Tabacco Docks

I am neither psychic nor gifted with particularly good skills of prediction. I am astounded every Wednesday by the recycling trucks’ reappearance on my street and more often than not miss it. Neither am I a vegan, or anti-smoking, although after you have read this article, you might disagree. I am simply a neurotic, hypocritical, incurably metropolitan food writer who delved into the smoking depths of London’s biggest meat festival and had some ruminations. 

Meatopia started by New York food writer Josh Ozersky as his private birthday 20 years ago has been going strong for 10 years across the pond, trapped within the prison like encircling walls of Tobacco Docks. These buildings (now only two-fifths of their original size) could house at its height 250000 hogsheads (fittingly the measurement for a barrel until the 1900s) of Tobacco. Built in 1812 and designed by John Rennie this was once one of the centres for import, not just of smokey goodness, but various luxury products from across the empire. Add in memories of a lost tiger stealing a boy, and have to be fended off from devouring the little morsel by the eccentric exotic pet emporium owner with his bare hands. I don’t know if that’s relevant to the festival but it feels it, doesn’t it?

The festival has always been beached on a sandy bank of suitability, animals raised “naturally and having lived good, cruelty-free lives” until their deaths presumably. The pedigree, focus on nose-to-tail eating, championing the diverse leaders of the food industry and above all the power of FIRE has attracted the best chefs from a selection of London’s carnivorous restaurants. Live music, flowing beer and whiskey stands, an odd chef/cowboy-themed shopping area and a balcony overlooking two dry docked 19th century ships comprise the four days of roasting, spitting and flaying, drawing over 13,000 revellers.

Now a little more about me, of course. I am not your typical festival goer. Brought up by a militant (lovely) vegan mother, then relapsing into reluctant yet spirited carnivory. Looking deep into the eyes of a severed pig’s head still flips my stomach even when I know that one should lock eyes with one’s meal if at all possible. Effeminate, prissy dare I say, I don’t particularly like my hair smelling of smoke or eating from punnets standing up while balancing a pint between my slicked fingers. I am ambivalent about beards and don’t even own a garden never mind a massive industrial BBQ. All these things are pretty integral for the festival’s appeal.

That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy the whole fleshy affair. I thoroughly did. Watching the Old Time Sailors, a rag tag (in every sense) 15 something strong folk band dressed (unsurprisingly) like old world pirates stomp and fiddle around the Slaughterhouse stage, Greenwich Meantime pint swilling around in my reusable cup. Tucking into One Star Donner Bar & Undercroft – Brad Carter’s Cornish squid and Sobrassada (a Balearic sausage) skewers. Perfect burnt parcels of oceanic wonder, squid crackling dusting the organ-like orange lump, dosing it in another one of the festival’s repeat offenders, Flying Goose’s green sriracha, Jessie Collins and Charlie Wheatley singing sad whiskey soaked folk songs between the pillars of the old storage areas. I ate swordfish for the first time and came face to face with another glassy-eyed decapitated head. David Palmer of Life of Fish’s muscled marine heavy hitter packs such a charcoal of flavour, although sits in the world’s most ludicrously mini pitta. Budgie Montoya’s (Apoy Flipino BBQ) braised, smoked AND grilled pig head tacos: a little bigger, with blasts of calamansi (Filipino lime), a moist almost belly soft meat. Hector Garate’s (Palmira BBQ) Viet-rican whole hog, possibly the best piggy I’ve ever sampled, like a spicy biryani with the rice side. Another first experience of New Orleans style chargrilled oysters, dripping in orange cheesy wonder from Tom Zahir (Decatur) the only way I want my bivalves from now on with all that creole punch.

Of course, there were misses. Bland wagyu beef (always slightly overhyped) from Fran Martinez of Fazenda, the pepper vinaigrette being the only highlight. From a financial point of view as well, the £58 entrance ticket, allowing you the privilege to buy food with meat bucks (adorable little gold coins) makes spending money feel more like playing Mario Cart. However at £7 for all mains, we are talking mid level street food prices, a stark difference from your classic music festival. As you wouldn’t after buying a ticket to Glastonbury and have to chuck Lady Gaga a 5er for every song would you?

But what kept coming back to me, or more precisely what shone through the haze as we bustled through to the rather forgotten street-level smoking area was this. Is hardcore meat-eating going the way of smoking in our modern world? Bare with. This is not just anger at being unable to vape (or smoke) on the Tobacco Dock’s spacious balcony and nobody seeing the irony of the fact. Maybe it is? But considering Labour’s proposed foolish if well-meaning war on us lung bashers, is the meat industry, increasingly under fire for its impact on the environment and health, in for the same treatment? Would you one day have to smuggle a packet of Madison Fridge Raiders out across the street and snuffle them down in the cold, before returning to a low impact, sustainable bowl of greens and tofu? When I say hardcore meat eaters I mean those at this very festival. Those who consider themselves foodies, carnivores and consumers, the bearded, cut off shorted, nike trained, and slightly sunburnt. Those for who good food and flame cooking is more religious than an interesting way to fill an afternoon.

Both smoking and hardcore carnivores have a rebellious strain and both include a fair amount of leather, both are under pressure from all sides and are prophesied to be on the wane. Are the gnashing, nibbling men and women of Meatopia oblivious to the death bell? Unable to hear it over the dixie jangling of cowboy music? Like an ayahuasca ceremony the billowing smoke, the smell of sweet burnt skin and the giddy excitement all around brought me to this rather out of the box thinking. Perhaps an epiphany? Perhaps a result of too much BBQ sauce and the frenetic clash of Vote Pedro the mariachi pop cover band. Meatopia is an odd twist on an ancient industry doing its best at a rebrand, and after two decades they clearly have a loyal congregation behind them. Whether they sustain it in a rapidly changing world only time will tell.

Start you appetite early, Get tickets for next years visit HERE!