The Devil and the Pasty

Siduri, the innkeeper of The Dolphin, serves pasties to the group of travellers gathered there. Then she tells them this story…

The stranger had walked through Lanson, which was mostly closed and very wet and windy. He headed out on the the wild moor. Anyone watching would have been startled by the way he covered the ground- not stumbling, but gliding over the sudden pools and rough grass, and unscathed by blackthorn or furze; the howling wind seeming to flow round him, not snatching his black hat nor whipping his black cloak, which shed the rain like quicksilver. But there was no one to watch, except perhaps the old woman with the donkey, just disappearing into the mist.

In a moment or two he would have passed the little cottage without a glance, had he not been stopped dead in his tracks. What was that smell? The most delicious, warm, enticing smell, better than any banquet he could remember, almost irresistible even on a damp cold westerly wind. Baking, certainly, but more tempting than any baking he had met before. Without hesitation, he adopted an amiable face, wrapped his cloak closely about him, and knocked firmly on the inn door.

Dolly Tremellan had put her first tray of pasties on the window ledge to cool, and was rolling the pastry for the second batch when she heard the knock. Her hands were covered in flour, so rather than wash them, she called out.

'Come on in,' she called, 'the door’s open.’

She turned to see a tall dark stranger crossing the threshold at her invitation. He in turn, saw - a short plump woman, the wrong side of fifty, with floured hands and an apron. Nevertheless, his first words were:

'Oh, excuse me my dear, is your mummy at home?'

Dolly knew flattery when she heard it, but she didn’t hear it nearly often enough these days, so she fluttered her eyelashes and explained that she herself was mistress of the establishment.

'And so young!' the stranger continued, 'and so talented!' He indicated the tray of pasties, though he could now see a whole array of baking spread out on the table. Before he could stop himself , his fingers reached out towards the nearest pasty, and he was rapped sharply over the knuckles with a wooden spoon!

'That’s Farmer Healy’s pasty,' said Dolly. 'I make the pasties for most folks around here.'

'And I can see why,' the stranger conceded. 'Where on earth did you learn to cook like this, in a place like this! You must have learned so much at your grandmother’s knee!'

'My grandmother?' Dolly laughed. 'All she cooked was fifty shades of gruel! No, I am entirely self-taught, bake it all, locally sourced ingredients, all organic, gluten-free, low calorie, no trans fats, low food miles, no additives, no ultra processed whatevers, all ingredients listed on a notice behind the door…'  She smiled up at the incredulous expression on his face. 'Of course not! I just make the best pasties for miles around! Actually, the the best in Cornwall!'

A gleam sparked in the stranger's eye -‘The best!'  Oh good, he thought, the first prey on the hook so soon!

'But listen to me, prattling on! You must be cold, wet and hungry! Sit yourself by the fire, kettle’s on! I'll just finish this batch and then we can have a cup of tea and something to eat!'

Soon they were sitting either side of the fire, and the stranger was making the most of the opportunity to sample pasties, saffron buns, lammy pie, figgy hoggan and splits.

'That was amazing!’ he added, dabbing his mouth delicately with a silk handkerchief. 'I have never tasted pasties as good as these. You really should consider whether you might do better for yourself than just a few local outlets.'

Dolly shrugged.

'Oh I dunno,' she said. 'I do alright here. You said yourself my pasties are the best, and I know it's the pastry. You see I know that the secret’s in the pastry, not the filling. The filling- anyone can get meat and tatties, but the pastry, that's where the skill shows! I can make a brilliant pasty out of anything, so long as I make the pastry, why I wager the Devil himself couldn’t do better!'

She looked casually across the room, noticing the floor by the place where she had been rolling the pastry. The spilled flour showed quite clearly the prints, not of boots, but of cloven hooves where the stranger had walked. She turned back to see the look of triumph on the Devil’s face.

'A Wager!' he cried with delight. 'What a splendid suggestion my dear! Yes, definitely a wager! I wager that you cannot make me three pasties, one each day, of the ingredients I choose. If you succeed as well as these,' he indicated the spread of baking, 'then.. well you can ask me to bake one of your choice! But if you cannot bake as well as you claim, if you are an imposter, …, well, I think I can find you a permanent position in my kitchens- cleaning my filthy ovens for all Eternity!'

There was no hesitation, Dolly was not going to be beaten in a baking competition. She offered a hand and they shook on the deal.

