Food
I've just had a baby and, feeling a bit iron-deprived, I thought nothing would be nicer than a big, bubbling pot of oxtail stew. I could have it with plenty of rich, brown gravy, seasoned with a spray of thyme; and a mound of Jersey potatoes; and some buttery boiled carrots; and perhaps a few little dumplings, round and fat and flecked with parsley.
Then I remembered the ban. It will be August - at the earliest - before the government will permit me to make my imagined stew, by which time - cucumber soup weather - oxtail will be unpalatable. In my emotional state, this felt like a grave infringement of liberty. Feeling a little sensitive, I burst into tears.
But if the bone ban continues to rankle, it's worth remembering it could be worse. This government's control freakery over beef pales in comparison with the fish ordinances of Elizabeth I's reign, which effectively forced her subjects to eat herring twice a week until they gagged with fishy boredom.
The ostensible cause of Elizabeth's devotion to fish was religious. Where her father, Henry VIII, had permitted eggs and cheese and "white meats" during the Lenten fast, Elizabeth reinstated the full mortification of the flesh with fish. In the later years of her reign, the 40-day fish fast of Lent was the subject of many fierce royal proclam-ations. Not only did the queen insist on piscine meals on the day of Our Lord's death, but in 1564 she declared a second fish day each week, on Wednesdays, a development determined more by realpolitik than by piety. Elizabeth's aim was primarily to protect England's fishing industry and navy against Dutch competition. Fish days were therefore vigorously policed by sheriffs and constables, who made the rounds of taverns and inns, confiscating the licences of any inn-holders who broke the code by serving meat.
For the average diner, this meant herring, herring and more herring. Although the queen did not stipulate the kind of fish to be eaten on Wednesdays and Fridays, most people had no choice. Herrings (and their relation, the sprat) were the only affordable option, and became the ubiquitous pub grub of Elizabethan England. They came in three colours. "Green" or fresh herrings were limited to the fishing ports. "Red" were smoked or kippered, but commonest of all was the "white" or pickled herring, whose stinky saltiness was helped down with dollops of hot mustard and too much ale, to quell the inevitable thirst.
Soused herrings are nowadays the sort of quaint delicacy beloved of readers of Another Magazine. They serve them carefully spiced with bay and peppercorns on beds of watercress. The "white herring" of the 16th century was very different - as coarse and odoriferous as the locals at the taverns where they were served. It is not hard to imagine how tedious these twice-weekly herring meals must have become, all the more so for the vinegary taste of compulsion that accompanied them.
The herring soon became an object of derision. "Pickleherring" was slang for either a buffoon or a bad companion. Henry Cobham, who was a hopeless Lord Chamberlain from 1596-97, was satirised as a "Cob", or small herring. Various characters in Shakespeare are likened to "shotten herrings", or herrings without roe, and Ben Jonson made play on the fish's lowly status. Thomas Nashe even wrote a mock encomium to the despised food, Of the Praise of the Red Herring.
When I think of rollmops twice a week, the beef ban seems almost reasonable. It's the difference between negative and positive meddling. The absence of oxtail is better, at least, than compulsory oxtail would be.
Post this article to
We want to encourage people to comment on our content and to exchange views with other readers and hope this will be done on a courteous basis. However, if you encounter posts which are offensive please let us know by emailing comments@newstatesman.co.uk and we will take swift action where necessary.
