It was a normal Sunday at the restaurant a few weeks ago, all the preparation had been done and all the tables were fully booked ready for the Sunday lunch. I had noticed that many of the customers had decided to eat early with the rest eating around one thirty, so by almost one o clock the restaurant was just about full. The lady on table four was tucking into her starter of salmon fishcakes; table eight was enjoying the roast local beef served with Yorkshire pudding; the couple on the table near to the window were debating over their dessert of old English trifle, sticky treacle pudding or maybe a selection of handmade ice creams. Then it happened, all went quiet in the restaurant, one elderly gentleman stood up and made his way to the window and then it seemed that every customer had the same desire and made a bee-line to look out of the windows; many leaving their sticky toffee pudding to go cold. The entire restaurant of customers was either at the windows or standing outside on the pavement. Whatever was going on happens every year in August, yes it's the Heacham carnival. As the kitchen and restaurant had come to a grinding halt all the staff decided to join the customers on the pavement. The old Major, who I was standing near, raised his hat and was heard to say “Damn good show,” and words like well done, best ever, were being bandied from the crowd as the carnival slowly made its way passed the restaurant. All sorts of constructions from a very good float of the QE2, to another float that contained lots of youngsters that were giving the crowd a good soaking as most of them were armed with water guns and many of the customers took it in all great fun as they returned to the tables dripping from a direct hit. I was just about to head back to the kitchen for a little bit of peace when I spotted my old friend Brian Brackenbury with his float, was it a plane? was it a train? No it was Brian with his giant British sausage. As the carnival passed the restaurant went back to normality and thoughts returned to running a restaurant, at least until next year’s parade.

The Heacham sausage seemed to stick in my mind and I decided to read a bit about the great British sausage. It seems that it all started around two thousand years ago and the first mention was found in a Greek play called the Orya or the sausage, which was written about 500BC. The modern word sausage is derived from the Latin word Salsicia meaning salted and probably originally applied to cured or salted meats from the days when people did not have any forms of refrigeration. So to preserve their meat they made a salted air-dried sausage, which overcame the problem. Basically there is a form of sausage for every part of the world. Many places have been associated with special sausages for example Italy, sausages from Lyons in France, Berliner from Germany and of course the great British banger.

There is one other food that falls into the realms of the word sausage and that's the famous sausage from the wilds of Scotland called the Haggis. You can buy a small haggis from butchers around Burns night and often at New Years Eve but how many of you have travelled to Scotland and caught your own? I worked for ten years for a true Scotsman and many a time he would say that he had the a strong feeling to head up to his native home in the highlands, with the sole idea of bringing back to Norfolk a fresh haggis. So on a very wet and windy morning I found myself standing at the bottom of what seemed a very steep hill in the wilds of his homeland. He explained the art of catching the haggis and after a few swigs from his hip flask I was handed a long stick with a red flag tied to it. It appeared that it was my job to climb to the top of the hill and hide. He also told me that the male haggis was perfectly adapted to running up a hill at great speed and with a tail wind could reach speeds up to 50 miles per hour. The haggis is about the size of a small dog, and has two long back legs and two very short front legs just the job for surging up hills but not so good when coming down. All this information floated over my head as I made the long trek to the top of the hill and once arriving at the decided destination I promptly concealed myself ready for the battle to commence. It seemed as if I had been stuck up on the top of the hill for hours and just as I thought I would call it a day there came a shout of tally ho. I promptly tried to stand up. I think that it was a combination of the arthritis and the many sips of the boss’s hip flask that caused the problem. But eventually I managed, with the aid of the stick that was attached to the red flag, to stand up. On gathering my wits I could make out a large haggis making his way up the hill at great speed, now on seeing me at the top of the hill waving a stick with a red flag the haggis decided to do a U-turn. He was now travelling down the hill towards my old boss at a far greater speed then before and due to the haggis’s front legs being that much shorter it was not long before he lost control and he was in the bag. Often the old boss would say how about coming up to Scotland and catching a haggis. After that trip it was always, “Sorry boss. I think I am doing something that day.” I was having a debate with the commis chef the other day about the finer points of where to buy the best bangers. He replied that you can’t buy bangers at the moment you have to wait till almost November. I soon told him that it was not that sort of banger, but the ones you put in the frying pan. Then he had a brainstorm and not a bad one at that. “Chef, you know Congham is well known for its snail race, and Wells-next-the-sea is well known for it crab contests. How about Heacham becoming the well-known village for the sausage eating championship? Can you see it, chef? Tables all set out down the high street with contestants eating their way through tonnes of special Heacham sausages. “What would be the prize then” I asked, “Only one thing it can be: Mr Brian Brackenbury’s great British Sausage.

We all know a butcher that sells the best sausages. I always think that you require three per person. This little recipe is one that we use on our lunch menu at the restaurant. It’s sausages cooked in a white onion sauce and served on a bed of fluffy creamed potatoes. Take a good frying pan and pop a drop of sun flower oil into it and place it on the stove on a medium heat. Do not prick the sausages as we all were told to many years ago, but cook slowly. As the sausages start to cook add to the pan sliced white onions. It’s up to you how many you add. Cook these with the sausages. Once the sausages and onions are fully cooked remove from the pan and keep warm in a slow oven. Turn up the heat slightly under the pan and add a little white wine. Allow the wine to deglaze and then add a splash of cream, season with salt and pepper to your taste. On a plate, place a good amount of freshly creamed potatoes and then arrange the sausages on top of the potatoes.  Pop the warm onions into the sauce and pour it over the best of British.

Colin Rushmore