This Cornish pasty recipe delivers an authentic English hand pie
You may not think of Cornish pasties as a romantic food, but they will always remind me of the time my husband, Andrew, sort of proposed.
We were traveling in England, having dated for just a few months. It was evening and we were getting ready for bed. I remember folding a shirt to pack in my suitcase when Andrew, taking a break from his book, gazed in my direction for a few minutes and said, “I think I’d like to marry you one day.”
Trying to appear casual, I mumbled something along the lines of, “Oh, cool, sounds good,” and for the rest of the evening, we acted as if this conversation never happened. The next day, we found ourselves in Cornwall, eating Cornish pasties and learning of their rich history. And while I loved both the meal and the history lesson, I was busy replaying the event of the previous night, trying to figure out how to talk about it while also sounding nonchalant.
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Sinking my teeth into the pasty, chewing on the comforting and hearty filling, I contemplated betrothal, and whether my response was sufficiently enthusiastic but not so much so as to suggest desperation.
For years now, I’ve wanted to learn how to make Cornish pasties, if only because just thinking of them makes me think of that time in England when our lives were less complicated, before a child, a mortgage and several moves. In many ways, our relationship has grown to be a little bit like this sturdy, hand pie favored by 17th-century miners. Neither is frilly or fancy, and both are dependable, honest, comforting and nourishing.
According to the “Oxford Companion to Food,” the word pasty (pronounced pah-sti), came into English from the old French, which in turn got it from the Latin word pasta (dough). In the Middle Ages, pasties, which were typically consumed by the wealthy, tended to be large, filled with meat or fish, and generously seasoned.
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Though pasty recipes can be found as early as 13th century France, Cornish pasties date back to 17th- and 18th-century England where they became popular with the working class, especially miners, who carried the pasties with them for a midday repast. To put it in contemporary parlance, Cornish pasties are the original Hot Pockets minus the microwave.
At one time, what went inside the pasty was anyone’s guess, prompting Irish cookery writer Theodora FitzGibbon, quoted in the “Oxford Companion of Food,” to write: “It is said in Cornwall that the Devil never crossed the River Tamar into that county for the fear of the Cornish woman’s habit of putting anything and everything into a pasty.”
But in 2011, Cornish pasties were granted Protected Geographical Indication status by the European Commission, so to qualify as a Cornish pasty, the pasty must be prepared — though not necessarily baked — in Cornwall; and the filling ingredients must contain potato, onion, rutabaga and cubed beef (usually skirt steak), seasoned with salt and pepper, and encased in short crust pastry, often made with a mixture of lard and butter.
The pasty must also be shaped like a D and have a thick crimp on the side, not on top. The inside of the pasty must remain chunky, with individually identifiable pieces of filling. In the past, miners’ initials were carved into the pastry, most likely to discourage theft, and when the meat prices were too high, the steak was replaced by potatoes, for an all-vegetable pasty.
There’s plenty of lore to explain the thick, crimped crust: Designed as a handle of sorts, it allowed miners to hold the pie in their hands, which were often contaminated with arsenic. The leftover crusts would get tossed into the mine to encourage the good will of the mine spirits, known as “knockers,” who warned of impending collapse or the location of rich ore. You can also find photographs with pasties wrapped in paper or cloth, however, suggesting they were probably eaten whole as well.
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While trying to nail down the best recipe and testing several versions, I realized a couple of things: Authentic pasty pastry (say that five times fast), is best made using protein-rich bread flour rather than all-purpose, and there’s no such thing as overworking the dough. You want to really knead the pastry to develop gluten and elasticity, which helps to produce a crust that holds its shape and serves as a carrying case for the meal.
When it comes to the filling, you want to chop the ingredients into bite-size chunks sizable enough to maintain their shape after baking. And under no circumstances should you use carrots in the filling, though I’ve yet to find anyone to explain why.
My only tweak is a modest addition of thyme leaves to the filling — the herb commonly used in English cooking complements the meat and vegetables with its earthy fragrance.
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I like to make pasties as a hearty supper and serve them to my people. As I go through the process of making and kneading the dough, of carefully chopping the filling ingredients, of shaping, rolling and crimping the pasty, I think of how it’s those unfancy acts of love that add up to something. It’s the everyday work we put into taking care of those we love and that often goes unnoticed, that builds a strong foundation.
When you bite into a pasty, you’ll notice it’s not stewy and lush, but is instead spartan. Luxury, it is not. The few ingredients mean there’s nothing to hide behind, nothing is obfuscated, but at the same time, the meal is delicious, comforting and honest, like a good marriage.
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Make Ahead: The dough needs to be prepared at least 3 hours and up to 2 days before baking the pasties.
Storage: The dough can be tightly wrapped and refrigerated for up to 2 days and frozen for up to 2 months (defrost in the refrigerator overnight). Assembled and unbaked pasties can be tightly wrapped in plastic wrap, then foil, and frozen for up to 2 months; bake from frozen, adding 10 to 15 minutes baking time. Leftover pasties can be refrigerated for up to 3 days; reheat in a 350-degree oven for about 20 minutes before serving.
Where to Buy: Lard can be found at well-stocked supermarkets or at butcher shops.
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