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Eating for England: The Delights and Eccentricities of the British at Table. Nigel Slater
Читать онлайн.Название Eating for England: The Delights and Eccentricities of the British at Table
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780007370047
Автор произведения Nigel Slater
Жанр Кулинария
Издательство HarperCollins
But there is more to it than that. While some of our biscuits, such as the Custard Cream and the Bourbon, have become icons of our time, there are others whose everlasting success must always remain something of a mystery. What sort of person chooses a pale, dry Rich Tea when there are so many other more interesting biscuits to choose from? Why would anyone want to eat a wafer that sticks to their lips like glue, or hurt their tongue on the sharp little point of an iced gem? Does anyone honestly like the pink wafer anyway? And who took the last of the chocolate ones? Welcome to the British biscuit tin.
My father loved a plain digestive, though is it difficult to think of him and the iconic biscuit without conjuring up a picture of him trying to slip an entire, unbroken one into his mouth in one go. I can’t remember him ever actually succeeding, and if he did it was probably something he did in secret.
It is funny how, whether you had them in your kitchen or not, the digestive always manages to taste of ‘home’. It has a unique ability to take you to a safe place, to somewhere you think you remember fondly, even though you may never have even been there. The smell alone, wheaty and sweet with a hint of the hamster’s cage about it, is instantly recognisable as a good place to be.
It has been said that this is one of the great dunking biscuits, but I have to disagree. The digestive is altogether too risky. If ever a biscuit will let you down on the way from mug to mouth it is this one, its open, crumbly nature being just not strong enough to hold a decent amount of liquid before it collapses in your lap. But then, like not using the zebra crossing, some might welcome such risks to inject a bit of danger and excitement into their day.
The French cook with their senses, the Italians with their hearts, the Spanish with their energy and the Germans with their appetite. The British, bless them, cook with their wallets. Our ingenuity in matters frugal knows no bounds. When it comes to scrimping and saving, we are the masters. We have taken the worthy ‘waste not, want not’ to heights unsealed by the rest of the world’s cooks. Bread and butter pudding did not come about because someone had the idea that bread, butter and rich, sweet custard would make a sensuous and tender pudding. Whoever it was thought of the idea to use up a few slices of leftover bread and butter. It’s a wonder we can hold a wooden spoon, our fists are so tightly clenched.
But then, who can argue with a pudding so calm and gentle, so quivering and fragile, so light and creamy? Bread and butter with its layers of buttered bread, sugar and egg custard is a hot pudding for which we don’t have to resort to making a cake mix and steaming it for hours. It is ingenious, and who cares if it just happens to be seasoned as much with meanness as with nutmeg.
A thin slice of buttered toast to poke into the liquid yolk of your boiled egg; an edible teaspoon; a crisp contrast to the runny yolk and jellied white; a jolly idea to get children to eat up their fat and cholesterol – the soldier must have come from the mind of a genius. So christened because it possesses a straight, upright manner, is crisp and uniform in appearance and will stand to attention even when it is up to its knees in yuk. I have never eaten a boiled egg, but I have had a soldier or two. In domestic science, as food technology lessons were once called, we were taught to serve them with mince.
In summer I often eat lunch sitting on a bench in Hanover Square. The benches are crowded with office workers, shoppers and, invariably, people in black from the Condé Nast offices that overlook the garden, and one has to hover, eagle-eyed, waiting for a spare seat. Other people’s lunches are always more interesting than one’s own, and it isn’t long before I find myself having a furtive peep at the person’s next to me. Somehow it is always a furtive peep, never an open stare. One always feels guilty about this, though I’m not entirely sure why. If we were in another country – Italy or Sweden, say – we would be much more open about it, and might even strike up a conversation. But this is England, and therefore a furtive peep is all one allows oneself, or gets.
Combating that Sinking Feeling
While most of the world relishes a cup of tea in the afternoon, and perhaps a biscuit or even a slice of Strudel, few have gone to the lengths of the British, who have managed to turn a cup of tea and a sliver of cake into a national trademark. It is tea, rather than lunch or dinner, to which we inevitably take visitors from abroad, as much for the cultural experience as for sustenance. Though when we do, it is only fair to point out to them that this is a rare and special treat, and not, like grabbing a sandwich at lunchtime, a way of life. Afternoon tea is the works: scones, sandwiches, cakes, and of course a pot of tea. A cream tea is the edited version: a plate of scones, tea, and if you are lucky a bowl of strawberries. It is what the Cornish feed to tourists.
It is Anna Russell, seventh Duchess of Bedford and reputedly a bit of a glutton, who is generally credited with introducing afternoon tea early in the nineteenth century. At home in Woburn Abbey, she would get her maid to bring tea to her boudoir in the middle of the afternoon, to combat the ‘sinking feeling’ she experienced between lunch and dinner. I know it well. As the new meal became something of a habit, she took to inviting friends to join her, and soon afternoon tea became a social event. You can always trust the rich to turn greed into a fashion statement.
The wealthy British have long been fascinated by China and Japan. Making a fuss over serving a pot of tea, to which the inhabitants of both countries knew no bounds, was probably seen as our way of buying into their culture. This is why many of our tea services were decorated with Chinoiserie, and goes some way to explaining the preponderance of the once ubiquitous willow pattern china. The Brits never having quite understood the ‘less is more’ message, the original elegance and grace of the Oriental tea ceremony became somewhat besmirched by the addition of buns and sandwiches, albeit served in dainty proportions.
It seems that no matter how much we adopt a healthy lifestyle, by which one currently means meals that are lower in fat and carbohydrate and with distinctly fewer calories, we still rarely refuse an offer of afternoon tea. There is no real excuse for it; this is not about filling the tank or regulating our blood sugar level. Tea in this sense is an undeniable luxury, a sybaritic pleasure, an orgy of crumbs and cream. Afternoon tea may be the only meal we take that is purely and utterly for pleasure.
Perhaps this simple fact is what keeps its popularity steady, not just with tourists looking for the English experience, but with ladies who gossip, lovers of a certain age, aunts treating nieces and nephews, and those celebrating a birthday. It is something that exists purely to make us feel good about life. On recently arriving for a meeting to find it had been cancelled, one of my colleagues saved the day by suggesting we all decamp for tea and cakes. Our spirits were lifted in a way no other suggestion could have equalled.
Despite the presence of butter and jam and plates of cream cakes, tea remains a quietly polite meal rather than a greedy and excitable one. It is a treat to share with friends and family, rather than business colleagues. You may do business over a full English breakfast or serve coffee during a power meeting, but it is unlikely that the exciting new business plans you are putting forward to your company will be taken seriously