It was the first time I had ever been turned away from a restaurant, and it left me strangely shaken; we walked in the door and a waiter came hurrying toward us through the crowded room and before we knew it we were out on the street again … shoo, shoo, as if we were impudent chickens on a lawn.
Then the proprietor rushed out. He recognized Al and me. He screamed at the officious waiter. We all laughed and laughed … the waiter had seen my accordion, which Al carried under his arm because we couldn’t find a safe parking place for it before the boat sailed, and had thought we were hungry street-singers planning to cadge a meal.
We bowed and grinned and blushed, and there Norah and Al and I were, sitting at the best table on the balcony, looking down on the Old Port in the full spring sunlight, drinking several different kinds of the proprietor’s private stock of wines and trying not to wonder how we could bear to leave this land.
The bouillabaisse sent up its own potent saffrony steam. We mopped and dunked at its juices, and sucked a hundred strange dead creatures from their shells. We toasted many things, and often, but ourselves most of all.
And then it was time to go. I played the proprietor and several waiters my best tune, still feeling, through the good wine and food, a sense of shock that I or anyone else in the world could be turned away from a door. We all had a final drink, in a marc du Midi that would jar Jupiter, and then we left France.
—from Sea Change, 1932
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The English
GEORGE ORWELL ON ENGLISH FOOD
On the journey I fell in with a couple of Roumanians, mere children, who were going to England on their honeymoon trip. They asked innumerable questions about England, and I told them some startling lies. I was so pleased to be getting home, after being hard up for months in a foreign city, that England seemed to me a sort of Paradise. There are, indeed, many things in England that make you glad to get home; bathrooms, armchairs, mint sauce, new potatoes properly cooked, brown bread, marmalade, beer made with veritable hops—they are all splendid, if you can pay for them. England is a very good country when you are not poor; and, of course, with a tame imbecile to look after, I was not going to be poor. The thought of not being poor made me very patriotic. The more questions the Roumanians asked, the more I praised England; the climate, the scenery, the art, the literature, the laws—everything in England was perfect.
—from Down and Out in Paris and London, 1933
JANE GRIGSON ON ENGLISH FOOD
Since finishing the first edition of this book [English Food] in 1974, I have come to understand the weakness of the domestic tradition that was once our glory, and to a certain extent—in some homes—still is.
The weakness is a lack of professionalism, the lack in each of us, of a solid grounding in skill and knowledge about food, where it comes from, how it should be prepared. Somehow we do not manage in shops and restaurants to keep high standards that constantly remind the cook at home of what food can be. You have only to spend a day visiting Fauchon or Le Nôtre in Paris, or some of the supermarkets of German and Italian towns, and then spend the next visiting the groceries of Piccadilly to see what I mean. How often when you go to a restaurant for a meal are you delighted to eat something far better than you can make yourself? To enjoy some aspect of skill that makes you long to get into the kitchen next day, and see if you can come anywhere near it?
The thing is that if you have a solid basis of skill, and can constantly refer to the highest standards, you have a better chance of adapting to the changes of life than if you merely look in magazines and books for new ‘recipes.’ The English, like the Americans, are always demanding ‘recipes.’ And cookery writers like myself provide them. I am lucky in working mainly for a paper that allows me enough space to hint at the fact that words such as apple, cheese, bread are meaningless: that for good food one needs to understand that a Cox’s Orange Pippin in a pie will give you a quite different result from a Bramley; that for a good cheese sauce Parmesan must be used because English hard cheeses will put too much fat into the sauce before they can achieve the same intensity of flavour; that sliced bread and frozen poultry are not worth buying—ever. I suspect, from my reading, that mass circulation women’s magazines are directed by entirely populist points of view—that one should never suggest that one variety of a fruit will give you something better, because half their readers think they cannot afford it. In a country that spends the amount ours does on hard liquor, gambling, ice cream of a worthless kind, sweets, cakes, biscuits, this is nonsense. If people choose to spend it that way, fair enough. But let them not plead poverty as an excuse for bad food. And let people who provide the awful food not shrug off responsibility by saying, ‘Well, it’s what they want.’ This really is trahison des clercs. ‘Let them have trash’ seems a far worse attitude than ‘Let them eat brioche.’ The latter came from a complete lack of understanding; the former comes from a conniving complicity in lower standards by people who would not accept them for themselves and their families at home. To provide worthless things, or things that are worse than they should be, shows what you think of your fellow human beings. In the past food was often adulterated by unscrupulous purveyors—sand in the sugar, dried hawthorn leaves in the tea, water in the milk—but at least this was recognized as a vicious thing to do. Now our food is adulterated and spoilt in ways that are entirely legal, even encouraged. Have you managed to buy farm butter recently? Or a farmyard chicken that has run free?
