The Quest for the Perfect… Scotch Egg
- Georgina Donatantonio
- Jun 10, 2020
- 4 min read
Updated: Jun 25, 2020
The classic crawl is given an update.
The Summer of 2019 saw me on a quest for the perfect scotch egg. I had a mission: to seek the revered, expose the not-so legitimately famed, and discover dark horses along the way. Each pint meant a lighter head. Each pint meant a scotch egg. The London crawl had begun.
Stop 1: The Betjeman Arms
My first underdog; nestled within the red-bricked arches of St. Pancras International. Owned by Young’s brewery, where it slumps on the beer, it resurrects itself in the form of the scotch egg.
A colossal ball at a fair price, this is about the meat. Chunky, full-bodied, and proportioned to satisfy a carnivore with a craving. Cutting this open is a game of Russian Roulette; it can vary from firm (yet still with a proffering of runny yolk) to “I’m starting to grey”.
Though isn’t this unpredictable character all part of the fun?
Stop 2: The Pig & Butcher
A meander along the canal placed us in Islington. Reputed for both its beer, and quality of (butcher-on-the-premises) meat, ‘The Pig & Butcher’ wasn’t a stop to saunter past. Yet we had come on a day when scotch eggs were not being served.
A priority is a priority and my Scotch Egg crawl WAS to be realised. On explaining the pivotal importance of this mission, our barman took pity (or fright), and materialised the egg. Who was more excited: scotch egg or me?
Diving in, knife pointed, the egg burst open, yolk firing out. The protective layer was thinner than that of Mr. Betjeman, but the depth of flavour excused this.
Not a scotch egg to share, and one to lick up the yolk and juices after.
Stop 3: The Bleeding Heart Tavern
A venison scotch egg. I am a cynic when a traditional food is tinkered with. Not because I think it is above improvement nor interpretation. Rather, because it is usually a tad pretentious. Think Frangipane mince pies, or my pet irritation, truffle cheese. It too often disguises something not done THAT well and at an eyebrow-raising price.
£7.50. We were assured that our scotch egg would be served with relish and gherkins. Daylight robbery thus justified. You can lower your brows. Decoration was rife, with admirable attention given to the parsley trimmings. The egg was scantily dressed (shockingly-so), and what there was of the venison clothing, was bland and tasteless.
A flavourless and costly disappointment.
Stop 4: The Old Red Cow
Home to “some of the finest craft beer in London”, at least another scotch egg setback could be swiftly washed down with a pint or two. Atmosphere fragile after the venison blunder, we cautiously placed our order.
Seconds passed, minutes stretched. Faces hollow and drained. The opening of a door reverberated. There they were again, those disquieting shards of lettuce. Poised and ready to pounce, I cut in...
The yolk posed no hazard, but once pulled out, the knife was satisfyingly moist. Plain and proper pork had the addition of herby attributes, and egg-sausage ratio was impressively even, resulting in a juicy and palatable delight.
A new contender for best of the day.
Stop 5: The Trading House
A Scotch Egg crawl leaves you in a state of dishevel and disarray. Therefore, you pick your places wisely. Or not.
Extravagant bottles adorned the shelves. Row-upon-row of every craft distillery going. You had Elephant Gin, Scapegrace, Roku. I have never seen a barman look more dejected as a group of 4 request three halves, a tap water, and one solitary scotch egg.
Out it came with a token offering of piccalilli and the (seemingly compulsory) bunch of lettuce. Our despondent barman had got one up on us. Sensing the drama and excitement, he had hastily halved it, erasing all risk of a squirting yolk. His biggest blunder was in his choosing to season it, turning an otherwise surreal scotch egg into a salty calamity.
Stop 6: Scotchtails at Borough Market
Scotchtails and I have a turbulent history.
The summer of 2018 saw Scotchtails in search of a new member, and me in search of a job. This was an egg too good to leave unturned. The trial shift came; on offer the traditional, and an exclusive vegetarian option. One was golden, the other green. The difference couldn’t have been clearer.
Cut a long story short, two crestfallen people hopped on the train home that day: one - a devout vegetarian, now tear-ridden; and me - jobless, and cradling a carton of scotch eggs.
All bitterness aside, what did I make of their offering?
First experience was sensational – scrumptious pork, sweet caramelised onion with a yielding, yet restrained yolk. Rounded off with the perfect ‘dip & dunk’ soldiers; crisp & fluffy sweet potato fries.
Second occurrence was the day of the trail. Arriving just short of closing, the yolk had slightly shrivelled. Though more fool he who neglects his timings.
Slip by at lunch when they have just been deep-fried, and you will be ushered a scotch egg, still warm, still oozing…
Stop 7: The Globe
Directly next to Shakespeare’s Globe. No scotch eggs left. Lest I “speak an infinite deal of nothing”, I will stop right there.
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