I have 20 pounds of English bangers in my freezer, and this dish is the sole reason why.
My Park City-based friend Shirley Butler is known for many things, including being a renowned British pastry chef and one of those people who has never learned to drive a car. We treat her extended weekend trips from Old Town PC to my Holladay guest room like a whirlwind visit gathering far-flung friends, more so than just a jaunt down Parley’s Canyon: celebratory dinner parties, cocktail hours, wine pairing events, new restaurants to check out. Nightcaps, plural.
And almost always, brunch or dinner at Oquirrh.
Chef Andrew Fuller and his crew keep brunch tight on the weekends. A few zingy cocktails—the spicy and gloriously pickled garnish of the bloody is an amuse-bouche all on its own—and a tidy selection of something sweet, something savory, something healthy-ish. And there’s always an ah-ooh-gah-eyeballs-on-stalks-worthy special or two featuring whatever’s seasonally fresh.
But the menu truly shines for those seeking to break their fast with a banger of a plate. Literally. Oquirrh’s hangover pasta reimagines what would happen if after a night of debauchery you blearily wandered into a London pub and they brilliantly served a breakfast version of pasta carbonara. “It started out as a joke,” says Fuller, who is known for his deft skill with pasta-making. “Five years later it’s still a favorite. People come in just to get this.”
It brings together all the things craveable for the digestively compromised: house-made bucatini just the right side of al dente toothsomeness, each strand lusciously coated with a mildly spicy cream sauce, blanketing one’s gurgling stomach lining like a Minky Couture throw. A snowy wonderland of fresh-grated parmesan and a poached egg, the traffic-cone-orange yolk oozingly indicating judicious sourcing from particularly well fed and happy hens.
But the coins of English bangers steal the show. In the United Kingdom, “banger” is a term loosely referring to any encased sausage; the high fat and moisture content makes them bang out of the casing when cooked through (imagine that last bit explained in a British accent, please). While Fuller creates many of Oquirrh’s sausages from scratch, he makes an exception here for a particular type of mild English banger—a stubby Newmarket-style, fine-grained pork sausage formed in snappy natural casing—preferring the dish-specific perfection of this unique ingredient over his usual persnickety control of every product.
Which led to Shirley once lamenting the fact that she hadn’t found a reliable local purveyor of this very specific kind of sausage of her homeland, and Fuller divulging his source: Idaho-made sausages sourced via Wasatch Meats. Caveat, they currently don’t sell to the public (cue sad trombone).
In a pinch, Shirley swears by Kirkland brats found at any Costco. My workaround is buying overage from a local chef, or snagging some at my neighborhood butcher shop, Snider Brothers Meats. Which is why I have 20 pounds of bangers in my freezer for roasting, grilling and the occasional—though typically hangover-free—pasta dish, and a hefty bundle reserved to hand off during Shirley’s next visit. Or, I’ll just go to Oquirrh for my fix.
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