The Life of Pie-ley
You might not expect it, but Namibia is a country that has picked up on the appeal of pies, and has turned it into an art form. Even the cheapo, Petrol-station-takeaway-warmed-up-in-a-cabinet pie that I would normally avoid at all costs at home is streets ahead of your bog standard UK-chip-shop effort in terms of quality and taste. I’m becoming addicted.
My favourite pie so far is the pepper steak flavour, which actually has proper bits of steak in it, in a yummy, neither bland nor greasy pepper sauce. And it is all encased in NICE pastry, that isn’t soggy, or stodgy, or too crumbly, or too dry, or all the other unfortunate things that happen to pastry when people don’t care about how it turns out, and that take all the enjoyment out of pie eating. Occasionally the filling does spill out of the back, but there’s usually just enough pastry left with which to scoop it all up. Perfection.
I’m planning on making a list of all the places where I know you can buy a pie, so that I can strategically plan any lunch hours that I find myself in town. I’m fed up with chip butties and kabanosit sausages.
If you’re lucky, sometimes you’ll pass by one of the mobile pie-men in the street, although they don’t seem to frequent this neighbourhood. They’re a bit like the gimmicky old-fashioned ice cream sellers that they have in Hyde Park, who trundle along with those hand carts with bells on, except that these guys don’t wear straw boaters. Or sell ice cream. Only pies.
Man. Now I’m hungry.