Food at Football

Quoted from BraStrap

non-league food is best, smaller crowds

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/NQEwQdm9ug4

Quoted from Poojah

My worst ever food experience at a football match just happens to have been at one of the worst Town games I’ve ever attended. And if not the worst, certainly the coldest game I’ve been to.

It was that weird Sunday game away at Oldham, in what would turn out to be Groves’ last game as manager. I can’t remember if it was free to get in or a fiver, but there was some sort of deal going on.

5-0 and a man down at half-time, thanks to Scott Vernon’s one and only career hat-trick, I decided to treat myself to a pie to cheer myself up. And to be fair, they looked alright, served in little tin foil trays, meaning you could just see the flaky, pastry of the pie atop its alluring crust. I took it back to my seat, freezing my knackers off, knowing it couldn’t be any worse than the game or the weather.

Now there’s no right or wrong way to eat a football ground pie, but personally I like to remove it from the tray and bite chunks of the fúcker out of my hands. As I went to do this, it became apparent that the outside, and bottom, of the pie, were pitch black. They had turned the pie’s exterior into charcoal. You couldn’t even bite into it.

Anyway, since my testicles were rapidly becoming icicles and I was hungry, I simply thought “fúck it, I’ll take the lid off and eat the contents with a plastic fork”. So that’s what I went to do. Only at this juncture, I was met with the revelation that, despite the pie’s veneer having been overcooked to the point of carbon, its contents were in fact frozen solid. I don’t recall what kind of animal those contents claimed to be, but by this point I wouldn’t have believed it anyway. They had, to be fair, given me a pie that was cooked perfectly on average, and yet was still somehow completely inedible. They had created the perfect state of culinary equilibrium, and yet eating it might well have hospitalised me.

But that’s not where it ends. Having poked at said frozen meat in disbelief, I noticed that one small area was in fact slightly softer than the rest of it. And it came away from the rest of the pie on my fork with less resistance than the Town defence that day. At this point, it became clear what had happened. Someone else had already had the pie, taken the lid off, taken a bite, realised it was frozen, spat it back into the pie, put the lid back on and taken it back. And the frugal Boundary Park kiosk staff, not wanting to be wasteful, had simply put it back on the hot counter ready to be resold.

The dirty Lancashire bástards.

Quoted from Poojah

My worst ever food experience at a football match just happens to have been at one of the worst Town games I’ve ever attended. And if not the worst, certainly the coldest game I’ve been to.

It was that weird Sunday game away at Oldham, in what would turn out to be Groves’ last game as manager. I can’t remember if it was free to get in or a fiver, but there was some sort of deal going on.

5-0 and a man down at half-time, thanks to Scott Vernon’s one and only career hat-trick, I decided to treat myself to a pie to cheer myself up. And to be fair, they looked alright, served in little tin foil trays, meaning you could just see the flaky, pastry of the pie atop its alluring crust. I took it back to my seat, freezing my knackers off, knowing it couldn’t be any worse than the game or the weather.

Now there’s no right or wrong way to eat a football ground pie, but personally I like to remove it from the tray and bite chunks of the fúcker out of my hands. As I went to do this, it became apparent that the outside, and bottom, of the pie, were pitch black. They had turned the pie’s exterior into charcoal. You couldn’t even bite into it.

Anyway, since my testicles were rapidly becoming icicles and I was hungry, I simply thought “fúck it, I’ll take the lid off and eat the contents with a plastic fork”. So that’s what I went to do. Only at this juncture, I was met with the revelation that, despite the pie’s veneer having been overcooked to the point of carbon, its contents were in fact frozen solid. I don’t recall what kind of animal those contents claimed to be, but by this point I wouldn’t have believed it anyway. They had, to be fair, given me a pie that was cooked perfectly on average, and yet was still somehow completely inedible. They had created the perfect state of culinary equilibrium, and yet eating it might well have hospitalised me.

But that’s not where it ends. Having poked at said frozen meat in disbelief, I noticed that one small area was in fact slightly softer than the rest of it. And it came away from the rest of the pie on my fork with less resistance than the Town defence that day. At this point, it became clear what had happened. Someone else had already had the pie, taken the lid off, taken a bite, realised it was frozen, spat it back into the pie, put the lid back on and taken it back. And the frugal Boundary Park kiosk staff, not wanting to be wasteful, had simply put it back on the hot counter ready to be resold.

The dirty Lancashire bástards.