In Offense of English Cooking

Some of the British stereotypes are true after all.  They do have bad teeth.  It does rain all the time. 

And food is lousy.  Well, maybe lousy isn’t the right word--it’s more like food is an afterthought.  As the saying goes, “The best English cooking is, of course, simply French cooking.”  In England food is not a pleasure to be had, but rather fuel to put into a working body.  It’s just not of interest the way it is in, say, Italy.

Here’s a couple of ways you know the English don’t really care about food.  Pre-made packaged meals are HUGE.  Multiple aisles of any grocery store are devoted to pre-made sandwiches, pre-made soups, pre-made pasta dishes, pre-made pizzas, pre-made salads, pre-made desserts.  In the states, don’t we avoid such things at all costs?  Isn’t a pre-made sandwich, sitting in a vending machine, always sort of gross, old, tasteless, or just . . . limp?  But Brits don’t care.  They don’t want to do any cooking of any kind.   Grab that pre-made thing, put it in the microwave if necessary, and eat.

Another way you know food is of little interest:  most people spend Christmas day eating out.  Pretty much every bar, café, pub, and restaurant advertises (in October!) a full-day Christmas bonanza, where you can spend the entire afternoon eating a multiple course meal.  Which is just the next way to avoid making food a part of your life.  Think about Christmas in the states.  Much of the day is built around the big meal:  who’s cooking it, what you’re eating, how long will it take, what dishes are other people bringing, when we’ll sit down to eat, do we open up presents before or after the meal, who sits at the kids’ table and who sits at the adult table, etc.  On Christmas day we would gladly be up to our elbows in raw turkey prep because we enjoy our food.  The English don’t want to think about it at all, so they just outsource it to the local pubs.

And, I’m sorry to say, but Orwell is wrong.  George, I love you, and you’re undoubtedly one of my heroes, and you’ve written some of the best things ever put to paper, but your essay “In Defence of English Cooking” is grasping at straws.  You spend a whole paragraph on “the various ways of cooking potatoes that are peculiar to our country.” Potatoes.  Go on George, we're listening.  Tell us more about potatoes.  “It’s far better to cook new potatoes in the English way—that is boiled with mint and then served with a little melted butter or margarine.”  First, mint?  No thanks.  Second, that’s it?  A little melted butter or margarine is the big move?  You can get that at a Hardee’s.

And here he is on sauces:  “The there are the various sauces peculiar to England.  For instance, bread sauce, horse-radish sauce, mint sauce . . . and various kinds of sweet pickle, which we seem to have in greater profusion than most countries.”  Bread sauce?  Is that even possible?  Horse-radish?  More with the mint?  Did you try to write an enticing sentence about food and use the word "profusion"?

But it’s kind of sweet that Orwell tries to defend the food of mother England.  And not surprising, since he seems to love his country.  In his essay “My Country Right or Left,” he admits that if England ever went to war, he is “patriotic at heart, [and] would not sabotage or act against my own side, would support the war, would fight in it if possible.”  This is from a man who spent his writing life attacking nationalism and fascism and the manipulation of the masses.  But that’s one of the best things about Orwell--his incredible candor, especially about himself.

Thanks for the honesty George.  You would go to war for England.   We know it must have been hard for you to admit that.  We accept it. 

Just don’t go to bat for their food.