Australian Pastry Pies

Written by Duncan Holmes | 12 October 2009

Central Station in Sydney, Australia is a cavernous, colonial place of musty walls and rusty iron, a space seasoned with the smells of old beer, ancient lost baggage, and hurrying, sometimes lost people. Occasionally, among the waves of diesel fuel and nose-snapping ozone, there are sweet hints of jacaranda, boronia and bougainvillea, gentle confirmation that this is indeed Australia.

When I was last there, trains were growling out of Central Station north to Brisbane and the Gold Coast; south to Wagga Wagga, Wodonga and on to Melbourne. Others were crawling over the fortress-like Blue Mountains to then snake the 4,000-plus kilometres across the Great Brown Land to Perth, and the Indian Ocean at the end of the line.

At 7 a.m., when packed commuter trains begin to unload a mixed bag of Sydneysiders from the suburbs, when the straw-hatted high school girls keep pace on the platforms with hurrying brokers and barrow boys heading for the sunshine of the Sydney streets, Central Station is, like all great world railway stations, an exciting hub for humanity on the move, in every sensual respect.

On the morning that I was part of the scene, there was an added dimension of excitement, because hanging above the Central Station ticket takers was a very large sign that proclaimed to the world, “The Great Aussie Railway Pie is Back!”

Having been away from Australia and its amazing railways for a few years, I admit that I didn’t really know the Great Aussie Railway Pie had actually left. But knowing that it was back certainly gave added oomph to an already promising day. Any born-and-bred Australian knows that just as North Americans are emotionally bound to hamburgers, their own sloshy, peppery pie, primed with ketchup and served in a paper bag, has sustained Australia and maintained its spirit probably since the first convicts and their guards bumped into Botany Bay way back in 1788 and asked no-one in particular: “What’s to eat?”

Like Vegemite, which many claim is nothing more than congealed blood in a jar; like Lamingtons, mutton chops, Billy Tea, Balmain bugs and kangaroo any way you want it: the pie is a coast-to-coast Australian icon, the mainstay of milk bars, beach picnics and footy games at Flemington. It is an accompaniment, any time, to a cool Tooth’s, Foster’s, or even better, a Southwark bitter.

When I was a kid in Australia, pies were prepared and baked in small oval pans. Made of steel, they were five inches long and just under four wide. The lip of the pan was sharp, which gave precision and speed to the process of pie preparation. To make a pie, you lined the pan with puff pastry, then pressed the rough edges with the flat of your hand against the lip of the pan. In this action, the excess pastry was effectively chopped off. Then you filled it with a cooked mixture of meat and other ingredients and topped it with more pastry. Pressed with the flat of your hand and again, the excess fell off. Crimp the edges, slit the top, brush it with egg and pop it in the oven. Presto, an Aussie pie!