Leaving home in the dark of early morning, I headed for an industrial estate on the outskirts of Cluj-Napoca, somewhere in deepest Dorset. I was greeted by a female with an English accent, a calculated ploy to make me feel at home – it was the last I was to hear for some time. Having had my possessions examined for allergens I was instructed to ascend the stairs, turn left and continue on as far as I could go. I obliged. A girl with a heavy European accent enquired for my name, ticked a piece of paper and introduced me to Alexander. Through a series of gestures Aleksandr bade me follow. And I did; along corridors, down stairs, out into the dark, into another building, through rooms, twisting left and right, up stairs and into a changing room. Here I was handed earplugs, a hair net, beard snood and the gesticulations suggested that I remove my footwear. Just as at a ten-pin bowling alley, we swung over a stainless steel counter to choose a pair of fetching white shoes. After washing hands, we once again descended, washed hands again and arrived at our work station. A lad at the far end was removing eggs from a conveyor and placing them in wire trays. It was a sedate and serene process. They were coming through a hole in the wall one by one giving him time to treat each one individually. They had been rolled in some oat crumb and they looked posh – not like the scabby, rattly scotch eggs my impecunious budget allows for. Indeed, these were not just scotch eggs; these were M&S scotch eggs. Perhaps it was a little too sedate; Jason, after the 10:30 break, failed to reappear and was never seen again.
At our end, nothing happened. For nearly an hour, nothing happened. We were sent for a twenty-minute tea break. Halfway up the stairs that instruction was cancelled. We returned. Still nothing happened. We were sent for a tea break. We washed hands, disposed of the earplugs, nets and snoods. The bowling shoes were left on the inside of the counter. Outside shoes were re-inhabited and we retraced our steps back to room 101. Twenty minutes later we did it all again! Then our production line burst into life. No sedate and serene for us. Eggs just started pouring down a shoot, straight from the fryer, into the wire trays that had to be filled, stacked and taken into the blast chiller. These were much more like my level of egg – a nondescript crumb, all slightly misshapen and slightly battered looking. Probably for the Associated Dairies! Some of them didn't actually contain an egg; Alessandro had a knack for spotting these. It wouldn't have surprised me if they were all empty. It reminded me of a 'meat pie' I once had from that grocer – empty with the merest suggestion of gravy smeared around its innards. My instructions from Aleksandrescu were by way of mime. A pointing meant 'go'. Having gone, what was then required of me was a little less clear. The most common gesture of the day was the waving of hands that clearly meant 'no' or 'stop'! You see, he couldn't speak a word of English and my Romanian is, well, non-existent. But as I seemed to have been transported to that country maybe I should have put in a little more effort.
Our QA of the day was also Romanian but as Al had little difficulty communicating with everyone other than me I guess they all were. The QA was called MarEEa! That was the yell from somewhere inside the frying machine to which she generally responded. And every so often MarEEa would bawl through the hole 'MaurEEEN'! This was when things were going wrong, the product not being up to scratch. The eggs need to be modestly covered – no one wants to see a bit of egg on show. All of the final product has to be to a set standard and if it isn't then it is rejected. Too many and MaurEEEN would be summoned. At one point an entire batch was rejected because they had changed the oil in the fryer but had failed to give it time to get up to temperature. MarEEa's probe was reading less than 76 degrees C and they all had to go – sixteen trays each with 60 or more eggs emptied into plastic sacks and thrown through a hatch into a waiting skip. Mass production is probably very efficient but the level of waste is heart-breaking for a lad raised to 'waste not, want not'. If, at home, there's a hole in the scotch you fill and repair it before cooking so that it can be eaten and enjoyed. You don't cook it just to dispose of it.
This got me wondering how these scotch eggs are formed, a part of the process I did not get to see. I imagine giant Transylvanian chickens devouring sausage meat and breadcrumbs and perching precariously over hot oil... What did happen to Jason?
At one point MaurEEEN instructed MarEEa that the next batch was going to be Cumberland and that she would leave a gap. No doubt Mr Donegan once worked here and the inspiration led him to fame and fortune. I somehow feel that if I came up with a little ditty 'Scotch Egg Corner on the A66' that it would not achieve equal fame as did Cumberland Gap.
Shortly after 14:00 hours I was waved away. I gladly obliged, picked up my belongings, passed through the wardrobe and re-entered Dorset. A fantasy experience that has left me wondering why I used to like scotch eggs.
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