And these crimes against good food are encouraged by domestic science teachers who think it is fine to teach pupils to make pies with pastry-mix and ready-prepared pie fillings. When criticized, they answer, ‘We have no time; anyway at least they enable us to teach children the “manipulative skills.” ’ What skills? The skill to turn on the tap and mix the mix to a dough? The skill to operate a tin-opener? The skill to read instructions on the packet or tin? The skill to spoon the filling into a dish? The skill to turn on the oven, a foolproof oven, to the correct temperature? Such ‘manipulative skills’ are usually mastered at home before school begins, or at the latest in the infant school. The development of taste and true knowledge should be the business of secondary school home economics teachers. And if they are not able to do this through bad organization of the curriculum, they should be seeking to change the system, not conniving in it and excusing themselves. I think it is ironic that the countries of Europe where you get the better food are the countries where such a subject is not taught at the usual state secondary school.
In 1974 I finished English Food full of hope. In discovering at least something of our tradition for myself, I began to see that we did have a treasury to be exploited, perhaps exploited into a new cookery of our own. This revision of English Food, in 1979, has been completed in a spirit of pessimism. It is France with its strong professional basis of skill that has produced a nouvelle cuisine. Oh yes, we buy the books, we have taken it to our hearts—for the moment. This means we are debasing it as fast as we can. One top-circulation women’s magazine published an article adapting—sinister word—these new ideas for ‘family meals.’ The adaptation consisted in suggesting the use of tinned peas and carrots; it completely balked the problem of chicken. Yet the whole point of the nouvelle cuisine, and especially that branch known as the cuisine minceur, is that ingredients must be first of all of the highest quality and freshness. If they are not, many of the dishes taste as dull as any reconstituted dehydrated convenience pack. The absolutely essential lessons of the style are lost. It has been reduced to a lot of new ‘recipes’ that will dominate nomenclature for a year or two until the next craze hits these shores. Will Michel Guérard’s best-selling books mean we can buy really young fresh peas at the greengrocery next summer? Or better-hung beef at the supermarket counter? Or that shoppers will become more resistant? I suspect it will not.
Or am I wrong? Somehow I can never quite suppress a naive optimism; an optimism that is buffeted every time I visit my local shops, bu
t yet refuses quite to lie down even when confronted with perceived realities. Sometimes I hear from people who live in some pocket of good food that has escaped the attentions of commerce in hastening ‘that sad process which Max Weber described as “the disenchantment of the world.” ’
—from English Food, 1979
ELIZABETH DAVID ON THE ONWARD
(AND DOWNWARD) MARCH OF THE
ENGLISH PIZZA
Although anglicized and only remotely related to the original, mass-market versions of the Neapolitan pizza have been with us since the 1950s. Although it was, I think, the Charles Forte snack bars of that period which first listed a substance under the name of pizza on a popular and cheap menu, it is only since the early seventies that the pizza has grown into big business for the English catering world. The time when the English pizza manufacturers were obliged to explain their product by describing it as Italian Welsh Rabbit were by that time long gone. So was the period of the late Mario Zampi, the film director who imported an Italian brick-built pizza oven, installed it in a Soho restaurant, turned it over to his brother and sister-in-law to run as a pizzeria—and failed to attract custom. There was nothing wrong with the pizzas served in the Zampi establishment. They were delicious and cheap, and indeed much superior to anything offered in today’s pizza houses. But Mario Zampi’s good idea was ahead of his time. In an Italian restaurant of those days the customers still wanted veal escalopes and spaghetti bolognese. A pizza and a glass or two of wine as a good midday or supper-time meal had little appeal for Londoners. In the days following the end of rationing,1 people wanted to eat meat when they went out to a restaurant, and at that time they could afford to pay for it.
