This is the strange little tale of the tiny pie shop in the middle of town. Renown for its perfect pastry and meaty pies, this little shop was a favourite among the locals, who always stopped in for a beefy bite while they were shopping. People wandering the street could not resist standing at the window, eyes wide with hunger as they stared in at the mouth-watering treats.
The shop baked the fattest pies in the whole of the city: great chunks of chicken and smooth cream, or slabs of beef melting in hot thick gravy, encased in crumbly sweet pastry. Every mouthful was an eruption of deep flavour, dropping pastry flakes and drips of gravy down the front of their coats. People could not get enough of their succulent pies, and the shop was always busy.
The girls behind the counters loved their jobs; they loved watching the pastry rise golden brown in the oven, loved chatting to the customers about the weather and their pies. However, there was one woman who was not so happy. Their manager complained about the girls' pies and the shop. She shouted at them in her thick accent for making their pies too crumbly or too soft. She moaned at them for mopping too slowly, for talking too much, for leaving the sweeping brush out. Every little thing, the fat woman would yell and moan and shake her head in disappointment, and the girls had had enough. They no longer wanted to hear the woman, they no longer wanted her around.
“Your new pies are beautiful,” an old woman chimes one day. “No wonder so many people keep coming back for them.”
The girl grins in reply. “It's a popular new recipe. Made with meat from Scotland,” she raises her eyebrow.
The girls revel in the happy chatter, no longer listening to the yells and screams of their manager. They have a new manager now, one who is kind and fair, who doesn't shout or moan at them. This girl knows if she raises her voice, they may have a new recipe for their pies. Made with Yorkshire meat...
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