The Best Food Scenes in British Literature
Photos: Japanexperterna.se/Flickr and Antti T. Nissinen/Flickr
Taste, according to Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, is a sense which gives us the greatest joy, mingling as it does with all the other pleasures and, as he explains, it can even console us for their absence. I’ve been an inveterate collector of food writing now for over four decades and some of the best examples of transcendental writing about what we eat is found not in cookbooks but in the works of great British novelists and poets where food melds seamlessly with life, death and every kind of pleasure in between. Here are some of my favourites to get your literary taste buds flowing.
1. King Rat by James Clavell
“The King too was concentrating. Over the frypan. He prided himself that no-one could cook an egg better than he. To him, a fried egg had to be cooked with an artists eye, and quickly. Yet not too fast.”
These are the “best goddam eggs you’ve ever seen in your life,” the offended King explodes when Peter Marlowe, pays him a compliment in that typically understated British style where “not bad” can actually mean really rather good indeed. These eggs, delicately powdered with pepper, and then salt, were indeed a benediction and Marlowe is certainly aware of that as the King (actually an American corporal) cooked his meal for the famished and barely alive prisoner. So intoxicating is the aroma that some of the other prisoners walk out, barely able to stand it and Clavell’s stripped back description makes the reader appreciate the exquisite simplicity of such a meal, regardless of its grim context. King Rat was Clavell’s first novel and is based upon this British-born authors own three-year experience as a prisoner in the notorious Changi Prison camp with Marlowe representing his younger self. Set during the Second World War, King Rat describes the struggle for survival of American, Australian, British, Dutch and New Zealander prisoners of war in a Japanese camp in Singapore. The eponymous rats are bred for food by the desperate prisoners, which makes this egg-frying scene all the more distressing as it stimulates our own, indulged, taste buds and reminds us that hunger, distressing starving hunger, makes the best sauce.
2. Tremor of Intent by Anthony Burgess.
“They got through their sweets sourly. Peach mousse with sirop framboise. Cream dessert ring Chantilly with zabaglione sauce. Poires Hélène with cold chocolate sauce. Cold Grand Marnier pudding, strawberry Marlow. Marrons panaché vicomte. “Look,” gasped Hillier, “this sort of thing isn’t my line at all . . . I think I shall be sick.”
There’s a wonderful competitive eating scene in this semi-parody of Ian Fleming’s James Bond novels, whose central character, a British spy, possesses such an enormous and hearty appetite for food and vigorous sexual intercourse that they cancel each other out. Intended in part as a critique of the same excessive appetites that are characteristic of Fleming’s novels, this stand-out scene pits British spy Hillier against both the indulgent villain Theodorescu and a deliciously repellent backdrop of haute French cuisine. If you’ve still not satiated your appetite despite all this largesse in print form, you’ll want to read the crab-eating scene in Ian Fleming’s Goldfinger (one of the novels Burgess was intent on parodying), when Mr Junius Du Pont takes Bond out for dinner to the rather kitsch-sounding Bills on the Beach.
3. Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons.
“A smell of burnt porridge floated up from the depths. This did not seem promising, but she went down the stairs, her low heels clipping firmly on the stone.”
Photo by Antti T. Nissinen/Flickr
Flora Poste, heroine of Cold Comfort Farm is braver than I for porridge is my culinary nemesis and had I caught even the tiniest whiff of it, my bedroom door would have remained firmly bolted. This is the scene that sticks with me the most, nearly 40 years after first reading Cold Comfort Farm after finding it on my grandfather’s bookshelves. My mother cottoned onto my fear and hatred of porridge pretty darn swiftly and any infraction, however minor, would be punished with threats to take me to the nearby children’s home where ‘I would be made to eat porridge three times a day’. No such place existed but the eight years-old me was not in possession of this knowledge and as she went through the charade of packing my tiny suitcase, I stood there quaking, not in fear of being banished from home, but rather the terrible horrors of thrice-daily porridge. The bubbling cauldrons of porridge in the kitchen of Cold Comfort Farm perfectly captured the seething tensions in the relationship between my mother and I, and despite my love for the novel, I still find this scene rather hard to read.