Here, I write not of matters linguistic, but cabbages and kings. Well, custard tarts and this King. For a very long time, King’s English was fuelled by a weekly intake of Tesco’s custard tarts. Other foodstuffs as well, in case you’re suddenly alarmed for my welfare and life expectancy, but this was a much-enjoyed supplement.
It’s a little unusual to find that a large corporation has excelled in the production of something you might think was better made by independents up and down the land. Perhaps somewhere it is, although I have never found the magic fit. I remember once seeing the chef Marcus Wareing reproducing on television the perfect custard tarts of a baker in his native Southport, but it’s not feasible for me to travel over 200 miles on such a flimsy pretext; I have to find a source closer to home.
Although I am a frequent flier to Tesco for life’s other necessities, I’ve always felt ambivalent about this; perhaps it’s the afterburn of my dislike of Shirley (“Lady”) Porter, daughter of founder Jack Cohen, his heiress and one of Margaret Thatcher’s principal cheerleaders. But my distaste for the rampages of aggressive superstores, which in those days Tesco exemplified, and the character and politics of Lady Porter, never dented my appetite for their custard tarts. Come on, all principles have a price!
The Tesco custard tart used to be a perfect marriage of near-crumbling pastry around a cool, soft yellow egg custard flavoured with vanilla and topped with grated nutmeg (you want one now, don’t you?) It probably wasn’t pastry in any strictly culinary sense, but the carrying vessel for its tasty payload was certainly some sort of flour and water combination. To the touch, it had a slight frailty and always ‘gave’ slightly, even in a light grip. There was always a chance that it might suddenly break up, and sometimes it did. In this, there was a paradoxical perfection in its imperfection, and it may well have been just this irregularity which Tesco’s ‘C-suite’ executives deemed unacceptable and ripe for overhaul.
Because without a doubt, and without announcement, something has happened. The Tesco custard tart now is a lesser being; firmer and slightly glazed-looking, its surface is now a pallid, lifeless cream instead of the more confident yellow of its forebear. The pleasingly frail pastry has become harder and colder, almost plasticky, so that it now resembles the rival and inferior products of Sainsbury’s and, yes, Waitrose.
So farewell, sweet comforter! Another of life’s cornerstones gone, elbowed aside on the grounds no doubt of increased production efficiency, and an enhanced ‘customer experience’. Perhaps I’ll have to make that journey to Southport after all.