For breakfast this morning, I found myself standing in a grey concrete wasteland in a rather less salubrious part of Glasgow than I am used to. As I stood negotiating with the three men fanned tightly in front of me, I tried not to notice the way in which they visually sized me up in the same gladiatorial way of which I had once done to others in my youth. All, possibly of Albanian descent, I didn't ask, it had no bearing on the job at hand other than I knew I could not give this particular job to the local boys in case word got out that my sons were involved. We live in a small community, people talk! It had all started five days ago in the back room bar at Colm O'Neills place not far fae Baile a' Chaolais. The sons had got in to a wee bit of bother while collecting a few things for me out in the back of beyond. Things had gotten very dirty, but no harm had been caused and they all managed to get out safely. All that was left was for me to take the initiative and clean things up a little.
The tallest of the Albanians, clad in the usual uniform of hooded sweatshirt, cheap chain store denim and the inevitable obligatory designer label running shoes, seemed to be the only member of the group who understood and spoke the same language as me. As he gazed up I couldn't help but notice that his left eye was glazed over in a a yellowy-white opaque. An oddity that reminded me of a jar of pickled onions, the vinegar, milky in colour due to age, that had stood for most of my childhood in the plate glass window of the oul fish and chip shop in the heart of Drumchapel. A lot of hard men were to be found in Drumchapel, but I do not know the name of any man brave enough to eat fae that jar. More worrying was the fact that it was he who stood there with the gun in his hand. I thought it too rude to ask, with his somewhat hindered eyesight, if he was in fact, the best man for the job.
Eventually, after a one way pigeon-English explanation as to how exactly I wanted the job carried out, the way it was to be done and the way I wanted it to look before payment was made, a somewhat staccato conversation developed between them. 'Onion-eye' related the information of my requirements in the way most eastern Europeans do, much pointing and gesticulation in my direction, flintlock vowels continually spat out and unspeakable words penetrated the air. They wanted more money. I put on my best hard stare and said... no. I turned away to walk back to my car. Onion changed his tone. Money was discussed again. A small increase was agreed, the job was on. I wanted it doing there and then. I was aching to get this whole messy thing put to bed before Siobhan found out and there was hell to pay for not only the sons, but also for me.
The details of what happened next are not important. We are all too familiar with what happens when you put a high powered gun in the hands of an experienced man with the promise of payment on completion and is let loose on someone elses dirty work. The crux of this tale is thus: do not send your sons out to
poach collect wild hare and pheasant for a game pie you are thinking of preparing, in your wife's very shiny car, especially when it has been raining and the country roads are bogging with thick brown mud. Otherwise, you too may have to sneak her car out of the garage, before she returns home later this weekend, to get it jet-washed, polished and cleaned (inside and out) by the only nationality that cleans cars perfectly for under £20. I'll say this for Onion and his cohorts, they may have many layers of which we in Glasgow fail to understand, but he did a grand job washing the car, one good eye or not!
Scottish Game Pie
1kg 20g free range pheasant (must be hung for at
least one week)
680g fresh wild hare with a lean underbelly (usually found within the Duke of Argyle's private land behind the hidden carp lake out of sight of the castle,
shhhh... between us, eh?)
226g carrot
170g celery
170g onion
6 scallions
56g butter
4tbsp vegetable oil
Puff pastry, (Enough to cover the top of your dish!)
4 level tbsp plain flour
3/4 pint Chicken stock
4tbsp decent brandy
1 Bay leaf
1 egg beaten
Salt and white pepper
Preparation is the key with this dish. Using a sharp boning knife, separate the meat from the bones, this should be done with feeling and care. A wee bit of Debussy - Clair De Lune, always goes down well with me and a glass of something strong. We're not talking a nice little Chablis or 12-year-old
single malt, perhaps just a small sniff of brandy to help things along. Put all of your meat into a large pan, sear it quickly and then set aside. Dice the carrots and celery into quarter pieces and chop the onion and scallions roughly.
Heat the oil and butter in a heavy based pan and add the vegetables, cook until lightly brown. Then, lift this out of the pan and set aside in a bowl. Stir the flour and seasoning through the usual home made game pie seasoning of your choice, then add a little at a time in the residual oil. Once all the meat is in the pan, replace the vegetables back into the pan. Add the stock, brandy, bay leaf and gravy browning to the pan. Bring to the boil, cover and simmer for a good hour.
Leave this to cool overnight. It will require a settling period of at least 16 hours before you can proceed further.
For those looking for a quick fix recipe may I ask you to stop reading, collect your things and never return here again. If you carry on for twenty miles or so you will come across a fast food outlet which will happily cater for your philistine needs.
The following day roll out your pastry and cover the top of the pie, Bake, never cook the pie at 200C for 30 mins. Then, lower to 180C for a further 20mins, if necessary then cover with foil. This way you won’t burn the pastry. Serve with thick gravy and new potatoes, garnished with minted garden peas.
