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Some corking alternatives to the Irish stew’n’mash

Some traditions are just too sacred to mess with, though.

With every pub in the area pushing its St Patrick’s Day menu (aka stew’n’mash), I can’t help but chuckle at the idea of marking the occasion with a meal. Let’s be honest – like us, the Irish don’t have much to celebrate in the way of culinary heritage. My grandmother, a tiny Dubliner, lived well into her eighties on a diet of Silk Cut and Thornton’s toffee and I’ve always thought it telling that my mother hasn’t touched a potato since she left home.

There are historic reasons for this. The Cork-based chef Denis Cotter wrote a few years ago that, given the past poverty of the country, “It’s a bit rich expecting us to have concocted a food culture that would stand up as a coherent cuisine.” Traditional Irish cooking is simple for a reason: if you only have an open fire to work with, boiled bacon and cabbage is about as gastro as it’s going to get.

Plainness and solidity remained the chief culinary virtues in Ireland long after the fitted kitchen made its debut: great reverence has always been paid to the Holy Trinity of meat, vegetables and potatoes, a routine broken only on Fridays, when dinner is boiled fish and white sauce instead. Accompanied by potatoes.

You can’t get away from spuds in Ireland: before the great famine, the average cottager consumed between seven and 14 pounds a week – not that many of them had much choice in the matter. The subsequent crop failures cost the country almost a third of its population yet, up until the accession of Poland and Latvia, the Irish remained the biggest consumers of potatoes per capita in the EU. (Britain lagged a poor second.)

Despite this ongoing obsession with tubers, which I blame for an unfortunate experience with a mashed potato spring roll in Wexford a couple of years ago, Irish food has undergone a quiet transformation in the past few decades, in part thanks to a few pioneers such as the Allen family at Ballymaloe House in Cork.

Myrtle Allen, a farmer’s wife and keen cook, opened a restaurant in her home in 1964, when eating out in Ireland came in two flavours: fancy French or the chipper. She was determined to make the most of the produce on her doorstep and Ballymaloe’s championing of local farmers, fishermen and cheese makers at a time when anything Irish was deeply unfashionable is at least partly responsible for the wealth of artisan food producers in its vicinity today, still supplying Myrtle and her now rather well-known country house hotel and restaurant.

West Cork is a place that could be described as a food hot spot, if that weren’t so at odds with the local pace of life – at times, it can feel a bit like a gastro-commune. I bump into Darina Allen, Myrtle’s daughter-in-law and head of Ballymaloe’s cookery school, at Glenilen Farm dairy, where the farmer Alan Kingston explains to me in great detail why the rain makes Irish milk the best in the world. (Something to do with carotene in the grass, apparently.)

He’s having Giana Ferguson, who makes the mellow Gubbeen washed-rind cheese down the road in Schull, over to lunch and she kindly brings some of her son Fingal’s Cork chorizo for us to try as well.

The following day, we breakfast with Jack McCarthy, butcher and champion black pudding maker, at Cork’s English Market, before popping in to see Anthony Cresswell at his riverside Ummera smokehouse for some organic salmon. Everyone seems to know each other and not one of them attempts to feed us a potato.

It’s the simple, slow food the Irish do best, relying on their world-class grass, cold Atlantic waters and the old adage, co-opted by their best-known export, that good things come to those who wait. It’s time to look beyond the old stereotypes. There’s much more to modern Irish cooking than mash.

For all that, I’ll be celebrating St Patrick’s Day with a pint and packet of Taytos. Some traditions are just too sacred to mess with.


Felicity Cloake write the food column for the New Statesman. She also writes for the Guardian and is the author of  Perfect: 68 Essential Recipes for Every Cook's Repertoire (Fig Tree, 2011) and Perfect Host: 162 easy recipes for feeding people & having fun (Fig Tree, 2013). She is on Twitter as @FelicityCloake.

This article first appeared in the 18 March 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The German Problem

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Cake or Death: why The Great British Bake Off is the best thing on television

Those who are complaining that the show has “caved in to political correctness” have missed the point.

The Cake is a Lie. That’s what viewers of the Great British Bake Off, now in its fifth season, are complaining about in the run-up to this week’s final. Out of thousands of amateur bakers who applied, three have made it through the gruelling rounds of Mary Berry’s disapproving pucker and faced down blue-eyed Cake Fascist Paul Hollywood’s demands without a single underbaked layer or soggy bottom in sight - and two of them aren’t white. The subsequent crypto-racist whining from PC-gone-madattrons in the press - one paper suggested that perhaps poor Flora, who was sent home last week, should have baked a "chocolate mosque" - runs against the whole spirit of Bake Off.

