Festive Review #5: Sainsbury’s Taste the Difference All Butter Mince Pies

In December of 1980, the UK singles chart bestowed upon the British public a bounty of festive and non-festive bangers from some of music’s most celebrated artists. Sequined Scandinavian wife-swappers ABBA, mumbling chimneysweep Jona Lewie, and the estate of recently deceased bed enthusiast John Lennon all set their sights on being Christmas Number One. However, a ragtag mob of pasty-faced young urchins were intent on keeping the late Liverpudlian from the coveted top spot. That gang of heartless youths was known as St Winifred’s School Choir, and their song, There’s No One Quite Like Grandma, told the tale of a wrinkled wench who bumbles around her home, false teeth rattling inside her skull like a family of terrapins trapped in a tumble dryer, while she adorns every available surface with her many homemade doilies.

I am reminded of one of that wizened old goat’s carelessly draped crocheted creations when I gaze upon the intricate pastry snow-star that attempts to obscure the gelatinous innards of this Sainsbury’s Taste the Difference All Butter Mince Pie. The star on this particular pie appears to shirk its duties by sliding from its pastry perch like a Glaswegian bride-to-be’s miniskirted buttocks slipping from the slickened saddle of a mechanical bull in a sangria-soaked Marbella hellhole. I am titillated; the pie has depth, the crust appears robust, and it looks like a heavy, satisfying handful.

Imagine my trepidation, then, when I take the chunky chap in my palm only to find that it weighs a mere 54g. For context, this is roughly the same as two and a half mice or four and a half AAA batteries, both of which, coincidentally, could generate enough electricity to power either a single Ann Summers Swivelling Rampant Rabbit or two Lovehoney G-Ticklers — one for each hand if you’re greedy, or a spare to gift the new girl at work as an icebreaker. Analogies aside, the lightweight nature of this deceptive dessert arouses concern regarding the filling. Will the crusty casing be as empty as Santa’s sack on Boxing Day? Fearing the worst, I bite down…

The pastry is refreshingly firm. When it eventually gives way, it fragments into innumerable shards. I’ve never attempted to dine on an antique vase, but if I were a Ming muncher my maw might mistake this morsel for a mouthful of Mandarin memorabilia. Once inside, relief settles over me like a delicate layer of fresh snowfall, for the filling is in fact quite plentiful. Yes, there is room for more, but whereas I had anticipated an experience akin to a Tuesday night in Bradford centre — a desolate wasteland in which even your dignity and sense of self-worth appear to have fallen derelict — it is more like a Thursday afternoon at the city’s Buzz Bingo insofar as it is mildly diverting and you may feel like your time has not been entirely wasted. The filling itself eschews sweetness in favour of zesty spice which, coupled with the brittle crust, perhaps makes it better suited to the more mature palate.

Serving suggestion: To avoid littering your clothes and carpet with the inevitable pastry particles, gnash into this crumbly confection while sitting naked in an empty bathtub, perhaps in the showroom of your nearest B&Q.