavoured. A waste of good ingredients, one strong flavour overpowering the other.

An exception to the rule against flavoured mustard is, in my view, tarragon mustard. Beautifully green and flavoursome.

Although I find English mustard far too fiery, I will give it cupboard room because some of my friends insist upon it as their mustard of choice and also because the powdered version works well for the purposes of dusting a joint of beef before cooking it. And I quite enjoy the ritual of making the mustard up with a teaspoon of powder and a teaspoon of water.

Wholegrain mustard is another matter: it is splendid exotic-tasting stuff and I like the way the mustard seeds dissolve in the mouth. My mother once cut her hand trying to force open one of those large grey jars of Pommeroy mustard which end up as pen holders or useful pots to put things in.

But best of all, and most versatile, is straightforward Dijon mustard. Milder and tastier than English, it is what I tend to eat with a sausage or roast beef. It also works well in a vinaigrette. Yum.

Monastic sausage

One of life's frustrations is when something delicious disappears from the shelves - for good.


I have seen it happen with my favourite Turkish gherkins.


With the "Texan bar" - although I have just discovered, even more frustratingly, that they were brought back for a short time in 2005: must have missed it. I remember at the age of seven asking my mother to get me a "Texas" bar. Fortunately, when presented with the "Texan", she surmised it was the right one and brought it back. I thought she was teasing at first when she said what she'd found.


I fear a similar disappearance may happen one day with Orangina when it is replaced with Fanta orange. And with Bolst's mango pickle, which I have written about elsewhere.


But these frustrations are balanced with happier moments. I discovered on a Polish stall in Waterloo a dried sausage called "Monastic sausage". The stall holders were very elusive when I asked them what it was called in Poland and where else I could find it. Eventually, the supplies dried up and they told me variously that they made it themselves and it had not proved popular or that they could not find it anywhere. They were misleading me. I wandered into a Polish shop in Dartford (of all places) and discovered piles of it stacked on the counter. In fact, it is produced commercially by a company called "Balcerzak" and is called "Kiełbasa Polska Surowa Długodojrzewająca" - translated on one website as "Long-maturing Polish Sausage". I don't know where the "Monastic sausage" bit came from. But I now appear to have a long-term supply. I commend it.

Hot sausage and mustard

Red Dwarf's Lister once mused, "Why do intelligent people buy cinema hotdogs?" No doubt he would agree with the existence of the rule that states that a hot dog stall should sell sausages as rubbery and lacking in any flavour other than that of stale oil, which should be contained in soggy white rolls and served with slightly burned onions or, worse, onions tasting as though they've been boiled for a very long time.

Is it something to do with the need for a sense of danger about the experience? Enid Blyton's Snubby is one of her more engaging child characters, certainly next to his insipid cousins Roger and Diana. He was prepared to refuse the sausage sandwiches on offer at Rilloby Fair, choosing instead "tomato sandwiches of which he was inordinately fond". A sensible child. His cousins got food poisoning.

In my first job, I recall the sausage sandwiches provided by a white faced and overweight cook; he would cut each sausage in half horizontally. They were average but not bad sausages.

I reject the thesis that bad food should emerge from a hot dog stall and that one should simply learn to appreciate it. My recent encounter in Bromley demonstrated my point. On offer at the butcher's stall, along with meat for cooking, sausages were sizzling. Three kinds of sausages - ordinary, Cumberland and pork and apple. I went for ordinary, with onions. The sausages themselves were described as organic, no guarantee but a promising sign. What further reassured me was the sight of the stall holder poking the sausages carefully with a meat thermometer. When I saw this, I said to the stall holder, "You do this properly, don't you?" He looked pleased or maybe he just felt that would be the politic response to my eccentricity. The bread rolls themselves did not look cheap and nasty. It all augured well. I added some mustard and set off, eating along the way. I was not disappointed. Sausage so hot that I had to chase it around my mouth breathing heavily. A meal to cheer.

Another memorable sausage sandwich was provided to me by a family friend. Andrew Reid took my order the night before, very carefully and methodically taking my instructions: whole grain mustard, bread rather than toast. We had to set off very early in the morning - an icy morning - from rural Buckinghamshire. Keeping me warm on that coldest part of the journey were the contents of the package handed to me by Andrew, wrapped in silver foil.