Gervase Phinn: A dog's dinner for dad

The children would watch with screwed up faces as Dad devoured the sickly white concoction and then licked his lips dramatically. I did try a small square of tripe once, posting it charily onto my mouth but it had a strange, unpleasant flavour and the texture of what I thought a rubber doormat might

taste of.

There was a tripe shop on Wellgate in Rotherham and on Saturday I was sometimes sent to get a large piece of the white rubbery honeycombed delicacy for Dad's tea.

One wet Saturday morning I was sent to buy Dad's tripe but on the way out of the shop I dropped the parcel. Now dogs love tripe and as soon as the parcel hit the pavement a bristly little terrier appeared out of nowhere and ran off with it. I chased the dog down Wellgate shouting and waving my arms and finally managed get the tripe back but not before it had been chewed and been had rolled into the gutter and picked up a fair bit of dirt.

"Sorry love," said the tripe shop owner, when I returned to the counter hoping for a replacement. "I can't be doing that. You'll have to buy another piece." I explained to her that I had no more money. "Well, it will teach you to be more careful with your tripe, won't it," she told me before resuming a conversation about the state of the public urinals in the town centre.

When I arrived back home I had already devised a plan. If I explained to my mother what had happened she would, no doubt, send me back to the shop, which was the last thing I wanted to do. So, before she could take the tripe from my hands I shot up to the bathroom and washed the tripe thoroughly under the cold water tap. Mum cooked the tripe, Dad ate it, and I watched with a screwed-up face. "Do you want to try a bit?" he asked.

"No thanks," I replied.

"Delicious," said my father licking his lips when he had finished. "Best bit of tripe I've had in a long while. You must mention it, Pat, the next time you go in the shop,' he continued. I gulped and prayed Mum would do no such thing.

Tripe, the lining of a cow's stomach, was once a staple in Yorkshire. It fell out of favour in the 1950s but it is now enjoying something of a comeback. My local butcher told me recently that sales of this offal have increased tenfold.

Recently I was taken out to a fancy London restaurant by my editor at Penguin to celebrate the publication of my latest book and, lo and behold, tripe was on the menu. Tripes la mode de Caen, a dish in which the offal is cooked with apple brandy, white wine, carrots, shallots, garlic, celery and parsley, I was told by the waiter was delicious and a favourite with diners. "I don't suppose you serve Tripes la mode de Rotherham ?" I asked.

"I am not familiar with that dish, sir," replied the waiter.

"Raw with vinegar and pepper?" I said.

"I am sure the chef will oblige should you wish to order it," he told me, smiling widely. "On second thoughts," I said, "I'll have the chicken."

YP MAG 19/6/10