Food - Bee Wilson on the real beef war
There is a bar in Paris called Le Frog et Rosbif. It sells exorbitantly priced packets of crisps a la Walkers and warm beer to anyone who will pay. Dapper Frenchmen eat Cheese and Owens with such daintiness they might as well be ingesting pommes mousselines. Slobby English expats go there to escape the confining grandeur of the rest of Paris. It's not at all clear whom the joke is on: the Rosbifs, for being so set in their ways that even Paris can't tempt them out of their stalwart Britishness; or the Frogs, for treating coarse British victuals as if they were fashionable delicacies. The layers of irony depend for their effectiveness on France's eternal inner battle between Anglomania and Anglophobia, conducted through the image of beef.
The recent beef wars have been a continuation of a centuries-old battle over Britain's symbolic identity. The surface story has been about Blairite safety-speak and farmers in crisis, about jobs and business lost while science becomes mangled by European bureaucracy. But it's impossible to ignore the more figurative story - about the Rosbifs. By rejecting the safety of British beef, against the tide of scientific opinion, the French and Germans have found an ancient and obvious way of saying that they don't trust us as a nation.
Rosbif is an ambivalent stereotype. It can be roared appreciatively by patriots, as in Fielding's: "Oh! The roast beef of England,/And old England's roast beef." Alternatively, it can be used by Anglophobes to insinuate a certain beefwittedness. During early political debates in the USA, cliques polarised into Anglomen and Gallomen. The Anglomen were painted as insensitive, colonial munchers of roast beef. The Gallomen were effete brandy-drinkers and connoisseurs of treacherous modern fancies.
The current dubiousness about British beef is all the more cutting because the roast beef of old England was seen for hundreds of years as a more trustworthy alternative to French "messes". Roast beef, like the red-faced yeoman beefeaters, wears its heart on its sleeve. If the meat is bad, you will know it at once. There is no hiding behind artful sauces. Eliza Smith, in 1734, wrote disgustedly about French "kickshaws" (from quelque chose) as compared with simple English produce.
Holinshed observed that "the English Cookes, in comparison with other Nations, are most commended for roasted meates". A typical 18th-century traveller to Britain believed that "the art of cooking as practised by most Englishmen does not extend much beyond roast beef and plum pudding". Rosbif and its illogical variant rosbif d'agneau have always suited the extravagance of the prodigal British cook. No stock is produced during its cooking (though the bones could be thrown to the dogs or boiled up) and only the choicest cuts roast well.
There is therefore also a class angle to all this. Unlike macaroni, which is a universally affordable dish, as well as a symbol of Italy, Rosbif is a feudal, aristocratic emblem. The poorest Rosbifs in England would seldom ever taste it. Boiled beef was commoner, and no beef commoner still. For all our battles over the rights of eating and exporting our national cow-meat, we are in a similar position today. A nation of soup-slurpers, pasta-eaters, salad-nibblers and bean-feasters is still defined by a dish that is actually much less typically British than the bifteck hache sandwiches of McDonald's.
Roast Beef of Old England
Buy a big joint - at least 4 lb. Put dripping or butter on it, season highly and give it 16 or 17 minutes to the pound in a very hot oven (gas mark six). Baste often. Half an hour before the end you can "froth" the crust with flour mixed with thyme and pour butter over. This encourages the "taste of the fire" the Englishman is supposed to favour. Technically, this is baked beef and not roast beef, but it seems spoil-sportish to say so.
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