It’s 3:30 p.m., sometime in the nineties. As for many latchkey kids, it’s time for me to run to the school bus, walk the dog, and then book it back to school before whatever extracurricular is on the docket. I throw my backpack into the den, leash Duke up, and head outside, but not before doing the most important thing: tossing a Hot Pocket (pepperoni, ham and cheese, meatballs, take your pick) into the microwave and setting the timer to three minutes. Once the dog is walked, it won’t quite be too molten to eat, and I can jump into the pile of kids carpooling back to school. 

To my middle-school-age self, the Hot Pocket symbolized freedom and self-reliance. These days, I have a lot more to worry about than grabbing a bite and being on time for practice without help from my parents, but something about pastry crust sealed around a meat filling still evokes comfort for me. 

As an adult, it takes more than a nuke-able processed snack to sate my foodie palate. My go-to grown-up Hot Pockets are a tie between El Salvadorian pupusas from Pupuseria la Metapaneca on Holloway Street, and the Jamaican patty, preferably goat, from Golden Krust Caribbean Bakery & Grill on Duke Street. 

Both take me back to my early childhood summers in Brooklyn, tossing a few bucks to a street vendor and biting in, hoping not to scald myself but hastening to let the savory, spicy goodness flood my taste buds. Thick cornmeal tortilla gives way to savory, spicy beef and tangy, bitter curtido on the side, or gamey goat meat and earthy curry burst from a turmeric-brushed turnover. 

Nearly every culture has some sort of meat-filled pastry. Restaurants all over the Triangle have tapped into the nostalgia of things that remind people of homes far abroad or the novelty of sharing a staple dish from another culture. 

Just like sweet pies, savory ones, bursting with meat, spices, and starches, require wonderful crusts with some contrast. Most meat pie crusts are simply flour, salt, and oil, maybe an egg wash to baste or spice to finish the baked versions. Cultures where people walked miles to work meant that the crust had to hold up to travel, and it had to be dense enough to hold in juices and liquefying fats while cooking. After baking or frying, often in open community ovens or over open flames, these meat-filled pies made for hearty meals on the go.

When I think of empanadas, like the ones from Durham’s Luna Rotisserie and Empanadas, born in the Americas and Spain; Viceroy’s samosas, which call India home; and Goorsha’s Ethiopian sambusas, we can point to climate and culture as another driver of the dish. Spices and salt were used as preservatives before modern refrigeration, both to make the meat last longer and to mask the flavor of meat that had perhaps lasted a bit too long. 

Meats like goat and lamb were early bases in the Caribbean, while ham, fish, and corn were primary fillers in continental South America. Similarly, spices like cumin and bases like peas and seeds were used as filling in India. Most of these pastries have a flaky, salty crust that pairs perfectly with the spicy fillings. 

Great Britain’s meat pie, the Cornish pasty, is made to eat hot or cold during a standing lunch and to provide the caloric fuel that powered the growth of British industry and life in the mines of Cornwall. The pasty takes advantage of the root vegetables that grow easily in this climate—turnips, potatoes, and onions—and the Brits fill it with beef. No good Brit would be caught having a pasty without a side of HP Sauce, but this American would be fine with A.1. Despite being separated by the pond, the two sauces are kin, both tomato-based, with malt vinegar, salt, pepper, and other spices. 

HP or A.1., this girl is a dunker, not a pourer. After all, wouldn’t want to make the crust soggy. If you’re really lucky, the turnips will still have a little bit of snap, and the rich tang of the sauce will highlight the earthiness of the veggies. Even if you nab one from Fortnight Brewing in Cary and take it home for later, it’s great to bite right into cold. The crust is the highlight at room temperature—it’s short and powdery and crumbles just right to complement the beef. 

And even if it’s not a handheld take, the chicken pot pie at Tyler’s Taproom is just like my grandma used to make and perfect for a cold day. (It’s also been known to cure hangovers.) 

Be careful, though. I know from experience that the light crust and perfectly cooked carrots and white-meat chicken in a savory white gravy can be downright addictive. 

Corrections: This article originally misspelled Pupuseria la Metapaneca, Luna Rotisserie and Empanadas, and Fortnight Brewing.