turf. You can’t easily deconstruct the magic formula of a well-made Lancashire Hot Pot, or a Dorset apple cake. It is in the nature of such dishes that their sum is greater than their parts. But you can, when you find a version that hits the spot, instantly appreciate how such dishes have survived the harsh natural selection of public taste, and come to delight, comfort and sustain families and groups of friends for so long.
Recently, for instance, I managed to track down my very first proper Yorkshire curd tart, its delectable filling made from colostrum - the very rich milk produced by a cow for her newborn calf. It was baked for me by a farmer’s wife at home in her own kitchen, using the method passed down to her through her family, and it was wonderful - very rich, curdy and slightly crumbly - having a hint of cakiness without the flouriness (I told you deconstruction was a vain enterprise). Anyway, it was a world away from any ‘regular’ custard tart I’d tried before. What I learnt from that experience, and from many similar ones, is that regionality really does matter. If that tart had been made in Dorset or in the Highlands, it wouldn’t have tasted the same. And if it had not been made at all, the world - and on that drizzly autumn day, me - would have been the poorer for it.
There are so many factors that affect the way a food turns out. Cheese is the best example. I love cheese - ‘milk’s leap toward immortality’ as someone once said - and it never ceases to amaze me. It’s made from milk, of course, plus something that will make the milk curdle (usually rennet, but sometimes quirkier coagulants, like nettle juice). Two basic ingredients. Yet cheese is one of the most diverse foods known to man. There are hundreds of varieties in the British Isles alone - and a bowlful of fresh, pillowy Scottish crowdie differs so greatly from a nutty Somerset cheddar that it’s hard to believe they’re basically the same stuff. The breed of cattle and their diet, the local water and pasture, the yeasts and bacteria that live locally in the air, the techniques used to curdle the milk, the way the cheese is pressed, turned, and aged -all these things affect the outcome.
That’s why it seems absolutely right to me that only cheese made in a handful of Midlands dairies can be called Stilton, and that beer brewed with the gypsum-rich water in Burton-upon-Trent is labelled as such. What’s more, if you understand why regional products are unique - that it’s high temperatures and seaweed fertiliser that make Jersey Royals taste different to any other potatoes, for instance - then you know more about food in general. An understanding of regional diversity can only make us more intelligent and appreciative eaters.
This understanding is not always easy to come by. Most other European countries have long taken for granted that local foods should be protected, their unique identity preserved. Hence the French AOC and the Italian DOC systems. But it’s an idea not everyone in this country is comfortable with. I put this down to two things, and the first is the creeping curse of supermarket culture. The big multiple retailers try to tell us that we can eat whatever we want, whenever we want and indeed wherever we want. If you understand the seasonal nature of fresh produce, you know this is neither true nor desirable - and the same goes for regionality. You might not be able to buy genuine Arbroath smokies in every shop in the land, but that is precisely what makes them special when you do find them.
The second reason for resistance to regional labelling is illustrated by the pork pie issue. The pie makers of Melton Mowbray are currently battling to have their product awarded PGI (Protected Geographic Indication) status. That would mean only pies made in the area, to a traditional recipe, could carry the name. Other pork pie makers, from other areas, object to this. They want to call their products Melton Mowbray pies, too, arguing that their recipe is much the same. That’s nonsense, of course: a recipe is only the beginning of a dish, a mere framework. The where, the how and the who of its making are just as important. But why would you even want to call your pie a Mowbray pie if it comes from London, or Swansea? Only, perhaps, if you know the real Mowbray pies taste better, and you can’t be bothered to make your own recipe good enough to compete.
All of which goes to show why the issue of regionality is as relevent today as it ever has been. It’s important not to see The Taste of Britain as a history book, a compendium of nostalgic culinary whimsy. The food included here is alive and well, and there is nothing described in these pages that you can’t eat today, as long as you go to the right place. That’s perhaps the most important criterion for inclusion because our regional food traditions are just as much part of the future as the past. At least, they had better be, or we will be in serious trouble.
The implications for our health, and the health of our environment, are far-reaching. If we eat, say, fruit that’s produced locally, not only do we reduce the food miles that are wrecking our climate, but that fruit will be fresher and richer in nutrients. If we can go to a butcher’s shop to buy meat that’s been raised nearby, we can ask the butcher how it was farmed, and how it was slaughtered. And perhaps we can take our children with us, so they learn something too. In the end, a local food culture, supplied in the main by contiguous communities, militates against secrecy, adulteration - cruelty even - and in favour of transparency, accountability and good practice. What could be more reassuring than knowing the names and addresses of the people who produce your food?
I don’t think it’s overstating the case, either, to say that a knowledge of regional cooking promotes resourcefulness and a renewed respect for food in all of us. Regional dishes are, by their very nature, simple things. This is folk cooking - a ‘nose to tail’ approach that uses whatever’s available and makes it go as far as possible. For a while now - since conspicuous consumption has become practically an end in itself - our predecessors’ abhorrence of throwing away anything may have seemed at best, quaint, at worst, laughable. But as we begin to come to terms with the consequences of our ‘have it all now’ culture, it is becoming clear that ethical production, good husbandry, environmental responsibility and kitchen thrift all go hand in hand. The frugal culture that gave birth to chitterlings and lardy cake, Bath chaps and bread pudding is something we should be proud to belong to. To re-embrace it can only do us good.
Aside from their currency, the foods in this book have had to prove themselves in other ways. They must be unique to a specific region and they must have longevity, having been made or produced for at least 75 years. Finally, they must be, to use a rather ugly word, ‘artisanal’. That means that special knowledge and skills are required to make them properly. Which brings me to one crucial element of good food that should never be forgotten: the people who make it. Almost without exception, the brewers, bakers, cooks, farmers and fishermen who produce traditional foods are what you might call ‘characters’. This doesn’t mean they are yokels caught in a yesteryear time warp. They are people of passion and commitment, intelligence and good humour, and often extraordinary specialist knowledge. And they know more than most of us about the meaning of life.
Not a single one of them goes to work in the morning in order to make lots of money-you certainly don’t choose to devote your life to bannock-making in the hope it will furnish you with a swimming pool and a Ferrari. They do it because they believe in it and, ultimately, feel it is worthwhile. In their own quiet and industrious way, they understand just how much is at stake. The future of civilized, communal, respectful life on our islands? It is not preposterous to suggest it. Use your regular custom and generously expressed enthusiasm to support this modest army of dedicated souls, working away in their kitchens, gardens, orchards breweries and smokehouses all over Britain, and you do a great deal more than simply save a cheese, or a beer, for posterity. You help save the next generation from the tyranny of industrial mediocrity.
Amid this talk of pride and principles, it’s crucial not to lose sight of the fact that this is food to be enjoyed, celebrated - and shared with friends. Dishes don’t survive down the centuries unless they taste good. You may not need much persuasion to try some of the buttery cakes or fabulously fresh fruit and veg described in these pages. But you will perhaps need a sense of adventure to rediscover the charms of some of the entries. Be ready to cast your squeamishness aside and sample some tripe, some tongue, some trotters as well. If the experience of visitors to our River Cottage events here in Dorset is anything to go by, I’m betting you’ll be pleasantly surprised. You’ll be taking a pig’s head home from the butcher’s and making your own brawn before you can say, ‘Er, not for me, thanks.’
One element of this book to be richly