Why black pudding is back on the menu

Once a tasty staple of the English breakfast, the popularity of black pudding had gone down in recent years. But thanks to changing diets it seems the sausage is having a comeback, writes Clare Finney

In another era, fridges across the land would have a plate of black pudding in their fridge (Getty Images/iStockphoto)

It was a map to strike horror in the heart of Twitter’s food community: Europe according to culinary horror, taken from Yanko Tsvetkov’s Atlas of Prejudice. Frogs legs featured, of course, and the rotten shark of Icelandic fame – but by far and away the most reviled dishes in Europe were those containing blood. “All these things are delicious, you dumbasses,” fumed chef and food writer Thom Eagle when the map resurfaced on the social media platform earlier this month. But you didn’t need to go to the source to see the map was outdated (2013). You just needed to look around you – at the menus of popular restaurants; in the display of your local butchers; at the Full English breakfasts served in pubs and B&Bs.

Black pudding (the British and Irish version of blood sausage) is back – not, of course, that it ever really left, but it is in vogue again if Google trends and the sales figures of pudding producers are to be believed. “There’s been a slow revolution,” says Matthew Cockin of The Fruit Pig, one of the few producers still using fresh blood to produce his award-winning blood sausages. “People want to know where their meat comes from; that it’s been sourced from Britain, that the animals have had a good life. Butchers are no longer engaged in a race to the bottom, cutting their prices and so on,” he continues. “There are ethical butchers out there, like HG Walters and Turner and George. They serve quality meat” – including Cockin’s black puddings – “and they are honest and straight.”

Some chefs are making their own, such as Mark Birchall at Moor Hall, who sources fresh blood from the local abattoir to make a light, creamy pudding served as an amuse bouche with seasonal fruit. Richard Corrigan of Bentleys and Daffodil Mulligan used to make his own, but it became more difficult when he lost his regular supplier; abattoirs providing fresh blood these days are few and far between. Regulations brought in in the 1970s and 1980s, when Britain joined the single market, resulted in the widespread closure of small-scale abattoirs. These regulations were a good thing, says Cockin: “They raised hygiene and welfare standards.” But smaller, family-run abattoirs struggled to afford the necessary changes in time. “Then BSE [mad cow disease] came along, and that was pretty much the death knell.”

With BSE the collection of fresh blood was banned in the UK. Meanwhile the pork market was flooded with products from Denmark, where producers managed to make their agriculture systems far more efficient whilst also meeting welfare standards.  “They have a lot of byproduct, which could be used for glue, dog food and so on – and the other thing they did was make powdered blood, which made the blood far more readily available and easier to transport.” While the ban has on fresh blood has since been lifted, many abattoirs have failed to recover – a trend which is sadly ongoing. The Fruit Pig’s local abattoirs closed earlier this year, forcing Cockin and his business partner Grant Harper to travel 50-odd miles to Norwich: the closest abattoir where collecting fresh blood has been approved.

Collecting blood is, to put it lightly, a hassle. Every Friday, Cockin and his business partner Grant get up at 5am for an eight-hour round trip –  on a good traffic day. The pair are qualified slaughter-men: the stunning of the animal and the letting of the blood are carried out by them – “and it’s not nice,” Cockin says, somewhat needlessly. “It’s messy, it’s dangerous, it’s mentally and physically challenging.” Once collected, the blood needs cooling to 3C before it can be used – “so you need huge refrigerators, on top of everything else”. In short, Cockin can fully understand why the vast majority of black pudding producers opt for a dried product. “You can get up at 9am, have a nice cup of tea and then set about mixing it with water,” he says. “It’s very convenient.” Yet it is also, in his opinion and those of the chefs and butchers who buy from him, just not the same.

Now that’s what we need here! The knights of the blood sausage. A black pudding society

“They are chalk and cheese,” Cockin says of black puddings made with dried blood versus those made with fresh – an analogy which isn’t, in fact, purely metaphorical. While some puddings made with dried are very good, many are “awful”. “If you didn’t have egg on the plate to soak into it, it’d be like cardboard. Sometimes they add raising agents to lighten it up, because if they didn’t it would be like a digestive biscuit. There are some delicious puddings made with dried blood out there,” he continues – but only a few.

