A bitter sweet affair. Gor Going Gone was the bitter… fruit engorged Middle White pork the sweet. And sweeeeeeeeeeet it was… oh god yes.
Lets deal with the food first. Now this chophouse is a fine establishment indeed and they treated us brilliantly, but it’s hard to ignore it’s location in the centre of what much of the world believes is the new axes of evil. We even learnt of the network of tunnels under Paternoster, presumably for the hedge fund bastards to reach their underground monorails which turn into submarines when hitting the Thames as they escape the imploding world. Too far…? Shall I just focus on the meat? Oh, OK.
We had the rare task of choosing starters, the steak Tartare was the obvious Meat Club choice and good it was (I nicked some off Dave B’s plate – cheers mate, and no it doesn’t make us gay). The roughly cracked egg shell holding the single yolk a thing of beauty in the centre of the meat circle of delicious raw cowflesh. I had the pigeon breast. Good but bloodless.
Then came the Sow. Oh blessed animal which lived off fallen fruit in Englands finest groves purely so it could be slaughtered and bled dry for our greedy pleasure. I’m so glad it did. The quantity might not have been perfect for the send off of Gor (did he have 3 plates of it lined up?) but the crackling was cracking and the fat was… phat. Truly lovely.
There was decent wine (the Italian was the choice…Aussie Merlot people!),and couple of bottles of Grahams Port went down nicely. The underground meatvaults got for juices flowing nicely, especially the look inside a couple of 200 litre stock pots which bubble day and night to make fine meat sauces. I want one. No, two. The highlight for me was when Chef mentioned that they have the occaisional spit roast in the meatlocker. I think he learnt that such phrases can’t be used with impunity in front of a meat men crowd.
There was a first timer amongst us.: Pete Potrella is welcome… but his unwillingness to eat the fatty portions of his pork (WTF!!!???) was slightly worrying. I think he needs a guiding hand as he makes his journey to jackethood.
The Simon Waterfall award went, quite rightly, to Simon Waterfall. Once again he was not present and probably lying naked in a lettuce field with his salad club flagellating him with leaves of Chard. The Jacket of honour went to the splendidly Bearded (he has stuck resolutely while so many in the club haven’t) Matt Wells. This was for finding a glazed breakfast for Gor to take to America to show them how it should be done. Well played sir, well played.
So to Gor himself. We are hardy Men of Meat, who have little time or sympathy for high emotion (it distracts us from the business of eating fleash) but every one of us felt a twinge as Gor bid his farewell. I get the impression that he lives meat 24/7. In many ways we all aspire on our monthly sojourns to be Gor. We will always be mere shadows of his status as the Viking of Beef. His speech was short but perfect: ‘The meat club was always about good meat in good company’. We will miss yours. We, who are about to gorge, salute you.