In November, we killed our pigs. We’d bought two saddleback weaners, Gnasher
and Rasher, from our neighbour, Mark, back in April, and November is killing
time. This is because you are looking forward to a load of nice fatty meat
to keep you sustained during the cold winter. Pork is for feasts.
Neighbours Andy and Mark came round with a tractor, a trailer and a little
Beretta pistol. The pigs were enticed into the trailer with some tasty
morsels. While happily snuffling, they each received a bullet to the head
and dropped down dead. We then strung them up by the back legs and cut their
throats to drain the blood. We collected the warm blood and stirred it to
remove the clots and make blood pudding. Having removed the guts from the
animals, we cut off their heads and hung up the carcasses by the back legs
on giant hooks in the dairy.
No, we didn’t cry. No, we hadn’t grown particularly attached to the pigs. Not
like when the bunny died. But I will say that the experience was intense. I
could feel my heartbeat rise and the adrenaline flow. And I wanted to say
thank you to these noble beasts for giving us their bodies (not that they
had much choice in the matter).
Now it was time to cut up the pigs. Being utterly clueless in such matters, I
enlisted my friend Simon Browne to do the butchering. Simon is a brilliant
chef. He lives near us in north Devon, and his latest project is the Quay, a
smart restaurant that nestles by the harbour of Ilfracombe, a charming but
shabby seaside town that has perhaps seen grander days, but is on the up
again. The Quay was set up three years ago with money and art from Damien
Hirst. Simon moved to Devon about 10 years ago, after spending the 1980s and
1990s in London, where he started one of the capital’s first sushi nights
and also worked as a chef at Green Street, a small but now closed Soho
members’ club frequented by artists such as Hirst and Freud.
Simon arrived at our door with a couple of pig books, some sharp knives and
his customary broad grin, and we got to work. The first step was to cut the
pig in half down the spine, which we did with a special butcher’s saw. The
two of us then hauled the 70kg half pig onto a trestle table, and Simon,
ably assisted by me, began to turn Gnasher into something cookable. So it
was that I found myself in possession of collars, bellies, hands, hams,
hocks, gammons, trotters, tenderloins and pounds and pounds of sausage meat.
That night, we invited round pig-killing Mark and Andy for a pork dinner.
While I drank pots of fine local ale, Simon did something quite amazing with
mustard, sherry and the fresh pork rillettes we had made. Flames leapt from
the frying pan and he busied around with calm purpose, pouring, shaking and
stirring. We then ate his creation, and everyone agreed it was the best pork
they’d ever tasted.
The great advantage of keeping your own pigs is that you have complete control
over the whole process. You can buy whichever breed you like, feed them what
you like and talk to them how you like. The result is a happy pig fed on a
variety of scraps and apples and acorns and nettles and bought-in pig nuts
and old bread and milk. And the result of happy pigs is fantastic,
sweet-tasting pork with a nice thick layer of fat.
This, I imagine, is also the pleasure of running your own restaurant: you have
control. One month after the pig-processing, we went down to the Quay for a
return feast with Simon. Now you would, of course, expect me to praise
Simon’s place, as he’s my friend. But there is really no doubt that in the
charming but money-starved wilds of north Devon, the Quay stands out by a
mile for imagination, care and quality in both the decor and the food. It’s
not just sniffy London types who are fans: it has recently received the
badge of approval from the yeomen of the Ilfracombe Round Table, who have
chosen it for their monthly dinners. Certainly, we find ourselves going back
again and again.
Let’s also say that it is by far the smartest restaurant in what is rather a
run-down Victorian resort. The ground-floor bar looks out onto the harbour,
which can rival Padstow for prettiness on a good day, although Ilfracombe
has the advantage of being 100% sloane-free. The sofas are covered with
embroidered cushions from Fake London; tapas is served by smart young things
in black shirts. Upstairs, the room at the back looks out onto the thrashing
Atlantic Ocean and the heather-covered cliffs on either side of the bay. To
add to the clean, nautical style, the ceiling resembles an upturned boat.
The place is filled, unsurprisingly, with Hirst’s art: fish in tanks, coloured
circular canvases that host a small child’s collection of seashells,
butterflies on canvases and canvases of butterfly wings arranged in
geometric forms. It’s simple seaside art, fish’n’chips art, as you might
expect in a waterfront tavern such as the Quay.
We started with crab claws, which had come in that morning from nearby Lundy
Island and, to my peasant’s palate, tasted perfectly fresh and wild. Then we
had a round of oysters from Cornwall: again, delicious. For another starter,
I had pork belly with foie gras and prunes. Now, I’m not saying the pork was
quite as good as my own – of course not – but the head chef, Laurence
Hill-Wickham, had done something remarkable with it. Across the top sat a
thin strip of juicy crackling, and when you bit into it, it gave the sort of
pleasure that brings tears to the eyes. I suppose portion size may be
considered by some to be a bit of an issue: by country standards, it’s on
the small side. Out here, we tend to equate quantity with quality, and a pub
will be praised for the amount of food it serves for less than a tenner. So,
just maybe, the meal was a tiny bit too – how shall we say? – nouvelle
for us face-stuffers. But the service was charming: the waitress seemed to
be enjoying herself and not just going through the motions.
There followed rabbit-leg confit, red mullet with white beans and chicory; the
vibe, Exmoor meets the peasants of Provence. Clearly, a lot of thought had
gone into the wine list: the white wine from Dartmoor, by the name of
Sharpham, was pretty zingy, and the Prestige Pouilly-Fuissé from Georges
Duboeuf was splendid. We also had a Californian zinfandel called Galleano,
which was full of berry flavours. V, in particular, was in raptures. All the
cheeses were local: there was Cornish yarg, my favourite, and Devon blue. Of
the cheesecake, V said: “I’ve never tasted anything so delicious in all my
life.” But then it has to be admitted that we were quite drunk by this point.
I’m very glad to add that, inspired by his experience with our pigs, Simon is
now planning to keep his own porkers for the restaurant. He has a field
nearby, and here he will also put up a couple of polytunnels, dig a
vegetable patch and keep chickens, so the Quay will be able to produce many
of its own ingredients. Us customers will be able to sample those old
pleasures, quality, conviviality and very possibly meeting the grinning
patron who keeps, kills and cuts up his own pigs.
The Quay reopens on Thursday, January 24
11 The Quay, Ilfracombe, Devon; 01271 868090
Mon-Sun: lunch, noon-3pm; dinner, 6pm-9pm
5 stars: The whole hog; 4 stars: Bring home the bacon; 3 stars: Piggy in the
middle; 2 stars: Porky pies; 1 star: What a boar
Bring home the bacon was the order of the day
alice, ilfracombe,
So how many stars did The Quay receive?
MTB
M Thackray, Trouville La Haule, France