'Now then,' the Devil began, 'here is your challenge for tomorrow: 

                    Bake me a pasty, tasty and rare, of a two legged creature without any hair.'

And with a flourish he swept out of the inn. He didn’t go straight home, however. Something about the woman’s confidence nagged at him. What was this pastry stuff, anyway? The Devil has many skills, but cookery is not listed amongst them. Barbeque and spit roast he understood. He gathered flour, water, fat as suggested, stirred them in a bowl, pulled, dragged, thumped, kneaded and eventually wrenched the sticky mess from his claws and threw it into the nearest oven. There was a small pop and a plume of black smoke. He was going to need to win this wager convincingly.

Next morning found Dolly in Lanson market. She bought flour, fat, vegetables. What else did she buy?........ Chicken!
Back at the cottage she sliced the meat, chopped the veg, rolled the pastry and crimped the edge.

At lunchtime the Devil swaggered across the yard and walked in, whistling. 'Well , my dear, have you packed your toothbrush and brillo pads? We have a long journey ahead of us.'

'I don't think I will be leaving today,' said Dolly. 'But you are welcome to try a chicken pasty before you go!'

They smelled wonderful, better even than yesterday’s. One mouthful wouldn’t matter... The Devil stuffed the first one into his mouth, then another and then a third because he couldn’t believe anything could taste that good. When he had finished the plateful, he wiped the crumbs and the smile from his face.
'You have done well, my dear,' he announced graciously, 'but tomorrow you will be coming with me. Here is your challenge:

                   No legs, one foot, no eyes, no hair.
                   Make that a pasty beyond compare!'

and with a flourish he swept out of the inn.

Next morning Dolly assembled her ingredients. What was the filling? ……………Limpets!

She scooped out the limpets and mixed them with lots of raisins and herbs and spices. She sliced the meat, chopped the veg, rolled the pastry and crimped the edge.

At lunchtime the Devil hesitated in the yard. There was a strange, enticing , curious smell. Surely no one could make anything smell that good from those ingredients? He strolled in nonchalantly, and the smell grew more and more delicious.

'Ready to leave, my dear?’ he asked cautiously.

'Oh I won't be going anywhere today, but do try a limpet and raisin pasty before you go!'

Well, it's not often you get to try a limpet and raisin pasty, so he gave it a go, and he was smitten- it was new, exciting, a refreshing change from barbecued dictator. He ate every one of them, but managed a serious face. 'You have excelled yourself, my dear, very worthy of praise. But tomorrow, we will be travelling together to my kitchens. Here is your challenge:

                        I travel for miles by land and by sea
                        No legs, wings or scales.
                        What pie will I be?'

Next day Dolly was in the market. What did she buy? (cue audience)
She sliced the flesh, chopped the veg, rolled the pastry and crimped the edge.

At lunchtime the Devil crept quietly into the yard. There was a smell that in an eternity of travel, he had never experienced before. It was unimaginable- good, but not too good, irresistible, unforgettable, it just drew him, salivating, to the door, where he peered round at the plate of pasties.

'Um, er, are we, er, …..' He dribbled helplessly.

'Just try one,' Dolly said, and he did. One bite, one crumble of perfect pastry into soft green jelly and the tender white flesh seasoned with dill and cloves. He gobbled them up as fast as he could, savouring the taste that steeped the lower pastry even as the steam salted the upper pastry.. there were no words, he just ate and ate until… until he became aware of Dolly. And he remembered that this was the third pasty, and he could hardly claim it was a failure.

'Well, my dear...' He couldn’t think clearly with her looking at him like that. 'That was great, just a bit of fun, of course, not to take it seriously or anything…'

'I think you owe me a pasty.'  The voice was determined, and continued. '“I think the pasty should be made of something that has two horns, cloven hoofs and a tail, don't you? In fact, I’ll do you a favour and make it for you!' She advanced, knife in hand.

'Look,' he spluttered, ‘we have to be sensible about this, I mean you and I, well we are not, we cant just, I mean ...'

'The oven is hot, I’ve chopped the veg and rolled the pastry, I just have to slice the flesh and crimp the edge!'

For one terrifying moment he imagined the hot vegetables steaming around him inside the darkness of a sealed pastry tomb, and then he was free, running back towards the Tamar through the fine Cornish drizzle.

And they say he hasn’t been back since. They also say that the wager can be finished by any Cornishwoman who finds the Devil in Cornwall- she has the right to turn him into a pasty.