In the UK, younger generations are shunning British foods. A study conducted by Paymentsense found that while older Britons say British food is their favourite cuisine to eat out when dining out, under 35s prefer Italian, Indian and Chinese. The diverse tastes of the young are on the ascendant. The diaspora who have made the UK home are now deep rooted into our nation’s fabric. Their tastes and ways of cooking are on a collision course with British food. What is considered ‘the norm’ is being upended. Salt and pepper is no longer the seasoning powerhouse it was once considered in British households.
The concept of seasoning and flavour has seeped into our politics. Bland, unseasoned food has become synonymous with whiteness. Every day a new video of someone roasting a plain chicken breast or preparing mushy, unwashed rice goes viral. The brutal veracity in the way these dishes are called out and mocked is a product of our social media environment, but it also points to a deep insecurity about modern, multicultural identity. In recent months, white people on TikTok have had an incessant need to declare that they wash their meat and season their food, displaying their stacked spice cupboards and freshly-scrubbed chicken wings. Second and third generation diasporas are called out for not using the “right” seasonings or cooking things the “wrong” way, with any slip up interpreted as a revocation of their cultural card. There are many variables that go into flavouring a dish. While food preparation and seasoning are under the spotlight, the role of ingredient quality is largely absent in this burgeoning conversation.
I attended my cousin’s wedding a couple of months ago. It was held on a farm that doubled as an events venue. I had spent most of the day fretting about my best man speech; should I channel my inner shock jock and go for the jugular, or pare things back to spare him the embarrassment? I was set to give the speech after dinner. On paper, the options were lacking. Beef wellington or a grass-fed chicken breast reared on-site. For fear of having beef stuck between my teeth in front of the wedding videographer, I opted for the latter. When the chicken was placed in front of me, I thought: is this it? Even as an amateur home cook, I knew how vital preparation was. I took my first bite cautiously. To my surprise, it was delicious. The flesh melted in my mouth, like poultry candy floss. Then I paid attention to flavour. The earthy spices I would dump on chicken at home were absent. Instead, I could taste a rich melody of butter and cream. Dinner tasted like dessert. So much so that when the sticky toffee pudding followed, I yearned for another portion of that otherworldly chicken breast. Stuffed and satisfied, I reworked my best man’s speech to balance heart with a naughty anecdote or two.
As we were leaving the next morning, I noticed a farm shop on site. They sold chicken breasts like the one I had eaten the night before. Initially I balked at the cost: £12 for two. After some toing and froing, I brought them to the counter. Right up until I tapped my card I thought: am I being taken for a mug? I can get two chicken breasts for £2.20 in Sainsbury’s. Once home, it took me three days to open them. They intimidated me. What if I overcook them? Do I bake or grill? Gordon Ramsay would pummel me. Eventually I applied my usual spice mix – cumin, paprika, oregano, garlic powder, salt and pepper. I also added a light coating of butter. I put them in the oven to bake and waited anxiously to see what abomination would emerge. Once cooked, I cut them open. Not raw and not dry; phew. I took a bite. Wow. The pillowy texture was still there, as was the taste of butter and cream, despite me only adding the former. The spices were background noise to the main attraction: the chicken itself. Every chicken breast I have eaten since feels like a punishment. Coarse and fibrous, I need seasoning to hide the taste, not enhance it.
Since this gastronomic epiphany, my perception of flavour and seasoning has been upended. Herbs and spices are a wonderful thing, but where is the line between a base ingredient, or hiding it?
Larousse Gastronomique, the culinary French bible, states that “to season and to flavour are not the same thing”, highlighting the fact that Western dishes are about drawing out existing flavours, not obscuring them. Take the French classic beef bourguignon; a rich, meaty stew where the dominant flavour is beef. The meat flavour is enhanced with stock and red wine, both of which add depth, not diversity of flavour. The result is nonetheless delicious.
A 2011 study from Northeastern University found that dishes from Northern Europe and America tend to pair ingredients that share flavour compounds. In contrast, the study found that East Asian, Latin American and Southern European dishes shun foods that share similar flavours. Western dishes use ingredients with similar textures and flavours such as butter, milk and eggs. Dishes from East Asia meld together ingredients that, in isolation, taste nothing alike – i.e. ginger, chicken and rice – but come together to create something spectacular. For those in the West, recreating non-Western dishes can sometimes cause confusion.
With the booming popularity of non-British cuisine in the UK, our palettes have become accustomed to complex flavours and titillating heat. In a frenzy to recreate these dishes, we buy pre-made spice mixes or douse our meats and legumes in anonymous powders, adding far too much to compensate for our ignorance. When the resulting dish is mediocre, we may assume that we are missing a key ingredient. What is often lost on us is that ingredient quality, especially meat, is key to the flavour formula.
Going back to that soft, tender chicken breast, it struck me that the flavour spoke to the quality of the meat. Most of us eat pre-packaged chicken from supermarket shelves, with a price so low it belies comprehension. Chicken produced for the mass UK market today is very different to the chicken that was available in the mid-1900s. In the 1960s, Julia Child, the pioneering TV chef, said, “Chicken should be so good in itself that it is an absolute delight to eat as a perfectly plain, butter roast, sauté or grill.” It is unlikely she would say that about the chicken on supermarket shelves today. According to the RSPCA, chickens farmed in the UK are bred to grow incredibly fast, so they become dangerously heavy for their age. They struggle to walk and often have heart defects. Chickens are now slaughtered when they are five to six weeks old. Unlike lamb, baby chickens do not have a deep, unique flavour – they are bland. Chickens in the 50s and 60s were slaughtered at around four months. This meat was richer and tastier. The chicken I ate was unlike any I had eaten prior or since, because it was farm-reared. The one I cooked at home had a yellow skin. At first, I thought this meant it was off; now I know it was a sign of good welfare, a corn-fed diet, quality and taste.
Good seasoning is a symphony, not a mosh pit. It takes great skill and calculation to balance herbs and spices, and to know when to hold back. Traditional recipes are often far more paired-back than expected. Turkish lentil soup is my favourite dish. In its most simple form, the soup is made from boiled onion, red lentils, salt and butter blended together. That is it. More complex recipes call for the addition of carrots, tomatoes, peppers, potatoes and bulgur wheat. The only spices to be added are Aleppo pepper flakes and dried mint. The soup carries a deep, rich flavour that belies its simple preparation. South Asian cuisine is renowned for its explosive flavours, but chefs use spices very carefully. Take the Lucknowi Biryani. The recipe, from renowned Indian chef Ranveer Brar, calls for two teaspoons of cumin and coriander seeds, three green cardamom, ten cloves and one teaspoon of fennel seeds and black pepper. The precise quantities, along with the oil and ghee in the recipe, create enormous depth of flavour.
What we perceive as seasoning and flavour is in a state of flux. No longer are the lunches kids from ethnic backgrounds bring in something to eat in the corner of the school canteen to avoid the derisory comments of their peers. They are becoming the standard bearer for what “good” food is. In this climate, what many know as tasty food is being upended and, in an effort to stay in the know, gastronomic crimes are on the rise. Seasoning has become another pillar of the culture war. War produces many casualties; do not let your taste buds become one.
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