The man behind the counter at Greggs on Fishergate has never heard of a butter pie, but try Poundbakery over the street. Poundbakery doesn’t do butter pie, but try Greenhalgh’s on the corner. Greenhalgh’s: closed on Sundays. The chip shop on Market Street does meat pie, meat and potato, steak, steak and kidney, chicken and mushroom, cheese and onion. Butter pie? A shake of the head.
You’ve got to try the butter pie. That’s what everyone says the first time you visit Preston. It was created in industrial times, for the largely Catholic working population to eat on Fridays when meat was forbidden. Often you hear it described as a “delicacy”, but even this is to overstate its intensely yeoman nature. It’s layers of potatoes, onions and butter in a pie. It’s cheap. It’s hearty. It’s unpretentious. It exists to be consumed and then immediately forgotten. It is – with deepest apologies – the very embodiment of Preston North End in comestible form.
