There’s a wonderfully apt scene in cult noughties UK comedy The Mighty Boosh when co-creator Julian Barratt, here cast as an aspiring musician, converses with the Spirit of Jazz. A flaming-gloved apparition, this spectre clad in white top hat and three-piece asks him one question: “Yorkshire? What is, York-shire?”
In the show, Yorkshire is a place and a state of mind. We’d also say it’s a state of unbridled bliss if you know where to go for meat. Varyingly described as God’s Own Country and, bafflingly, the Texas Of Britain, even as someone who hails from within the bosom of her White Rosed embraced, the largest of England’s 48 ceremonial counties never ceases to amaze, confuse, and make you proud. It’s just in our nature.
The saying goes Yorkshire has more acres in its shires than there are words written in the Bible. Failing to count either, because who would, it’s best to chalk that down to one of those ridiculous phrases people in Yorkshire really relish in saying. Our wit is a combination of deadpan black humour and self-deprecation, but only on native terms. Woe betide, to use one regional parlance, any outsider who thinks they’ve got it greener.
There are many stunning corners of the true northern powerhouse, but for many the Yorkshire Dales will always take the lead. A vast expanse of picturesque valleys, moorlands, fells, towns and villages spread over the North Pennines, it’s here we find Swaledale Butchers and the finest steaks we’ve ever taken home to meet the family. Specialising in whole-carcass, small-sale and sustainable practices, if nose-to-tail epicureans were looking for a slice of 28-day aged heaven this might be it.
Ordering a box full, we slowly stack up what’s here. A duo of Filet Mignon. A quartet of Beef Short Rib. A pair of Onglet Steaks. A medley of Tuscan-style Pork, Fennel and Red Wine Sausages. A delight of Yorkshire Breakfast Chipolatas. A band of Chicken Drumsticks. A sight to behold. Oh, happy day! Blessed we are.
Cutting to the chase, or most revered cut, our adventure begins as it means to go on with a double header of mignon. Sticking to tradition, as hopefully Swaledale would have wanted, we lightly season at room temperature for a good 30 minutes, give or take, take a few swills of Cabernet Sauvignon ourselves and not-so-gently start to sear. Reduced butter poured over, because we’ve come this far so why not, after a couple of minutes each side it’s finished in the oven for another five. The results are beyond incredible. And that’s not just Yorkshire arrogance speaking.
Further investigations led to an excellent slow cooked short rib Sunday, a made-up stew given a kick with some spice and accompanied by plenty of veg. Falling off the bones, these were kept behind to create a stock with real depth of flavour. The Smoked Back Bacon crisped to a perfect degree without drying. Losing little size in the process speaks volumes about the quality. Meanwhile, the Chipolatas and Tuscan-style sausage fed a small band of walk and pub-weary friends on a weekend retreat to Wales. The feedback universally positive, not least in terms of how perfectly balanced the fennel and red wine were.
We could go on, but you probably get the point. Swaledale’s exceptional produce really is just that, betraying the rather remarkable story behind how it began: passion for good food. Co-founder Jorge fell for the Yorkshire Dales, and the specialist food items and high quality ingredients coming out of the area. By chance, he met chef Karl Goward at The Drapers Arms in London and waxed lyrical about his discoveries. An order was placed “on the spot”. His brother, Charlie, then joined and business has developed from a one-man refrigerated van into a much bigger operation with exacting standards and genuinely holistic ethics at its core. You don’t get more Yorkshire than that.
