When I first came to England as a late teenager, in 1984, the biggest culture shock I experienced was undoubtedly the natives’ frugal attitude towards food.  It seemed to be perceived as an undeserved luxury rather than a basic right.  Moreover, there was a code to follow, which I needed to learn.

For instance, when my first English landlady remarked, “If my children had half your appetite, I’d never worry about their health,” something told me she didn’t mean it as a compliment.  When a host handed you a plate on which the food occupied about 25% of the surface area, with a benevolent, “Is that all right, my dear, or is that too much?” you did not reply, “Does it come with a magnifying glass?”  And when you were offered a second helping of the main course, “Yes, please!” was not always the best response.  You might just embarrass the host with too much directness.   It was preferable to resort to:

“Oh, all right, you’ve twisted my arm”

or “Are you sure? I feel I’m being greedy”

or “Well, perhaps a very, very tiny bit more”

and if you really wanted to make your host beam at you, then, “Oh, that’s so kind, that was truly delicious… but I couldn’t possibly… I’m so sorry.”

As a nineteen-year-old used to fighting off insistent offers of food in Italy, France, Greece and in her own family, I learnt, after the first few invitations in England, to wolf down a bowl of pasta at my home before going for a meal at someone else’s.  That way, not only could I assure the host that 25% of my plate area was such a huge amount of food and I didn’t know how I would manage to eat it all, but I could gracefully decline any subsequent offers with the sincerity of a full stomach.    

Of course, this is something of a generalisation.  My experience of English hospitality is limited to East Anglia, London, the Home Counties and the West Country.  I am not very familiar with Northern customs. Moreover, eating mores have changed in recent decades.  However, there is even now an assumption that women eat less than men.  More often than not, at a dinner party, my husband is offered a second helping before I am.  There is a persistent tendency for the hostess to coax a young man to finish the rest of, say, the salad left in a bowl, and ignore the young woman next to him, who might actually quite like the rest of the salad for herself because she is still hungry.

I no longer devour the vast amounts of food I used to as a young woman, but I still like to play it safe and whenever I am invited to someone else’s home for a meal for the first time, I generally have a small snack beforehand, and if I stay with friends overnight, I slip a packet of oatcakes into my bag.  Just in case.

In England, when you’re given a cup of tea, you’re often asked if you would like a biscuit.     Perhaps this is out of genuine concern for your figure or your blood sugar levels, although, oddly enough, whenever I place a heaped plate of biscuits before my own guests, I see them munch their way through several.  I guess they are so eager to be polite, they don’t mind sacrificing their own health and waistline in the process. 

There is a scene in the film My Fair Lady that always makes me cringe.  When Freddie Eynsford Hill rings the doorbell at Professor Higgins’s house, looking for Eliza Doolittle,  the housekeeper, Mrs Pearce, says, “Wouldn’t you like to come in, sir? They’re having dinner but you may wait in the hall.”

Yes, Higgins is a self-centred eccentric, but whenever I watch this film, I am horrified by the fact that Mrs Pearce doesn’t convey an invitation to join the household for dinner – or at least coffee and dessert.    Yes, it’s a Hollywood movie, and that makes it even more embarrassing: even often innacurate 1960’s Hollywood was aware of our hospitality traditions.

We were recently invited for dinner in a large Elizabethan house by a well-to-do couple.  It was a jolly party all round, and we all duly complimented the hostess on the main course.  She smiled.  “Who would like some more?” and just as we all looked at her expectantly, she added, her smile losing some of its brightness, “There are only a few potatoes left.”

I don’t know if it’s Protestant austerity or the fact that the climatic conditions of the island don’t favour a plentiful, varied crop, or if – as older English people have often told me – it’s a leftover of World War II privations (rationing for certain foodstuffs went on as late as 1954).  The fact remains that a degree of thriftiness is considered virtuous and sensible where food is concerned. 

Perhaps because of my upbringing, or my personality, I like meals to be hearty and abundant.  Here’s one that lends itself to merry conviviality and, given the time it takes to prepare, good to share – in several helpings – with as many friends as can fit at your table.

POLENTA COBBLER

Your allies: 

(all measurements are approximate, see https://scribedoll.com/2023/01/15/new-blog-feasts-fancies/)

❧ Polenta

❧ Pinto beans

❧ One or two bay leaves

❧ Mushrooms

❧ Butter

❧ Sprout tops (or other cabbage greens)

❧ Grated parmesan

❧ Olive oil, salt, pepper

Soak the beans for at least 10 hours in plenty of cold water, then strain and rinse with fresh water. Put the beans into a large pan, cover generously with water, add salt and the bay leaves, and bring to boil.  Let boil briskly for twenty minutes or so, then turn down the heat slightly and let cook until ready.  At some point, add a little olive oil, to bring out the flavour of the beans.

Wash the mushrooms and slice off the bottom of the stalks. Fry in butter.  Once cooked, set aside.

Soak and wash the sprout tops, then steam them.  Sprout tops are tasty greens you can generally find only at small greengrocers rather than supermarkets – at least where we live.  In the absence of sprout tops, you can use shredded Savoy cabbage or chopped Brussels sprouts, or pretty much any other cruciferous vegetables, although personally I would advise against broccoli because they get mushy too easily. 

Oil a casserole or a deep baking dish.  Spoon in the beans, mushrooms and steamed sprout tops, either in layers, or all mixed together.  Add a little water from the boiled beans, just enough for a little sauce at the bottom of the dish.

Grate the parmesan.

Boil the water for the polenta, add a little salt.  Spoon the polenta in slowly, whisking gently as you go along to avoid lumps forming.  Keep stirring until it reaches the consistency of thick porridge.  Add a smidgeon of olive oil and a spare dusting of black pepper.

Making polenta is a hazardous activity and should come with a warning.  I guess there is a reason why in Northern Italy it is traditionally cooked in a cauldron, outdoors.  Apart from the smoke enhancing its flavour, you can stir the boiling maize with a long stick and stand far enough away so that while bubbling, the squirts of boiling polenta can’t reach you.  As I have a tiny kitchen, I watch the polenta very attentively, and as soon as I see a bubble forming on the surface, I quickly remove the pan from the heat and wait for it to calm down before I put it back on.  

When the desired consistency is achieved, mix the grated parmesan in with the polenta and spoon it in dollops on the vegetables in the casserole dish.  The mounds of polenta and parmesan don’t have to be identical.  Let them land the way they land, looking as if they don’t care.

Put in the oven and bake long enough for the top of the polenta to be a darker gold.

Serve.

Enjoy.