The Cooking of the British Isles [antikvár]

^"Warming Quisine ^Rogted in ^Rural Simplicity -British cooking is not noted for saucing and subtleties. It depends on the excellence of the raw materials, the rhythm of the seasonal crops and a simple style of preparation that permits the flavors of the food to come through. Fish from the rivers, lakes and coastal waters is one of our great prides. Never more than a few hours from the net to the fishmonger's slab and the housewife's pot, it remains always fresh enough to retain its true taste—the main reason we cook it so plainly. To sully a Dover sole, a matchless fish, with a rich sauce would be a negation of nature's intent. The indigenous and characteristic aspects of British cooking that have earned it a culinary niche in the world's cuisines date back centuries. As great meat eaters, we perfected the art of roasting. We have evolved splendid specialties: steamed puddings and raised pies; potted, jellied and pickled meats and fish; and an enormous range of breads and cakes. Because of the rural, regional nature of our islands and their close-knit peoples our food is intrinsically what it always has been—home-grown, home-reared, homemade. Unlike the French, we have no grande cuisine or custom of elegant, highly contrived restaurant eating. There was nothing about our eating patterns to occasion it: almost everyone, from king to commoner, ate the same foods, however fancied-up or plain. The kitchens of the royal courts and great country houses merely drew on a wider variety of foodstuffs in greater quantities. A wealthy imperial nation and a world-wide trader since the 16th Century, England could afford to import the best the world had to offer, from tea, coffee and rice to exotic spices and fruits, and all these found their way into home cooking. British food is uncomplicated, reassuring to the palate, a repository of familiar, cherished flavors. There are no gastronomic flourishes to upset the delicate balance of digestion. In essence it is nostalgic and evocative, intertwined with memories, heightened by time, of snowy Dickensian Christmases when the goose sputtered in the oven, the pudding simmered on the stove, and trays of mince pies cooled tantalizingly in the pantry. It is substantial food, designed to stoke the inner fires in a country that, though never arctically cold, is frequently raw and bone chilling and has yet to embrace wholeheartedly the delights of central heating. Armored with a good breakfast of sausage, bacon, grilled tomato and fried egg washed down with cups of strong, sweet, milky tea, anyone can start the day with a flush of warmth and well-being. And at the end of a cold, gray winter afternoon there is the promise of tea with scones and jam, and crumpets oozing butter. For British food is, above all, comforting food, the kind you turn to when you are tired, cold, hungry, miserable or sick. Not for nothing has it been affectionately