I find John Taylor’s butchers perched on the corner of a long dipping street of terraced houses which winds all the way down into the city and I am greeted by a gentleman who calls me “Young man”, always a vote winner. It’s early yet, still only half ten and I can hear chopping and slashing going on in the back room. They’ve got plate pies and whopping pork pies and black puddings. Plus a big bowl of faggots for the connoisseurs; they look like chocolate truffles although I suspect they don’t taste like it. The pie is a thick semi-flaky shortcrust but is perhaps a bit bland and in desperate need of seasoning. Nevertheless, it is circular and deep and possesses high meat content. Probably my error as I am sure it would go down well as part of a meal.