The case for… Scotch eggs

Ah, the Scottish oeuf. No one calls it that because they are neither Scottish nor French. Scotch eggs are probably Indian – a take on the Mughal classic nargisi kofta. But the version we are familiar with was invented by Fortnum & Mason. Which takes us to the heart of this matter: is a scotch egg classy?

Supermarket versions arrive in pairs in a stiff plastic bra. This self-contained farmyard buffet is a sort of miniature three-bird roast minus decadence, ceremony and two birds. Even deconstructed, it’s one third of a full English breakfast. If lobster plus filet mignon is surf ’n’ turf, a scotch egg is… what? Snout and gout?

Don’t judge a book by its coeuf-er. We’re talking about picnic food royalty. Easy to hold, it fills you up in the way 36 batons of yellow pepper cannot. Crisp kiss of breadcrumb, yielding to moist, spiced pork. Shocking creaminess of white, lubricating richness of orange yolk. A runny middle is a nightmare for a human on a picnic – for the scotch egg it’s everything. Texturally, this is a pocket symphony.

The key is not to eat the thing like an apple, snubbing your nose in the crumb. It’s too big and you’ll look like Brideshead Regurgitated. Instead, bisect with elegance. Sharp knife. Inside every scotch egg is a God’s eye view of a Galilean universe, molten sun at the centre. Consider the cosmos. We’re made of stardust, even the chicken and pig. It makes little sense to be moved by this cricketball of sausagemeat bowled down your gullet from the pavilion end. Eppur si muove!

Photograph by Getty