That’s the great thing about these Kiwis. Give ’em the very staple of British life and they’ll improve it out of all proportion and give it back to you with interest. Take rugby for example. From being a stodgy, civil war re-enactment of a part-time past time for hungover, wheezy fat boys as it lovably was (and sometimes lovably still is) back home, over here they made it the very lifeblood of the country, enlisted the strongest, fittest and bloody biggest athletes, instructed new parents to have their toddlers spinning lofted passes out of their cots in order to keep the production line alive and made it into eighty minutes worth of power packed pyrotechnics.
The All Blacks are one of the most iconic names in sport. They still lead the way.

Take music, we gave them The Beatles. They gave us Crowde… Yeah, ok, bad example.

But meat pies? Man alive. Even in the most died in the wool, chain-me-to-my-oven-and-force-me-under-great-duress-to-bake-effete-prawn-vol-au-vents-naked-for-the-rest-of-my-worthless-life-before-I-submit-to-your-evil-regime great bakeries of the UK will they dejectedly yield to New Zealand supremacy. The hand that fed them has been bitten again.

So while we had Steve Ojomoh, they had Zinzan Brooke. While we had, and indeed have, Oliver Adams, they had, and most certainly have, from the Jaffle Pie Company; Jesters. They appear to be another take on the acceptable face of food franchises, I’d imagine they’ve got bakeries in every town. If this is the case, I’m in for a treat over the next seven weeks.

In desperate need of some light relief following my visit to the life-shorteningly dull National Clock Museum in the Town Basin, I search frantically for the comfort that only a good meat pie can bring a man. In what is (sadly) to be the only use of this phrase in a while, Cameron Delivers!
Well, Cameron Street anyway. Slap bang in Fun-Gary’s (Couldn’t think of any more, so in a shout out to one of my childhood heroes, Hello Mr Wilmot!) CBD, Jesters Pie Shop is a noxious melange of purple and yellow like an LA Lakers changing room in dire need of a re-fit. Thankfully the staff are more appropriately attired. Forget the name, the business of pies is no laughing matter here.
As is proved by Jesters’ extensive menu. Pies of all fillings and sexualities align their expansive counter.

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The Maharajah, The Stockman (Hello Uncle Tom!), Miss Muffet, Dr Pepper, William Tell, they’re all here. I go for the Southern Man, and the quintessential Kiwi treat; Steak & Cheese.

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At first glance, with its bulging circular crust it looks a bit like Saturn, then on closer inspection of the pie top and its distinctive pentagon resembles an Adidas Tango after a pack of Alsatians have finished with it. But what a colour? a perfect gold Louis XIV would be happy to come back from the dead for. The faultless pastry looks short crust, but, is actually a variation of puff, again I think the long deceased Sun King would approve of this nod to la cuisine Francais. My first bite takes me into a deliciously tangy cheesy ozone hovering ominously above the meat. Thick chunks of steak in a rich, thick gravy complete a superb first pie since my return to New Zealand.

Roll on next Friday. If you’ll forgive the tedious space metaphor one more time, today’s effort was out of this world.

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