In a world gone mad, sometimes the sole path to serenity is the celestial symbiosis of the mash and the pie

IT’S not exactly a 4k ultrahigh-definition television, but my new cooker is just as enthralling. It has a much bigger glass door on the main oven compartment than the old one did, and an LED light inside that happily could do security duty in the back garden; no prowler would linger more than a few seconds.

This makes it a great deal easier to keep an eye on food as it cooks, though if I’m being totally honest, so does the fact it’s clean and not covered with years of baked-on grease that defeated even Mr Muscle.

Novelty

It’s such a novelty, I often just stare at it, and never more so than on Wednesday night. Earlier, I was picking up a few things in the supermarket and wondering what to have for dinner when my eye suddenly fell on a shelf I never really bother with at all, the one with all the tinned goods. I really do try to keep an eye on what I eat and I prefer to buy fresh food, or at the very least frozen only and not tinned, and prepare it from scratch.

That day, though, I was busy with work and I wanted something convenient. The thought of a pizza fleetingly came to mind and just as quickly passed, because much as I love the odd pepperoni, I knew it would be near nine o’clock before I ate and, at that hour of the night, pizza tends to leave you feeling as bloated the Goodyear blimp.

And then I saw it, almost waving at me, a Fray Bentos Deep Fill Steak And Ale pie. You probably know the ones I’m talking about because everyone of a generation does. They were a staple part of the family diet, though back in the day, the only option ever served up in our house was steak and kidney (or, as a friend reminded me, steak and ‘kiddley’, which is what every child seemed to call it).

Kidneys, like liver, are an abomination. I know they’re very good for you, but the faint tang of, well, what they’re designed to process, always turned my stomach and still does, so when I got older, I bought steak and mushroom or steak and ale. Even that was a long time ago, and I reckon I haven’t eaten one for at least two decades.

So when I finally got round to dinnertime, I have to confess to no little excitement. That feeling evaporated briefly as I fished around for a tin opener, to no initial success. As I said, I seldom use tinned goods (even baked beans come in those little snap pots now) and when I do, for the likes of coconut milk to put in a stirit fry, the tins have ring pulls. I eventually located it, hidden behind the cutlery tray, and pierced the pie tin with it, relishing the yawning little exhalation it provoked.

Then slowly at first, but rapidly gaining speed, the tin started to spin around. I loved doing this as a child, because being trusted with it somehow felt like a sign I was growing up. You have to keep an eye on it, because tiny little squiggles of tin sometimes stay behind, but finally there is a delightful ping as you reach the point where you started and one side of the lid rises like the back of Titanic before its final plunge to the ocean depths.

An uncooked Fray Bentos pie is not the most appetising thing you’ve ever seen. The pastry top looks a little pale and slimy, like your average Irish person slathered with Factor 50 cream on the first day of a sun holiday – but, oh, the transformation that happens in the oven is a joyous thing to behold, and that’s where the new oven door came in.

Magic

You probably think I need to get a life, but I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Within a few minutes, the slimy look was gone and the surface started to turn the gold of lightly done toast. Meanwhile, on the hob, I had potatoes on the go for buttery mash, because a pie without mash is Sonny without Cher, Dec without Ant, Crosse without Blackwell.

Then the magic started to happen as the pie crust began to rise, slightly lopsidedly at first before filling out like one of those pressed-flat top hats that pops into its proper shape with the help of a delicate punch.

You want a pie to turn a rich Ronseal brown but not burn, so I stood there like a nervous dad-to-be outside a labour ward until I was sure it was exactly where I wanted it. Once out of the oven, I sliced down the middle to let the steam out, and piled the plate with mash and Bachelors tinned peas (yep, I decided to go the full baby food route) before adding half the pie to the plate and pouring some of the gravy over the potatoes.

As always was the case, there is a slight element with Fray Bentos of hunting down the actual steak – it makes up just 25% of the entire pie, according to the label – but it scarcely mattered. Senses that have been dormant for decades sprang back to life, and however much you think you’ve ever salivated at the thought of food, think again – I had a mini-Ardnacrusha going on.

Elated

The first mouthful was one of Proust’s madeleines, bringing into full Technicolor all my memories of sitting around the table in Clarinda Park in Dún Laoghaire. Of course, back then, the pie would be shared four ways and, as the third born, I often got lost in the feeding frenzy. The eldest always gets most, then the youngest, and then the toughest. Since I was none of these things, I usually was left with a miserable bit of pastry and more kiddleys than steak, but that also meant I was first from the table afterwards and got to literally lick the tin for all those gelatinous bits of pastry that clung doggedly to the rim.

Not on Wednesday. On Wednesday, all of it was mine, and I devoured it, all 642 calories, 22.4 grams of fat, 77 grams of carbohydrates and 3.08 grams of salt of it. If my diabetes doctor is reading this, I guess I’m in trouble, but in my defence, the positive effect of comfort food on the mind often trumps the negative effects on the body, and I’m pretty sure my entire being was flooded with deeply pleasurable dopamine (which, ironically, ultimately was processed by my own kiddleys, a neatly symmetrical end to the feast).

Have I any regrets? Yes – I should have followed it with a gooey, treacly Heinz sponge pudding to get the full Seventies effect, but even I know there have to be limits and I wisely resisted the temptation.

It is rare enough nowadays that a food from your youth even has the same name, never mind the same taste, but Fray Bentos pies are eternal; this one had such a long shelf life, they might just as easily have labelled it ‘Best Before Armageddon’.

My friend David McCullagh of RTÉ asked me how I felt after eating it. ‘Elated,’ I said. ‘Elated but dirty.’

I cherish his reply. ‘At our age,’ he replied, ‘that combination of emotions is hard to get.’

And do you know what? There’s no arguing with that.