We went to Hidcote on the hottest day of the year.
The gardens were beautiful, the perfect setting for strawberries, Pimms, and cucumber sandwiches. I though was there for its pasties.
I’m a huge fan of the Cornish pasty, the perfect food. I could be as rich as Croesus and I’d still forgo filet mignon, lobster, and foi gras for a Cornish pasty.
Squirrels remember their nuts, dogs where they've buried a bone. Some people, especially the incontinent, remember toilets, their location and how far away they are from them. I remember the location of pasties.
You can buy a fine Cornish pasty at Paddington Station. Tredegar House in Newport sells a good pasty. But to my mind the Hidcote pasty is the finest of all. So inspired was I by it, that I asked the kitchen where they bought them, wrote it down on a piece of paper and lost it two days later.
The Cornish pasty must never be salty. It must though be peppery. That is essential. But how to eat it?
At Hidcote, I was momentarily flummoxed when they presented it with a knife and fork. I had told them firmly I wanted no green stuff with it. A plain white plate if they insisted.
But when I sat down, I found myself surrounded by the middle-aged, the genteel and a group of elderly Americans—all of them using the cutlery provided.
Talk about peer pressure.
But the pasty is tactile, meant to be handled – it’s what the lumpy end bit is for, an inbuilt handle allowing you to stuff the other end into your mouth – or in my case nibble.
But the peer pressure, those sharp eyed old ladies. I temporarily succumbed out of pragmatism more than anything else. It was just too damn hot, scalding my teeth as I bit into it. Back on the plate it went, the knife and fork proving surprisingly useful in cooling it down while I drank a small pot of tea.
But the joy of taking up the pasty again, pushing plate and cutlery to one side.
Hidcote is great for flowers, not too sure about its vegan scones, but the pasty is wonderful.
