In Defence of British Food: A Counter-Offensive to Critics of Our Cuisine

My first salvo in the culinary culture wars heralds a generous second helping of Saunderisms.

Image by James Saunders

Have you ever felt national-cuisine-shamed? I have. I’d imagine you might have, too, given how monocultural this blog’s readership is.

It’s a tough one to take; dishes which you’ve loved, grown up with and welcomed into your heart falling victim to slanderous high-mindedness (usually from overseas) can be a touch anxiety-inducing.

If you’ve ever heard a Frenchman, an Italian, or - perhaps most painfully - an American brushing off the kitchen-based offerings of the United Kingdom as grey, insipid mush, you’ll know what I’m talking about.

Maybe you won’t, actually, and this is something I just get unusually wound up by. Taking pride in your country’s food should prove a rare moment of unproblematic patriotism; an outlet to talk up your culture, largely unburdened by the sort of withering politics that punctuates modern discourse on literally every other topic imaginable.

Yet it doesn’t. It stings. I feel denigrated, ashamed and overlooked, and I shall have no more of it. I am full, and today, Britain fights back.

At this point, I’d like to draw readers’ attention to the fact that any dubious World-War-era-adjacent nationalistic language may contain traces of irony, and is best paired with but a pinch of salt.

Right then. Under the cover of satire, we march onwards, to (culture) war.

Let us draw up the charts, scan the battleground, and see what the enemy has to offer.

I must say, it’s not looking good for us.

Other national dishes pop with colour; herbaceous greens and deep, spiced reds meet milky whites and smoky, tastefully charred blacks. Ours? Beige. A touch of brown, at a stretch.

They’re chowing down on patatas bravas, and we’re stuck with Wigan kebabs. Their stews, salads and platters, blessed with the flavours of some foreign field, possess an allure that ours simply cannot muster.

We’ve reached the point of no return. Our supermarket shelves and high streets have been infiltrated by forces from beyond our shores. Our heads have been turned by the Hydra that is international cooking; for every chippy that shuts its doors, or every Brit classic that disappears from a pub menu, two chicken shops or sumptuous recipes from abroad must take their place.

I’m going to take a really wild stance here, and blame the bloody internet, bloody immigration, and the bloody French.

The former two have opened British eyes and palates to exotic tastes; in the hyper-globalised realm of online food media, the invisible hand of the free market determines which cuisines are worthy of the world’s public affection - while (and we’re into seriously deep London bubble-ism here) the sheer availability of international cooking on our doorstep means we just don’t have to settle for home comforts. As for our cousines françaises, we’ll get to them later.

For a nation so ridiculed for our insularity, we’re surprisingly open to all this foreign muck - and that makes me sad.

It doesn’t, actually. I’m trying to remember the last time I ate something which could be classed as 100% of these shores, and I really can’t.

Anyway, that’s not the point. It’s not about me. Why doesn’t everyone else like what we’re cooking? Sure, London (bubble alert is pinging again, sorry) is a global culinary hotspot, but much of that is those aforementioned immigrants coming over here and making really tasty things, or Brits staying over here but making THEIR really tasty things; where’s OUR attention?

Why sneer at our jellied eels, our black pudding, and our spotted dick when you could celebrate our Sunday roast, our apple crumble and our Eton Mess?

I’m not arguing our cuisine is the best in the world - just that it’s worthy of some cultural standing, at a bare minimum.

Perhaps we’re just not very good marketeers; cast your eyes wistfully out over the North Sea and you’ll notice at least five other countries suffering from the same food-based reputational problems as us.

What do we all have in common? Inherent greyness - the sort of vibe, both cultural and meteorological, which simply doesn’t lend itself to foodie haven status. We - and our Dutch, German and Scandi friends - are just as good at fish as the Portuguese, but theirs is SO this season, and ours is practically punchline-worthy.

There’s a reason the Milanese can get away with deep-frying everything, and we can’t: greasy plates of beige stodge look and sound more appealing under soft Italian skies with softer Italian names.

The French are the absolute worst offenders for this, and it’s them at whom I’ll direct my artillery fire (still at it with the military allegories, I know).

A cursory glance at any good culinary history book would tell you the traditional edible offerings of Britain and France were practically identical for centuries - but they had Auguste Escoffier and the Michelin Guides to sell their recipes to the world, and we… didn’t.

Compare their best and our best: is roast duck enjoyed in the City of Lights really leagues above the roast beef of Old England? Our cheeses are basically the same, as are our rich soups, pâtés and jus. Cider, seafood, dairy, fruit; their wines are far better, yes, but I’m not holding out hope for their whisky.

Our cuisines are LITERALLY THE SAME THING, OH MY GOD - yet there’s a touch of romance sprinkled on their plates which we, stiff-lipped, rained on and emotionally repressed, just cannot offer.

If I were to be really cynical, I’d say the UK’s outsized influence in music, film, and everything else that people enjoy means that all those countries who can’t produce cultural icons at the rate we can are just happy to have something to beat us over the head with. But I digress…

So, yeah; maybe it’s a marketing problem, or maybe no-one likes us, but as they say in Millwall, we don’t care. The kitchen culture wars shall rage on, with us none the better for it.

We’ll continue to hang on in apparent quiet desperation, grimacing at the grotesque corn-syrup-fuelled, artificial-seasoning-laden Americanisation of global cuisine unfolding across the seas as we tuck into another helping of apple pie with lashings of custard.

Oh, sorry, no: tarte aux pommes avec crème anglaise.

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