In the ten to fifteen years since Mario Zampi’s venture—I think that it was the first of its kind—a generation of young people has taken to the hamburger heaven, the Golden Egg Bar and the pizza house, just as that of the 1950s took to the espresso coffee bar, and that of the 1960s to the steak house. In the pizza houses you may well get a pizza just as good as in many a native Neapolitan pizzeria—although that is not exactly an extravagant compliment—and all things considered the value provided in these establishments is fair. At the takeaway counters and from the deep freeze cabinets a rather different deal is offered, and increasingly, the evidence shows, accepted.
The following extracts from magazines, newspapers and publicity handouts of the past five years show, briefly, the remarkable rise in popularity and price, although not necessarily in lightness and authenticity, of the English pizza.
‘Alvaro’s Pizza and Pasta, 39 Charing Cross Road, is open till 3 a.m., with a license till 1 a.m. every night … the place is dominated by the traditional kiln-shaped pizza oven. A pizza, or helping of pasta, a glass of wine and coffee cost around 10/—.’
Queen Magazine, June 1970
‘Pizza Range Ltd, who started business some 10 months ago in a kitchen off Cricklewood Broadway, have moved into a fully modernised 4,700 sq. ft. kitchen at Lyon Industrial Estate, Watford. The firm provide a full range of pizzas, either individual or for caterers.’
Caterer and Hotel Keeper, 19 November 1970
1 Officially, this was in 1954.
‘Pizza Range, Watford, Herts, is introducing its complete Pizza service … the pizzas are available in 7 ins. and 10 ins. rounds with five variations on a cheese and tomato topping. Recommended retail prices range from 13p up to luxury pizzas at 37p, with a colourful topping of mushrooms or mortadella, mozzarella, tomato, olives and pimiento.’
The Grocer, 24 April 1971
‘In the words of Cook-Inn’s managing director: “A whole new industry now in its infancy is about to expand rapidly.” The menu should appeal to all palates ranging as it does from such national favourites as cottage pie and cod in batter to exotica like pizza and spare-ribs.’
Derek Cooper in the Guardian, 8 December 1971
‘Selling about 20,000 pizzas a week, Peter Boizot is probably London’s No. 1 pizza restaurateur. Now he tells me that besides new restaurants which he hopes to open whenever suitable sites are available, there are also facilities for franchising.
‘And the cost? You can pay a maximum price of 68p, but one of the most popular types—there is a choice of 14—with mozzarella and tomato, costs just 30p.’
What’s On, 23 February 1973
‘It’s so easy … You just warm it up and it’s ready to eat … with salad, with chips, or on its own …
‘And to introduce you to Pizza Pie WE ARE GIVING YOU 10P OFF.’
Leaflet distributed by Eden Vale, valid until 30 April 1973.
Ingredients were listed as flour, cheddar cheese, Spanish peeled plum tomatoes, vegetable oil, Spanish onions, tomato puree, edible starch, baking powder, salt, skimmed milk powder, sugar, garlic, monosodium glutamate, herbs and spices.
Net weight 6 oz. Price in my local shop was 20p.
‘Pizza squares are supplied by Pizza Range and measure 10 × 18 inches, costing 49p. In the takeaway each square divides into six portions and sells at 25p a portion plus chips.’
Photograph caption, Caterer and Hotel Keeper, 20 September 1973 ‘A Pizza Bar with a canopy simulating the ramparts of a castle is the focal point of the Argyle and Sutherland Highlander Inn, a new £70,000 luxury pub and restaurant opened … on a new housing estate at Eastham, Wirral, Cheshire.’
Caterer and Hotel Keeper, 6 December 1973
’11th Pizza Express
‘Pizza Express, a private company formed in 1965, established a foothold in fashionable Chelsea, last week, when Mr Peter I. Boizot, prospective Liberal parliamentary candidate for Peterborough, opened his eleventh Pizza Express at 234 Kings Road, London.’
Caterer and Hotel Keeper, 30 May 1974
‘The pizza, like the hamburger, has become part of our popular culture—an instant food which can be elevated, by a chef’s invention, into a memorable treat.’
