An unexpected discovery when lent at the bar, ale in one hand, the other grasping for some sort of savoury snack; a bar delicacy of note. A single Scotch egg on a wooden board. A prized and isolated orb. It was mine.
Cut into quarters and served to me on a plate with a side of Branston Pickle, it presented its teasing yolk, like sliced apricot. It was a vibrant orange blob of a yolk. But rather disappointingly, the meat was cold and dense, therefore difficult to enjoy or distinguish any flavour (seasoning) from. The breadcrumbs were thinly applied; smooth, dank and without crunch. It had a rustic appeal and would have made a farmer at lunch time very happy, but it didn’t cut the mustard for me.