The Value of Pi(e)

Thousands of eager punters will descend on London this week as GBBF fever grips the nation. No doubt they will, at some point, try some of the fine hostelries that London has to offer. And, no doubt, they will, at some point, eat a pie. But beware. London holds many dangers apart from painted ladies and unsparklered beer.

Today’s lesson for the unwary concerns a pie. Not just any pie, though. A 3-English-cheeses pie. A “homemade” 3-English-cheeses pie, to be exact. Now this culinary delight was purchased from a GBG pub that will have to remain nameless for now. Ok, it was the Bree Louise near Euston station, since you asked.

Doesn’t it look yummy? Doesn’t it look inviting? All puffed-up and round. But, just like a Camra blood-letting initiation, there’s more to it than that. Or rather; less to it. For as soon as the outer perimeter was breached, it collapsed into its constituent parts. This appeared to be just flaky pastry and nothing else. Not a trace of any cheese, English or not.

Yes, the pie was a dry, flaky husk. And my companions seemed to fare little better with their offerings. Polite enquiries as to if perhaps the fillings had been omitted were met with an indifferent shrug. To add insult to injury, the “seasonal vegetables” accompaniment was served in a dish immersed in some murky white liquid.

A thoroughly disheartening and dismaying experience, but I am sharing this personal tragedy so that perhaps you can be spared a similar fate.  

There are eight million stories in the Naked City. This has been one of them. Let’s be careful out there and let’s do it to them before they do it to us.