The proof of the pudding is – well, mainly the eating, but also in his client list: Tom Kitchin, Tom Kerridge, Daniel Barbosa of Duck and Waffle – not to mention Harrods and Fortnum and Mason. Demand is growing not in spite of people choosing to eat less meat, but because of it, argues Cokin. “People are eating more flexitarian diets – which is excellent – and when they have meat they are prepared to pay for it.” What’s more, as the nose to tail movement has shown, they are more conscious of waste than ever before. “The reason pudding as once a regional delicacy from Cornwall to the north of Scotland was because nothing wasted from killing the pig,” says chef Corrigan. “If you were eating meat, you were eating the whole animal.” The pudding was a vehicle for the leftover blood and fat. Now the “growing strain of people who really value food” are showing an interest in this useful, delicious and ancient way of ensuring no part of an animal raised and killed for human consumption goes to waste.

Of course, dried blood is just as much an animal product as fresh, and commercial black pudding an equally valid means of ensuring no part of a pig is wasted. What’s more, while fresh blood does make a difference, many would argue that the fat is just as important a factor when it comes to the flavour and texture of a pudding. “One of the reasons our black puddings are so unctuous is the amount of fat we put in is far higher than in more commercially produced puddings,” says Cockin. These have historically steered clear of fat both for cost reasons and to attract consumers looking to reduce their fat intake. Now, he says, our understanding of fat is changing. “More people understand that fat is flavour – and that clean, natural fats can be very good for you.”

Demand is growing for black pudding despite a rise in people to choosing to eat less meat (Fruitpig Butchery)

Which is why, despite being made with fresh blood, the black pudding made by Warrens in Cornwall has proved so popular. “We use proper beef fat, where many cheaper versions use suet,” Ian Warren points out. It’s that, together with the raising agents that Cockin mentioned, that result in the granular texture of those puddings found on less-salubrious full English breakfast plates. In fact, Warren reckons that for the more “everyday” customer, his puds are more palatable: “It’s not as strong, and there aren’t so many oats (used to soak up the fresh blood) when you it with dried blood,” he argues. “Ours suit a lot of people – we sell more than we did when we made them with fresh blood.” The latter, he continues, “is like Marmite: you either love them or hate them. They’re too much for me – but some chefs don’t feel the same”.

Richard Corrigan is one such chef; fellow Irishman Patrick Powell is another. He doesn’t make his own fresh blood puddings, much as he’d love to –  “it’s too difficult to find a supply of fresh blood these days” – but his butcher does, and he finds them much better than dried blood versions – not just on account of their taste. “There’s more control over the product. It is more versatile,” he says. “You can dictate the consistency, and what you do with it.” With dried, you are more or less confined to slices. With fresh, you can add ingredients and make purees which you can play with, piping into croquettes or rolling them up and steaming them again. “When we get ours we break it down, add a chicken mousse with caramelised onions that have been cooked right down until golden and sweet, add garlic and smoked paprika – then blend it all, roll it into a ballotine, steam and set it and cut it into slices,” he says. This comes in burgers, or – on the tasting menu – in small muffins as a canape.

It’s proved extraordinarily popular – whether for the reasons Cockin lists or not, Powell’s not sure: “People are a lot more open-minded now, especially when it comes to offal,” he notes. Yet he is sceptical about how many people really know what black pudding contains.  “I’m not sure my mum knows it contains blood,” he laughs – “and I’m not sure she’d eat it if she knew, though she’s eaten it all her life.” In Ireland, it’s never ceased to be a staple. “Any household fridge has a black and a white pudding on the top shelf.”

For Corrigan, it doesn’t matter how or why people come to it. It’s enough that they are – and that it’s appreciated. He sources his from Inch House in Ireland, an old family business that has been handed down mother to daughter. “It is the most extraordinary thing.” He references the Chevaliers du Goute-Boudin in France: “Now that’s what we need here! The knights of the blood sausage. A black pudding society.” I’m not sure we’re quite there yet – but at least we no longer consider it the culinary horror we did in 2013.