Peter Straub in an article entitled ‘The Great British Pizza,’
Nova, September 1974
‘Scots-American Mr. Bob Hamilton has converted the former Mascotte Restaurant, Brighton, into a pizzeria … Mr. Hamilton officially launched his pizzeria in Britain, using slogans like “I’m a pizza lover,” “Peace and pizza,” and “This country is going to pizzas.” ’
Caterer and Hotel Keeper, 6 February 1975
‘Ten years ago today Peter Boizot, a salesman, opened a Pizza Express in Wardour Street against the advice of the sceptics. “I was doing everything, including making the pizzas. I stayed open till 5 a.m. and took £27.”
‘Now he shuts at midnight and lives in Belgravia. He employs 150 people in a chain of 11 pizzerias … he was manning the oven again the other day trying out a new, very palatable pizza made from wholemeal.’
Peterborough in the Daily Telegraph, 27 March 1975
‘In England pizzas … could claim even to be a serious rival to the dreaded cellophane-wrapped steak pie of motorway fame.’
Delia Smith in the Evening Standard, 11 April 1975
‘LONDON’S NEW FOOD, SO CRISP, SO LIGHT
‘2 giant slices of pizza with jacket potatoes 49p’
From the menu of the Pizzaland chain of restaurants, July 1975
The take-away pizza
‘Meal: Pizza “Special.” From: Pizzaland, Fleet Street, London, Price: 70p. Weight: 11 oz.
‘The “Special” pizza—the most expensive—consisted of a bread dough base with a filling of bits and pieces of mushroom, bacon, onion, cheese, two olives, tomato and green pepper. It contained no seasoning at all, and the dough base stretched (and tasted) like rubber. The onions were raw, the bacon bits crisped almost beyond recognition and the whole mixture was sloppy.
‘Verdict: Unappetising, and barely a meal for two even if they were hungry enough to eat it.’
Mary Collins in a report on take-away food shops, Daily Express, 13 September 1975
—from English Bread and Yeast Cookery, 1977
E. M. FORSTER ON PRUNES AND ENGL
ISH FOOD
Porridge or prunes, sir? These are grim words, and they fell grimly on my ear that bleak October morning. I was returning to England, my country, by one of her boat trains. We had landed at Tilbury at an unearthly hour, and the pale ferrety-faced Customs Officials had given us their usual welcome home. To their attentions succeeded the inattentiveness of the Restaurant Car. We sat in a vacuum waiting, waiting for breakfast. The carriage was stuffy, yet cold, the table cloths drooped as if they too had lain awake half the night, and now and then a passenger fidgeted, but in vain. Breakfast could not be served until the train started. More passengers, more porters, more luggage with chalk scriggles on it loomed in the murk outside, faint variants in the eternal monotone. I opened my book and tried to read—it was a novel by François Mauriac; the Customs Officer had not liked the look of it at all. But I could not attend to the exquisite prose; the fever, the loveliness, the tenderness in hatred, the light and the scents of the south, would none of them come through. Breakfast, oh for breakfast! Mauriac cannot stay an empty stomach. At last the engine gave a jerk, the knives and forks slid sideways and sang against one another sadly, the cups said ‘cheap, cheap’ to the saucers, as well they might, the door swung open and the attendants came in crying ‘Porridge or Prunes, sir? Porridge or Prunes?’ Breakfast had begun.
That cry still rings in my memory. It is an epitome—not, indeed, of English food, but of the forces which drag it into the dirt. It voices the true spirit of gastronomic joylessness. Porridge fills the Englishman up, prunes clear him out, so their functions are opposed. But their spirit is the same: they eschew pleasure and consider delicacy immoral. That morning they looked as like one another as they could. Everything was grey. The porridge was in pallid grey lumps, the prunes swam in grey juice like the wrinkled skulls of old men, grey mist pressed against the grey windows. ‘Tea or coffee, sir?’ rang out next, and then I had a haddock. It was covered with a sort of hard yellow oilskin, as if it had been out in a lifeboat, and its inside gushed salt water when pricked. Sausages and bacon followed this disgusting fish. They, too, had been up all night. Toast like steel, marmalade a scented jelly. And the bill, which I paid dumbly, wondering again why such things have to be.
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