Oh god, Fray Bentos. Picture the scene: Deep behind the Iron Curtain, winter of 1979. In the people's socialist paradise it's minus 28 outside, with long lines at the food shops - queue for 7 hours to get your ration. We'd been eating belly of pork for weeks - no other meat available. Then my father came home bearing a large box. Inside were row upon shiny row of Fray Bentos tins: Steak and Kidney pie, Steak and Ale, Chicken and Mushroom. Came in with the diplomatic bag. The wisp of steam as the crust broke, that aroma of unbelievably rich filling that curled around the room, and four pairs of hungry eyes locked on this mysterious culinary treat all the way from England.
I don't know what's wrong with me these days - spoiled by consumerism, probably. Now I eat one and with alternating mouthfuls it's "Oh my god I can't believe I'm eating this don't even think about what goes in it", immediately followed by "Mmm, Fray Bentossss."
