All About the Meat Pie

Jul 12

An Australian obsession with meat filled pastry cups and the deal with the sauce

For many people, Australia is one of those far away places like Never Never Land. It’s an alternate reality where everyone speaks English but you can’t understand them, all the animals look like a version of The Land Before Time, and everything is either trying to kill you or kiss you, sometimes both. I can handle a rabid ‘roo but a rabid Aussie after a game of footy? Not so much.

I was fortunate enough to have the privelege of making friends with some pretty rad Aussies back home in America or I never would have had the opportuntiy to go all the way there and see Australian culture through their eyes. The amazing scenery, the wild animals, and the cuisine, more specifically the down right obsession with meat pies. Yes, little crusty pastries with a traditionally peppery meat concoction smothered to death in Aussie sauce AKA ketchup.

Years before I’d come to Australia, my friend would sit in the bar and go on and on about all the unbelievable places he’d take me to, including his favorite dumpling spot in Melbourne and the meat pies, oh the meat pies, more specifically THE meat pie place: Harry’s in Sydney. It’s true there were meat pies everywhere, sold hot and ready in every corner market and gas station in Australia, but Harry’s Cafe de Wheels was world famous, the “creme de la creme of meat pies”, straight from an Aussie’s mouth.

It took me almost 24 hours to get to Sydney with a connecting flight in Oahu that was damn near the worst experience of my life. By the time I arrived the next morning, I hadn’t eaten anything but jerky in two days. My mate picked me up from the Sydney International Airport and took me on a quick lap of the Sydney sights, showing me the CBD (Central Business District), the Opera House and harbor, and straight to the most important landmark of all: the Harry’s stand at the wharf. I’m told this was the original, the OG Harry’s. I was still recovering from the flight and not entirely sure a gastronomical delight such as a heavy meat pie was what I needed at that very moment but when in Rome.

The first thing I noticed was that meat pies are not just meat pies. In fact they’re a lot like hot dogs and you can have them with all kinds of weird shit on them, including mached potato and mushy peas. I’d never heard of mushy peas before thinking it was a pseudonym for something else but no, mushy peas is literally a bunch of peas mashed into a thick paste. The Australians, I learned, are a very literal sort of people. I ordered a traditional beef pie, simply a puff pastry of beef chunks in a pepper sauce. Seemed simple enough. My friend, so eager to introduce me to his world of savory delights, was smiling from ear to ear. He exchanged a few words with the Harry’s help and almost immediately two steaming pies arrived in the window. The presentation was flawless with a golden crispy top drizzled in some red sauce of sorts. Not being one who immediately puts unidentifiable things in my mouth, I questioned the accoutrement and was met with a startling surprise: sauce in Aussie is ketchup in American, and I fucking hate ketchup. My friend, still grinning like a madman, pooh-poohed my fears, explaining to me how integral the sauce was to the meat pie and to trust him, it’s fantastic. Against my better judgement I opened my mouth and stuck the edge of the pie in that fucker, sauce and all. And you know what? It was fucking gross. I knew I hated fucking ketchup!

After a few more bites, I bit the big one and scraped the remaining tomato paste from the crust. I felt bad but it had to be done. The remaining pie sans sauce was quite good. Peppery but not too spicy, the meat identifiable as an animal, and the crust the perfect combination of golden buttery crispness. I quite liked my Harry’s pie and in retrospect wish I’d had the opportunity to go back and try something else, albeit not a mushy peas concoction.

On that first day in Australia in my first hour of being in the country, that meat pie would prove to be the best damn meat pie I’d ever have and my friend was a real asshole for that. He failed to mention to me at the time that quality meat pies are hard to come by and as the month long trip continued, our quality of meat pies dwindled the farther and farther we got from civilization, finally erupting in a tense exchange at a gas station in Exmouth. Literally the Tim buk Too of Australia on a dusty deserted road in the middle of nowhere a perfect storm began to form. A terrible boat ride with no whale sightings, a little sea sickness, and a spell of blindness left us all in a very sour mood and eager to depart back to the comforts of Eastern Australia, but not before my friend would stop at this shithole gas station in search of a meat pie with sauce. Emotions bubbled over and a simple breakfast stop turned into a screaming match with the dumb cunt behind the counter because she didn’t even offer him any sauce for his meat pie. Who the fuck serves meat pies with no sauce?! His words, not mine. And while it seemed a little crazy at the time, I find that those small comforts, the little things we indulge in on a daily basis, such as coffee in the morning or a beer after a long day (served with a frosty glass of course) are really the little things that make everything all better. So far from home in a moment of longing and loss and exhaustion, searching simply for a comfort in a time of need, and the little bitch didn’t even offer him any sauce.

The moral of the story: not all meat pies are created equal and if you’re planning on selling the Australian equivalent of a peanut butter sandwich, you damn well better have the jelly.