Why horse meat leaves a bad taste in the mouth

Scoffing at neighbours who discovered that the value “beef burgers” they bought at the supermarket had horse in them won’t make life any better for those of us who are better off.

The horse-meat scandal is now, in our novelty-hungry world, a chestnut as ancient as Shergar, kicked into the long grass by stories of triangular flapjacks. Food fraud is a story as old as commerce itself. A few years ago my noble predecessor in this column Bee Wilson published a fascinating book on the subject called Swindled, which I recently reread with horrified fascination.

Horse pops up a couple of times: once in the form of powdered liver, which, rumour has it, unscrupulous Victorian coffee merchants used to eke out their loathsome brews, and once in a chapter discussing the work of the Food Standards Agency (FSA). The British public has long suspected that donkey and horse meat find their way into salami from the Continent, Wilson says, “but these fears were partly xenophobic, based on the notion that foreigners eat suspicious things”. A 2003 FSA survey found such fraud “practically non-existent”.

Perdita and Peregrine may have been relieved to hear that their artisan cured meats had been given the all-clear, but the authenticity unit apparently didn’t think to take a look at the stuff coming in at the other end of the market. With notable exceptions (the fake free-range eggs scam of 2009 springs to mind, or the Turkish lamp oil passed off as Tuscan extra-virgin), it’s usually the poorest in our society who suffer most from such cheats.

There seemed to be a hint in some sections of the media that these unfortunates had colluded in their own deception. “Come on, with meat at that price, what did you expect?” laughed one man I heard interviewed. His words came back to me when I read Friedrich Engels’s observation, from his 1845 study, The Condition of the Working Class in England, that many workers sought out food as late as possible on a Saturday evening, when it would be reduced for a quick sale: “nine-tenths of what is sold at ten o’clock is past using by Sunday morning, yet these are precisely the provisions which make up the Sunday dinner of the poorest class”.

The irony is that once upon a time it would have been a lot harder to get rid of that rotten meat. Medieval Europe had a food industry policed by guilds. Fraud and bad practice went on but the punishments meted out to those who brought the good name of the Worshipful Companies into disrepute were severe enough to act as an effective deterrent.

Unfortunately for us, this heavily regulated system declined early in Britain and was replaced rapidly by a rampant free market. The laissez-faire approach proved disastrous when it came to food; one witness to an 1855 parliamentary inquiry into food fraud – the chairman of a local board of health – argued that no one expected vendors to give them what they’d asked for and “neither do I think it beneficial that it should be so”.

No wonder tragedies such as the 1850 Tooting orphan scandal, in which a large number of pauper children died after eating adulterated oatmeal, were rife in the Victorian era. Following recent revelations, Wilson’s grim observation, “that the contract for institutional food was usually offered to the lowest bidder, and it was an economic impossibility to become the lowest bidder without some swindling”, seems to ring almost as true about our schools and hospitals today.

On the bright side, horse meat is unlikely to kill anyone. Yet for all the jokes about long faces, the episode raises serious questions. If you don’t know what’s in your frozen ready-meal then it’s impossible to exercise proper judgement about whether to eat it. Such deception robs us, consumers in the most basic sense, of any real choice about what we put into our own and our children’s bodies. And that leaves a very bad taste indeed.

 

The frontage of a horsemeat butcher in Paris. Photograph: Getty Images

Felicity Cloake is the New Statesman’s food columnist. Her latest book is The A-Z of Eating: a Flavour Map for Adventurous Cooks.

This article first appeared in the 12 April 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Centenary Special Issue

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How did Don’t Tell the Bride lose its spark?

Falling out of the love with reality TV’s wedding planning hit.

Steph, 23, from Nottinghamshire, is standing in a drizzly field wearing a wedding dress. Her betrothed, Billy, is running around in a tweed flat cap trying to make some pigs walk in “a continuous parade”. A man from Guinness World Records is watching with a clipboard, shaking his head. Bridesmaids gaze sorrowfully into the middle distance, each in a damp pig onesie.

Thus ends the second wedding in E4’s new series of Don’t Tell the Bride – and the programme’s integrity with it.

When the classic programme, which follows grooms attempting to plan their wedding (punchline: human males doing some organising), began a decade ago on BBC Three, it had the raw spark of unpredictability. For eight years, the show did nothing fancy with the format, and stuck with pretty ordinary couples who had few eccentric aspirations for their wedding day.

This usually resulted in run-of-the-mill, mildly disappointing weddings where the worst thing that happened would be a reception at the nearest motorway pub, or an ill-fitting New Look low heel.

It sounds dull, but anyone who has religiously watched it knows that the more low-key weddings expose what is truly intriguing about this programme: the unconditional commitment – or doomed nature – of a relationship. As one of the show’s superfans told the Radio Times a couple of years ago:

“It’s perfect, and not in an ironic or post-ironic or snarky way. The format has the solemn weight of a ceremony . . . Don’t Tell the Bride is not about ruined weddings, it’s about hope. Every wedding is a demonstration of how our ambitions curve away from our abilities. It’s a show about striving to deserve love and how that’s rarely enough.”

It also meant that when there were bombshells, they were stand-out episodes. High drama like Series 4’s notorious Las Vegas wedding almost resulting in a no-show bride. Or heart-warming surprises like the geezer Luke in Series 3 playing Fifa and guzzling a tinny on his wedding morning, who incongruously pulls off a stonking wedding day (complete with special permission from the Catholic Church).

For its eight years on BBC Three, a few wildcard weddings were thrown into the mix of each series. Then the show had a brief affair with BBC One, a flirt with Sky, and is now on its tenth year, 13th series and in a brand new relationship – with the more outrageous E4.

During its journey from BBC Three, the show has been losing its way. Tedious relationship preamble has been used to beef up each episode. Some of the grooms are cruel rather than clueless, or seem more pathetic and vulnerable than naïve. And wackier weddings have become the norm.

The programme has now fully split from its understated roots. Since it kicked off at the end of July, every wedding has been a publicity stunt. The pig farm nuptials are sandwiched between a Costa del Sol-based parasail monstrosity and an Eighties Neighbours-themed ceremony, for example. All facilitated by producers clearly handing the groom and best men karaoke booth-style props (sombreros! Inflatable guitars! Wigs!) to soup up the living room planning process.

Such hamminess doesn’t give us the same fly-on-the-wall flavour of a relationship as the older episodes. But maybe this level of artifice is appropriate. As one groom revealed to enraged fans in The Sun this week, the ceremonies filmed are not actually legally binding. “It makes a bit of a mockery of the process that the bride and groom go through this huge ordeal for a ceremony which isn’t even legal,” he said. Perhaps we should’ve predicted it would all eventually end in divorce – from reality.

Don’t Tell the Bride is on E4 at 9pm

Anoosh Chakelian is senior writer at the New Statesman.