One Hundred Mouths, Five Bangers, Zero Agreement: Inside the Great Chatburn Sausage Census

It started, as most things here do, with an argument at the bar. A mild Tuesday, two pints of Landlord, and a dispute so fierce about whether the pork and leek beats the farmhouse herby that we decided the only sensible thing to do was settle it scientifically.

Or at least, as scientifically as a village pub can manage. Which is to say: a clipboard, a stack of scorecards, and a hundred willing regulars who needed very little persuading to eat sausages on our dime for a month.

The Rules of the Census

The premise was simple. Every sausage on our menu — the pork and leek, the farmhouse herby, the Ribble Valley beef and ale, the smoky bacon banger, and the one we only ever call the landlady's special — would be served plain, no mash, no gravy, nothing to hide behind. Each taster scored them out of ten on flavour, snap, and general good character.

We kept the scorecards anonymous, partly for honesty and partly because we could see the feuds coming from a mile off.

Five sausages, one hundred tasters, four weeks. By the end, our kitchen whiteboard looked like the aftermath of a general election count.

The Contenders

The pork and leek went in as the favourite. It's the one most people order, the one that disappears fastest on a cold Sunday, and the one that old Mr. Pickles from down the lane has eaten every week since 2011.

The farmhouse herby had its loyalists too — a herby, peppery thing that splits opinion right down the middle. People either called it "proper" or "a bit much," with very little in between.

The beef and ale was the dark horse. Made with a bottle of our own house bitter, it appealed strongly to the quiz night crowd, who we suspect rated it highly out of professional solidarity.

The smoky bacon banger divides households. It tastes, one taster wrote, "like a full English that's had an argument with itself."

And then there was the landlady's special. We're not saying what's in it. The landlady says revealing the recipe would be "like giving away the crown jewels," and after a month of watching people taste it, we believe her.

The Results (Brace Yourselves)

Third place: the smoky bacon banger, riding a wave of younger tasters and one extremely vocal table of cyclists who'd walked the Pendle Way that morning and would have scored a boot highly.

Second place: the pork and leek. Yes, really. The favourite faltered, losing marks among the herby loyalists and — we suspect — suffering from overfamiliarity. As one regular put it, "It's like being asked if you fancy your own Sunday roast. Course it's lovely. But it's Tuesday."

And the winner, with a score that stunned the room: the landlady's special.

Average score: 8.7 out of 10. Highest single score: a perfect 10, awarded eleven separate times, once by a man who then immediately demanded to know what was in it and refused to finish his pint until we told him. We didn't. He finished the pint anyway.

The Feud in the Beer Garden

We knew feelings ran high. We didn't expect the Waddingtons.

Carol and Derek Waddington, married forty-one years, regulars every Saturday, took opposing sides over the farmhouse herby. Carol scored it a two. Derek scored it a nine. By the time they'd worked through the beef and ale, Carol had moved to the far bench "for peace" and Derek was conducting a one-man campaign to have the census results posted in the car park.

They left separately. They came back the following Saturday, sat at their usual table, and ordered a mixed grill featuring both of their favourites. Marriage saved, we like to think, by compromise and chips.

What We Learned

That Chatburn takes its bangers seriously, for one. That nobody can agree on anything, for two. And that the landlady's special — whatever's actually in it — has earned its place at the top of the board.

The full results are now pinned up by the bar, scorecards and all, warts and all. Come and have a look. Better still, come and taste, and tell us where we went wrong.

The census may be closed. The argument, we suspect, is just getting started.