I admit it.
Over the years, I’ve taken fairly serious umbrage at those who have dared to suggest to me that British food isn’t especially good.
Indeed, I’ve delighted in pointing those wannabe detractors not just towards the Michelin-starred restaurants all over these islands, but also the stellar cookery that dominates British television, bookshelves and all the rest of it.
I mean for goodness’ sake, if those of us living here didn’t care about decent food, then Wylde wouldn’t exist - and I wouldn’t be writing this email, and you wouldn’t be reading it.
And yet….
I fear I must eat some humble pie.
Because last weekend, at my father-in-law’s house, I found a battered, well-thumbed copy of the ‘Hamlyn All Colour Cook Book’.
And the scales fell from my eyes.
Moreover, far from being a celebration of real food, so many of the ingredients are horrific, plasticky approximations instead – celebrated for their convenience above all else.
The book and its photos have stirred up all sorts of what I assumed were long-dead food memories from my very early childhood, and mainly the recollection that these sorts of dishes rarely tasted any better than they looked.
It’s funny really, because if one goes back further in time – take Mrs Beeton for example, first published in 1861 – British food is significantly more attractive, interesting and real; steeped in serious flavour and regional history.
But the Hamlyn book is, I suppose, a snapshot of a moment in time in our island’s history.
As I understand it, in the 1970s the hangover of rationing lingered in the collective memory still, but it was compounded hugely by seismic social change, tricky economic times, and a Britain unsure of its place in the world.
If that sounds familiar, then all I can say is just be glad that the food isn’t.
We’ve come a long way, as Take That sang. But, as they also sang, in the same song:
Never forget where you’ve come here from.
Quite.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m got some ‘plaice rolls’ to attend to….🤢
Nick
