Читать книгу Eating for England: The Delights and Eccentricities of the British at Table - Nigel Slater - Страница 32

A single ‘a’ changes everything. In this case it means nothing more than getting a deep pastry tart filled with a nutmeggy mixture of cream, sugar and eggs rather than the expected jug of creamy yellow sauce, ‘I’ll have a pot of tea and a custard’ being a request for a hot drink and an individual tart rather than a dish of sweet sauce.

I fear for the custard. It is as old-fashioned as a slice of Hovis or a clothes brush. It belongs to a world of fire-tongs, antimacassars and black-and-white television. The appreciation of sinking your teeth into the soft, almost damp pastry of a custard tart and feeling the filling quiver against your lip is not for the young. The true enjoyment of a custard (as opposed to the pleasures of custard) is something that only comes with age, like rheumatism, bus passes and a liking for Midsomer Murders. I am probably the only person in England to regularly buy a couple of custards from Marks who is still in possession of his own teeth.

The way you tackle a custard is as much a ritual as the way you eat an ‘original’ KitKat. First you take the tart from its box, then, with the help of your fingernail, you separate the tart from its foil container. It is essential to get it out whole, without denting the fragile pastry edge. Regulars find that pushing up from the bottom helps. You then set about eating the tart either by picking it up and tucking in, or, more likely, as you are obviously a custard tart sort of person, cutting it neatly into quarters. There is something graceful about this last method. What you do with the foil container is not really a matter for this book, but my guess is that it will be crushed, perhaps fold upon fold with an almost origami-style neatness, until it is ready for the bin.