chairs. Three places were set at one end, with glasses for both red and white
wine. On one wall was a carefully spaced array of old prints. The flowers he had
brought had been placed in a large pottery vase on the table. As in the larger
living room, the floor was laid with terracotta tiles, scattered with rugs of
rich reds and golds that glowed in the soft light of the table lamps and the two
candelabras on the table. On the long wall hung a large oil portrait of a woman
with auburn hair and startlingly white shoulders, wearing an evening dress from
an earlier era. She looked very like Pamela
My grandmother, Pamela said. She was from Scotland, which helps explain the
one part of the meal where I cheated, just a little. Ill explain later, but do
sit down and well begin.
She went to the kitchen and returned with a large white tureen of steaming soup.
Leek and potato soup, she announced. With my own bread, and a glass of
another English wine, a Riesling from a place called Tenterden.
The bread was thick and brown, with a solid, chewy texture that Bruno decided he
liked, and it went well with the filling soup. The wine tasted like something
from Alsace, so he declared himself impressed again.
Now comes the bit where I cheated, said Pamela. The fish course is smoked
salmon from Scotland, so it isnt quite English, but Christine and I agreed that
it still counts. The butter and the lemons are French, and the black pepper
comes from heaven knows where.
This is very good saumon fumé, paler than the kind we usually have here and a
most delicate flavour. Delicious! Bruno raised his glass to the women.
Pamela cleared the plates, then brought in a large tray that held warmed plates,
a carafe of red wine, two covered vegetable dishes and a steaming hot pie with
golden pastry.
Here you are, Bruno. The great classic of English cuisine: steak and kidney
pie. The young peas and the carrots are from the garden, and the red wine is
from the Camel Valley in Cornwall. They used to say you could never make good
red wine in an English climate but this proves them wrong. And now, prepare for
the most heavenly cooking smell I know. Come on, lean forward, and get ready for
when I cut the pie.
Bruno dutifully obeyed, and as Pamela lifted the first slice of pastry he took a
deep breath, savouring the rich and meaty aroma. Magnifique, he said, peering
into the pie. Why so dark?
Black stout, said Pamela. I would normally use Guinness, but thats Irish, so
I used an English version. And beefsteak and rognons, some onions and a little
garlic. She piled Brunos plate high, then Christine served the peas and
carrots. Pamela poured the wine and sat back to observe his reaction.
He took a small cube of meat from the rich sauce and then tried a piece of
kidney. Excellent. The pastry was light and crumbly and infused with the taste
of the meat. The young peas in their pods were cooked to perfection and the
carrots were equally right. It was splendid food, solid and tasty and
traditional, like something a French grandmother might have prepared. Now for
the wine. He sniffed, enjoying the fruity bouquet, and twirled the glass in the
candlelight, watching the crown where the wine fell away from the sides of the
glass as it levelled. He took a sip. It was heavier than the kind of red Gamay
from the Loire that he had expected, his only experience of red wine grown that
far to the north, and it had a pleasantly solid aftertaste. A good wine,
reminding him slightly of a Burgundy, and with the body to balance the meat on
his plate. He laid down his knife and fork, took up his glass, sipped again, and
then looked at the two women.
I take back everything Ive said about English food. So long as you prepare it,
Pamela, Ill eat any English food you put before me. And this pie, you must tell
me how to make it. Its not a kind of dish we know in French cuisine. You must
come to my house next time and let me cook for you.
Yes! exclaimed Christine, and to his surprise, the Englishwomen raised their
right hands, palms forward, and slapped them together in celebration. A curious
English custom, he presumed, smiling at them and addressing himself once more to
his Cornwall wine. Cornwall, he reminded himself, was known in French as
Cornouailles, and he knew from school that the traditional language was very
like the Breton spoken on Frances Brittany peninsula, so they were therefore
really French in origin. That explained the wine. Even the name for Pamelas
country, Grande Bretagne, simply meant larger Brittany.
The salad, the ingredients again from Pamelas garden, was excellent and fresh,
although crisp lettuce mixed with roquette did not seem particularly English to
Bruno. But the cheese, a fat cylinder of Stilton brought from England by
Christine, was rich and splendid. Finally, Pamela served a home-made ice cream
made with her own strawberries, and Bruno confessed himself full, and wholly
converted to English food.
So why do you keep this a secret? he asked. Why do you serve such bad food
most of the time in England, and why is its reputation so terrible?
The women each spoke at once. The industrial revolution, said Christine. The
war and rationing, said Pamela, and they both laughed.
You explain your theory, Christine, while I get the final treat.
Its pretty obvious, really, explained Christine. Britain was the first
country to experience both the agricultural and the industrial revolutions of
the eighteenth century, and they very nearly destroyed the peasantry. Small
farming was replaced by sheep farming because the sheep needed less care, just
as better ploughs and farming techniques needed less labour and more investment.
So small farmers and farm labourers were pushed off the land, while the new
factories needed workers. Britain became an urban, industrial country very fast,
and the mass urban markets needed foods that could be easily transported and
stored and quickly prepared because so many women were working in the mills and
factories. Then the new farm lands of North America and Argentina were opened,
and with its doctrine of free trade Britain found its own farmers beaten on
price and became a massive importer of cheap foreign food. It came in the form
of tinned meat and mass-produced breads. And this happened just as the old
traditions of peasant cooking that were handed down through the generations were
disappearing, because families dispersed into the new industrial housing.
Some would say that similar forces are at work now in France, Bruno observed.
He turned to Pamela, who brought to the table a small tray with a large dark
bottle, a jug of water and three small glasses. What of your theory about the
war being responsible, Pamela?
Hold on a minute, Bruno, said Christine. It was you French who invented
tinned food back in the Napoleonic wars, and wars were what spread the system.
The Crimean War of the 1850s, the American Civil War of the 1860s and the
Franco-Prussian War of 1870 were all run on tinned food, because that was the
only way to feed mass armies. Just the other day in your local supermarket here