I went across the road to the new organic supermarket that's just opened and asked the butcher - or at any rate, the man dressed like a character from a "Cries Of Old London" Victorian print behind the meat counter - for a pound of sausages. "Certainly, madam," he said in tones reminiscent of John Gielgud playing the ghost of Hamlet's father. "Was there any particular style of sausage madam had in mind?" Excuse me a moment while I finish this sausage. Under normal circumstances I would defer consumption of said sausage to attend to more pressing matters pertaining to final demands from BT, truant children, leaking roofs, and irate husband, but then again, what could be more pressing than a single sausage that cost £1? I kid you not. I went across the road to the new organic supermarket that's just opened and asked the butcher - or at any rate, the man dressed like a character from a "Cries Of Old London" Victorian print behind the meat counter - for a pound of sausages.
"Certainly, madam," he said in tones reminiscent of John Gielgud playing the ghost of Hamlet's father. "Was there any particular style of sausage madam had in mind?" Call me cavalier, but I've never really thought of a sausage having style. In fact, I can think of few commodities that smack less of stylishness than the humble sausage, unless it's a spoonful of mashed potatoes That's the whole point of bangers and mash. They're so basic, so down-to-earth they hit bedrock, and there's nothing stylish about bedrock.I was recently invited to a trendy new London restaurant specialising in upmarket sausage and mash What a con. The waitresses were dressed like Nell Gwyn, the sausages were flavoured with daft things like pine nuts and crushed coriander seeds and the mash was described on the menu as "hand-forked", which sounded vaguely obscene. When the chips were down - and, in retrospect, I'd rather have had chips - they were charging £20 for indifferent sausage and mash, and precious little of it."Oh, you know, just ordinary sausages, nothing fancy," I told the ghost of Hamlet's father. "In that case, may I recommend madam try the traditional Cumberland, and if I might also suggest by way of accompaniment a jar of Mrs Corrigan's spiced apple compote based on an old family recipe," he said, indicating a very small earthenware crock covered with gingham frills on the shelf above.Call me conservative, but the only embellishment I've ever considered adding to a sausage is a squirt of Colman's English mustard.
My first mother-in-law always carried a tube of Coleman's mustard in her handbag alongside her lipstick and library book in case, she said, she ever came upon a sausage unaware. It's a useful tip.I bought the Cumberland sausages, five of them, and the very small jar of apple compote. The sausages cost £5 and the compote £6.95, but then there must have been at least two organic apples in it and apples don't grow on trees. On my way out I passed an attractive wicker basket piled high with small, unattractive avocado pears and was about to ask the price when I remembered that story about the Australian who went to Fortnum and Masons and asked if they sold avocados "Certainly, sir," said the tailcoated attendant "That's good," said the Australian "I'll have one How much is it?" "£3.50, sir," replied the attendant "£3.50 for one avocado!" gasped the Australian. "Listen mate, you know what you can do with that avocado, you can stick it up..." "Unfortunately, I'm afraid that will not be possible, sir," replied the attendant, "because I am already accommodating a pineapple at £6.95."I took incredible trouble cooking that Cumberland sausage. I fried it gently in my best French copper-bottomed pan in a mixture of virgin olive oil and best Irish butter.
