Posted tagged ‘Butcher’s Lorne sausage’

To a square sausage

October 23, 2013

Scottish Butchers shops are springing back to life. They don’t have sawdust on the floor any more as they have all sorts of hygiene laws to abide by but there is a boom, it’s bull time, for the meat selling men in white coats. Supermarkets tried to slice and dice them out of business though extinction like the dodo has been averted and solo outlets and chains are back in the New York groove.

The butcher’s shops are great places to visit. The big Sammy character of Pulp Fiction, Jules Winnfield, would have put it thus “a butcher’s got personality. Personality goes a long way”. Who could argue with that? The friendly patter amongst all the blood and carcasses in the shop is refreshing. There was the butcher’s in Dennistoun in the 1960s that had a notice on the wall which simply stated “CREFDIT”. It allowed the butcher of course, when a puzzled customer said there was no F in Credit, to reply: “Exactly”.


The square sausage, Lorne as it is called to the locals, is native to these parts and the butcher’s Lorne is far superior to the pre-packed Lorne shelved in the supermarkets. The difference in taste is noticeable. Like reverse swinging in cricket the reasons for this are a mystery. Is it the supermarkets packaging to blame? Are the fridges temperatures in the stores too high? Is it just that the butcher’s sausages, served straight from the counter, are fresher? We can only guess.

Having a nasty streak of bacon side that you might not know off I make sure I have both sets of sausages at hand and as the occasion demands I can call on them for service. I’ll give you an example of what I mean. One of my wife’s uncles likes to impress us with his vast knowledge of literary matters. One day he said.

“One of Orwell’s rules of writing was, that is George Orwell and not Orville the duck as I know how your mind works, never use a long word where a short one will do. Within this sentence GO has broken his own rule. Shouldn’t it be …where a wee one will do?”

He sat back in the chair, satisfied, emitting in the air a glow that said he had trumped Orwell. In the name of the wee man, Orwell was just over six feet in height so he was practically a midget, I will pay this false high-brow back for his smug tendencies. I offer the uncle some food. And deliver to him a pack sausage on bread. That’ll stick in his throat.

Contrast this with one of my wife’s friends. We’ll call her Elaine because there are so many things that rhyme with Elaine: train, brain, migraine, gubbed again, Michael Caine, bus lane, Tommy McLean, JW10 domain, ankle sprain, varicose vein, eau rouge chicane…I’ll crash there, I mean stop there and in your spare time you can think of a few other thousands. Have fun.

So anyway Belinda, I mean Elaine, it’s Elaine, jumbo jet airplane, Dave Mustaine, paved road terrain. Right stop, stop, stop, don’t start all that again, we’ve ascertained it’s Elaine. When Elaine visits she always has sensational news to break to us. We are regaled by the tales that Sky News didn’t broadcast. She ticker tapes off stories of bin men atrocities, illnesses of neighbours, office romances and who has come into money, new car and all that. Now you could call her nosey. You could say she is a gossip. For all that she is entertaining company. Elaine is pure champagne. No pack sausage for her. She will always be rewarded with a butcher’s square sausage in my house.

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