Bangers And Mash
In the past few weeks, this newsletter has received some particularly handsome praise from some particularly handsome people.
A most dishy reader shared a Whatsapp exchange where a friend exclaimed that this newsletter is “really good” (yes, true quote!) and that he was thinking of sharing it with his mum as he “reckon(s) she’d enjoy it too”.
Dear reader, don’t just think, do! Share it with your mum, your cousin, your niece, that person you just collided with on the street after awkwardly shuffling left, then right, then left again. Spread the word and let’s go on this Sam’s Good Stuff journey together, blind to its future, yet bound to its destiny, and certain of the good stuff to come.
And most importantly share it because these beloved people in your life will get first intel of Sam’s Good Stuff events, such as this bombshell just being announced here for the very first time:
Sam’s Good Stuff supper club is happening! We will be doing lunch on 2nd October 2021.
You can buy tickets here. However if you can get your mum to sign up to this newsletter (or anyone of course) and prove it to me, you will enter a competition to win a free ticket.
I am on holiday and writing this at midnight and am highly inebriated. I have gone on a trip “tut north” to the lakes, and sampled one too many of those “real ales” that you see promoted on the pub walls (I suspect a pandemic of fake ales is rife).
Additionally I was invited to spend the evening drinking with some family members who were departing from the lakes this evening. As much as I wished to join, I did of course protest that I had to dash, explaining there were Sam’s Good Stuff readers (you goddamnit!) desperate for content and whose Thursday would be devastated if no newsletter came in.
However these good family members - having never heard of this newsletter and with no idea what I was talking about - insisted I joined. And I’m glad that I did for I got to witness my baby boy playing with his two cousins of age seven and five, who cuddled him on the floor, stroked his head and played with him as if he were their own son.
But I transgress, we were supposed to speak of bangers and mash. These days spent walking by water and nights spent in dark pubs, drinking flat ales (no fizz again please!) have been punctuated by good English cooking and this has relit a fire for the foods of my homeland, which have too often got lost between the strands of spaghetti that make up my subconscious.
I find myself in the home of the Cumberland sausage, and seeing it advertised one too many times here, I eventually caved and brought a quarter-metre’s worth with the noble intention of making one of my favourite things; bangers and mash.
Now please do not consider bangers and mash “comfort food” or anything equally derogative. It is in fact the height of our cuisine and a good plate of sausage, mash and gravy - made with affection - goes toe to toe with whatever else you can find in those god-awful places that exist beyond the channel.
It joins the long list of good things that go in three and the end result will only be as good as the weakest link in this triangular chain. It is not something to be quickly drummed up, but an event you put in the calendar, for which you plan your sourcing eagerly and count the days with gleeful anticipation.
Mash
If you ever go to a restaurant and have very good mash and find yourself asking “gosh, how did they make this mash so buttery and milky?” It’s because quite simply they used a lot of butter and milk.
And I’m with the restauranteurs in believing mash must be luxurious. If I’m not willing to put my week’s ration of dairy into it then it’s off to make a different kind of potato. A portion for four people uses roughly these quantities:
700g potatoes
350ml milk
100g butter
The potatoes should be boiled whole with their skins in well salted water. Taking the skins off vegetables exposes them to the naked brutalities of this world and where best should be avoided until the last moment. In the case of potatoes the skin acts as a bi-directional barrier, protecting water from entering the spud (meaning fluffier mash) and equally preventing flavoursome nutrients from escape.
When the potatoes are tender all the way through, drain, wait to cool a while and bravely use your hands to twist off the skin. Mash with a masher (or a ricer if you want it perfectly smooth, but that’s one faff too far for me) then heat the butter and milk to boiling point and vigorously mix the lot together. Add salt and pepper to taste, and even a little nutmeg if you’re in the mood.
Banger
Sausages supposedly became “bangers” during war time when shortages of meat meant they were bulked out with suspect fillers, causing them to explode upon cooking.
Though even with peacetime’s more serene sausages there is something still fitting about the term. They are the old motor of this dish; reliable, impervious to change and loud with flavour.
They are also this meal’s big dipper, perfect for coating with your velvet mash and probably even best eaten with hands alone if manners would permit.
When making your banger, there is only one thing that you must consider and that is that the banger must be a good banger. Go to a proper butcher or farmer’s market and pick one with the herbs that call to you most alluringly. I then fry mine on medium-low heat, turning every five minutes or so, expecting the total time to be ~15 minutes depending on thickness (you can check for doneness by cutting into one, but if you’ve cooked on low heat and it’s browned nicely it should be done).
Onion Gravy
The bangers and mash are set upon the plate only to seem like two would-be lovers shuffling awkwardly at opposite ends of a school disco. The gravy is the 80s slow dance that will pull them together.
To make good onion gravy, you need good stock. Making your own is a post in itself, but if not feeling confident in doing so (or simply wishing to save time) it is likely they will have some at the butchers where you brought your sausages.
Add 1 tablespoon butter to a pan with one large onion that has been thinly sliced, add a pinch of salt and cook on low heat with the lid on for about 20 minutes (or until they soften completely). You can stir every five minutes or so or leave it be knowing that any bits that catch and brown will only add a little extra flavour. Add a tablespoon of flour, stir for a minute and then slowly pour in your stock a bit at a time, stirring with youthful vigour to ensure there are no lumps.
The above image shows my final output. I will be honest and contradict all that I have written with purity and good intent here, admitting that I used Bisto. Our aspirations should always be noble, but there is of course no shame in compromise from time to time!