The Honest Sausage, Regent's Park
The Honest Sausage
The Broadwalk
Regent's Park
NW1
www.honestsausage.com
by Hashley Brown
I love sausages. It may be hard to believe quite how much I love them, but believe me I do. I make them, by hand. I eat them, in all their varieties. I even take photos of them - my sausage photo gallery is quite something and probably qualifies me for an ASBO, or some sort of restraining order at least. But, I am still allowed access to public eateries, and so it was that on the first truly sunny day of the year I found myself perched with a venerable host of LRB glitterati at the Honest Sausage in Regents Park.
True to the name, there were sausages, and by golly they were honest. There was nowhere to turn for admissions of honesty, organic-ness and all round worthiness. It was like being preached to by a pig who had lived a good life for the sole reason of providing culinary pleasure to some middle-class twonk in a park. He exhorted me to enjoy his additive free goodness, pleaded that I bear in mind his lineage, and all in all shrieked, “eat me, and feel no guilt!”.
Now, I am not a man to ignore the final wishes of a happy pig. In fact I honoured this pig's memory twice (in two separate organic buns with onion relish), but I just wished the Honest Sausage could have tried a bit harder to do the same. It wasn't bad per se, just that the buns could have been a bit less dry, the service could have been a bit snappier, and they could have relished a bit more in the joyous celebration of piggy life that each of their lovely sausages represented.
The Broadwalk
Regent's Park
NW1
www.honestsausage.com
by Hashley Brown
I love sausages. It may be hard to believe quite how much I love them, but believe me I do. I make them, by hand. I eat them, in all their varieties. I even take photos of them - my sausage photo gallery is quite something and probably qualifies me for an ASBO, or some sort of restraining order at least. But, I am still allowed access to public eateries, and so it was that on the first truly sunny day of the year I found myself perched with a venerable host of LRB glitterati at the Honest Sausage in Regents Park.
True to the name, there were sausages, and by golly they were honest. There was nowhere to turn for admissions of honesty, organic-ness and all round worthiness. It was like being preached to by a pig who had lived a good life for the sole reason of providing culinary pleasure to some middle-class twonk in a park. He exhorted me to enjoy his additive free goodness, pleaded that I bear in mind his lineage, and all in all shrieked, “eat me, and feel no guilt!”.
Now, I am not a man to ignore the final wishes of a happy pig. In fact I honoured this pig's memory twice (in two separate organic buns with onion relish), but I just wished the Honest Sausage could have tried a bit harder to do the same. It wasn't bad per se, just that the buns could have been a bit less dry, the service could have been a bit snappier, and they could have relished a bit more in the joyous celebration of piggy life that each of their lovely sausages represented.
posted by London Review of Breakfasts |
2:39 PM |
2 Comments:
From Blake Pudding:
I used to be a regular at the Honest Sausage. It was then staffed by a cheery girl from Leeds who i had a bit of a crush on and who, most importantly, knew how to cook a sausage. Now it is staffed by foreigners who have no real affinity for the English banger and as such the poor things are cooked within an inch of their lives and then kept lukewarm until needed. Needless to say they are dry and unappealing. It is all rather sad. I would take delicious over "organic" any day.
I was deterred from eating at the Honest Sausage when I saw the person assembling the buns sneeze into her hand and then proceed with the assembly with no attempt at washing her hands.
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