British food has never tantalized the tastebuds of the masses in the way that Italian, Japanese, Peruvian or, of course, French dishes have. But why not? Writer, comedian and pie aficionado Jon Holmes thinks there’s way more to British grub than meets the eye.
The soup splashes from ladle to bowl, dropped from ‘spattering height’ by a meat-fisted chef whose apron battles to contain his sizable frame while his chins spill down his neck, just as his weak broth is threatening to do onto the floor. He’s glaring at me, seemingly livid that I’ve dared to ask for seconds.
“More?” he bellows incredulously, causing the other diners to turn their heads. “You want some more?!” Or at least he would’ve done, if I hadn’t just made all this up.
That said, I’m confident tourists would flock to ‘Oliver’s’, as I’ve chosen to call my fictional café; a trendy, workhouse-themed pop-up in Hackney, East London which specializes in gruel—and given that’s what some non-Brits think epitomizes British cuisine, I’m sure it would be a hit. Also on the menu: Damp Yorkshire Pudding, boiled, leathery beef, and flaccid fish and chips. Pudding? Stodgy treacle sponge and custard, served cold. This is Britain, dammit, our diet is terrible.
Or is it?
That Britain is the home of bad food is a notion that has long clouded our culinary reputation on the world stage. And yet I am here to argue that this slandering of our sustenance is unfounded and, if it is founded, then it’s only upon the faint memory of wartime rationing when egg was powered, lard was luxurious, and bananas were more valuable than gold.
It was this, say food historians (by which I mean Wikipedia) that sealed our status as a bland, flavorless isle; an international joke in kitchens throughout the globe. Yet surely in 2024 this is no longer who we are as a foodie nation?
These days, now we know what to do with it, we are rightly proud of our national foodie heritage. So much so in fact that we’ve pompously put place names in front of much of it: Lancashire hotpot, Cornish pasties, Devon clotted cream…
Today, I say we can proudly hold our heads, knives, and forks aloft and claim our place on the foodie-podium—treacle sponge be damned. “It wasn’t that we didn’t have an abundance of ingredients,” Mike Denman, executive chef for D&D Restaurants tells me, when I ask him what the problem was, historically. “It’s that until about 20 years ago, no-one in Britain knew what to do with them.”
He goes on to list foods that he thinks Britain does better than anyone: Asparagus (“best in the world”), strawberries, vegetables, Scottish fish, North Sea lobster, scallops and so on. “And our climate means we have a lush, green countryside so our livestock is very well fed.” So, while we might also complain about the weather here, we do have it to thank for the grass that cows eat as they wait patiently to be made into steaks.
So, if we didn’t know what to do with it all, what changed? “The French” says Mike. “Chefs largely credit the Roux Brothers for kickstarting the British food revolution. Google them…”
Reader, I did. They came over in the 1960s as private chefs to the wealthy before borrowing money to open La Gavroche in London in 1967. They went on to champion not only fine ingredients, but also showed us how to use them. The story goes that Michel Roux was so horrified by processed peas, that he vowed to save us from ourselves.
Their mission? To teach us an “understanding and love of food” and “play an educative role in developing British taste [in] a land of culinary philistines.” They changed the game (wild-meat pun absolutely intended), chefs became excited, farmers’ markets began to spring up, the middle classes got involved, home cooking evolved, and the rest—along with cheese and pineapple on cocktail sticks—is history.
These days, now we know what to do with it, we are rightly proud of our national foodie heritage. So much so in fact that we’ve pompously put place names in front of much of it: Lancashire hotpot, Cornish pasties, Devon clotted cream, the aforementioned Yorkshire pudding, Dorset crab, Whitstable oysters, Bakewell tart, Worcestershire sauce, Cheddar cheese, Dover sole, Cumberland pie, Eton mess, a Sandwich… the list goes on. Meanwhile, Scotch eggs, Welsh rarebits, and a full English breakfast get an entire country to their name.
And let’s not forget pies: Melton Mowbray in Leicestershire is rightly proud of its pork offering—personally, the pork jelly that lines the inside to keep it moist is an abomination, but pies in general? Yes please.
In fact, is there anything more British than a good, solid pie—despite it being of Greek origin? I mean, sure, 2000 years ago in between inventing the Olympics and souvlaki, they came up with a honey-filled crusty cake made from oats and barley, but that’s hardly a threat to Greggs [British bakery chain], is it?
Whatever’s to your taste, it’s time we as a nation celebrated our food, glorious food, and resigned the punchline of UK cuisine to the food-waste bin.
And, yes, I am prepared to admit that the Romans had a historic crack at them too, but theirs was a pastry of flour, oil and water designed to preserve meat juices and was not intended to be eaten. No, it took guile, spirit, and good old-fashioned British ingenuity to make a main course with a fully consumable top, sides and bottom (aside: Pastry ‘toppers’ that sit loosely atop a filling do not maketh a pie. Far from being British, that is the Devil’s work).
And what is a Cornish pastie, if not just a pie with a handle? They were designed with that ribbed edge so that tin miners could eat them without getting arsenic all over their lunch. Food, with its own edible container, is nothing short of a masterpiece of gastronomical manufacturing. And because UK manufacturing needs a post-Brexit lift, I’m happy to do my bit by committing to a regular pie order so I don’t even have to leave my house to enjoy them… I even use the same company to send pies to friends as presents, for who among us would not appreciate the gift of British pie?
And what of snacking? To me there’s naught more British than a pint and a bag of crisps. Yes they’re unhealthy, but everything in moderation, right? Here in the UK we eat six billion packets per year and, if it was an Olympic sport, we’d be at the top of the medal table because that’s more than all of Europe combined.
Naturally they’re a British invention. A cookbook from 1817 describes them as ‘potatoes fried in slices or shavings’, a recipe I followed when I tried to make my own crisps during lockdown, when there wasn’t anything else to do. Thinking frying was too unhealthy, I popped thin, curly bits of potato (skin on) into the oven with a sprinkling of salt and a little olive oil until they were golden brown. They were disgusting. I opened a packet of Hula Hoops instead.
To conclude my Ted Talk on British food in 2024, I say the Yorkshire pudding is fluffy, the beef is tender, and the fish and chips are stupidly expensive—but still worth every penny as a Friday night treat. Whatever’s to your taste, it’s time we as a nation celebrated our food, glorious food, and resigned the punchline of UK cuisine to the food-waste bin.
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Jon Holmes is a multi-award-winning writer and broadcaster. Aside from travel writing, he’s a double BAFTA-winning comedy writer, has strings of Radio Academy awards for his shows on BBC and commercial radio in the UK, and is an Amazon-bestselling author.
