Moveable Feast Marino Corazza
FOR 20 years, my father-in-law and I had season tickets to Ellis Park. Initially the seats were those green, rickety wooden benches on the grass; then they became plastic bucket-seats set in cement. Both were in sort of the same place, halfway up the stand to the left of the players’ exit. Year after year, the same ticket-holders occupied the same — neighbouring — seats. It was rugby spectator bonding.
Now, for Gerard McGregor, an ex-artillery officer and one of my few true buddies, there was a ritual to watching a rugby match. You had to shave extra closely, don tweeds, comfortable shoes, a warm woollen jersey and gloves, and carry a kit bag, which contained binoculars, a couple of civilised frosties, biltong coarsely-cut in brown paper bags and Cornish pasties wrapped in grease-proof paper. We would get to the stadium while the bare-footed game was still in progress and I, for some reason, would start talking in Afrikaans. Ja, nee, mooi so. An Eyetie praating die taal!
But I’m digressing. I was going to tell you about the pasties.
Our wives always prepared them fresh on the morning, so the pasties would come out of the oven just before our departure. They used only super grade A rump: they would cut the meat into chunky cubes, leaving just enough fat on the pieces. This would be mixed with cubed potatoes, chopped onion and parsley, and seasoned with salt and pepper.
On the side, the flour, softened butter, salt and a squeeze of lemon would be rubbed together to form the pastry. The rolling pin would do the rest by rolling out individual sheets. These would then be cut into squares ready to accept generous dollops of the meat mixture.
The pasties would be folded over and the ends pinched with a fork to seal them. Beaten egg would be brushed over the sealed pockets, which would be placed on a slightly buttered and floured baking tray to be cooked at 190 for 10 minutes and then for a further 35-40 minutes at a reduced 130.
We would open our booty at interval before the main fixture, and it would still be warm and moist from the condensation of the wrapping. Scoffing at least two Cornish pasties each while gently casing the ale, we would then be gloriously ready for the match.
It’s just a suspicion of mine that, for at least one test, our ladies at home had a part in beating the All Blacks, because they were distracted by the pastry waft coming from the stands.
It won’t happen any more. We’ve kept up the tradition: we still sink our teeth into juicy Cornish pasties at interval before the main fixture. But now we do it in front of the TV.