The charge is that the competition is not merit-based, and the entire basis for this complaint seems to be that two out of the finalists are of Asian origin - which makes total sense, because everyone knows that white people are better than everyone else at everything, including baking, so obviously it’s political correctness gone mad. The fact that last week Nadiya Hussain, a homemaker from Luton who happens to wear a hijab, baked an entire fucking peacock out of chocolate biscuits had nothing to do with it.

For those of you who mysteriously have better things to do with your time than watch 12 British people prat about in a tent, let me tell you why all of this matters. The best way to explain what's so great about The Great British Bake Off is to compare it to how they do these things across the pond. In America, they have a show called Cupcake Wars, which I gamely tuned into last year whilst living abroad and missing my fix of Sue Perkins getting overexcited about Tart Week. 

Big mistake. Cupcake Wars is nothing at all like Bake Off. Cupcake Wars is a post-Fordian nightmare of overproduction and backstabbing filmed under pounding lights to a sugary version of the Jaws soundtrack. Contestants mutter and scheme over giant vats of violent orange frosting about how they're going to destroy the competition, and they all need the prize money because without it their small cupcake businesses might fold and their children will probably be fed to Donald Trump. Every week a different celebrity guest picks one winner to produce a thousand cupcakes - a thousand cupcakes! - for some fancy party or other, and it’s all just excessive and cutthroat and cruel. Cupcake Wars is Cake Or Death.

Bake Off is quite different. Bake Off is not about the money, or even really about the winning. Bake Off is a magical world of bunting and scones and dapper lesbian comedians making ridiculous puns about buns and gentle, worried people getting in a flap about pastry. There are very few hysterics. Legend has it that if anybody has a real breakdown in the middle of a signature bake, presenters Mel Giedroyc and Sue Perkins stand next to them repeating brand names and swear-words so the cameramen can’t use the footage, and don’t you dare disabuse me of that fact, because I want it to be true. The prize money, in a desperately British way, is almost never mentioned, nobody tries to sabotage anyone else’s puff pastry, and at the end whoever has to leave gives a brave little interview about how it’s a shame but they tried their best and they were just happy to be there and they’re definitely going to do some more baking almost as soon as they get home. 

Bake Off is the theatre of the humdrum, where fussy, nervous people get to be heroes, making macarons as the seas rise and the planet boils and the leaders of the world don't care that they've left the oven on. I’m always a little bit frightened by people who can bake, because I can’t even make a muffin out of a packet, although one danger of watching too much Bake Off is that you become convinced you ought to give it another try, and I apologise to my housemates for making them eat my savoury vegan chilli-chocolate cookies (don’t ask). They say that if you can bake a cake, you can make a bomb, and by that logic I should definitely be kept away from the explosives when the zombie revolution comes- but the Bake Off contestants are probably the sort of people who will be Britain’s last line of defence, quietly constructing landmines and apologising that the stitching on the flag of insurrection isn’t quite perfect. People with this specific and terrifying personality type are that are precisely the reason Britain once had an empire, as well as the reason we’re now rather embarrassed about it. 

For now, though, Bake Off is a gentle human drama about all the best bits of Britishness- and diversity is part of that. In fact, this isn’t even the first time that two out of three finalists have not been white - that was two years ago. But something seems to have changed in British society at large, such that the same scenario is now more enraging to the kind of people who get their jollies from spoiling everything lovely and gentle in this world with casual bigotry - they know who they are, and may their Victoria sponges never rise and all their flatbreads turn out disappointingly chewy.

Britain is getting harder and meaner, and even Bake Off is not immune. In the first season, it was more than enough to bake a half decent brioche. This season an affable fireman got sent home because the grass on his miniature edible Victorian tennis court was not the right shade of green, and I’m not even joking. In one of the challenges the bakers had to produce an arcane french dessert that looked like the turds of a robot angel, and most of them actually managed it. The music is getting more dramatic, the close-up shots of flaky chocolate pastry and oozing pie-lids more reminiscent of 1970s pornography. It’s all a bit much.

The human drama, though, is as perfectly baked as ever. Lovely Flora, the baby of the bunch who missed out on a spot in the final because her chocolate carousel centrepiece was slightly wonky, was actually one of my favourites because she's so deliciously millennial, with her pussy-bow collars and obsessive, Type-A attention to detail. Paul the Prison Officer was a delight, mainly because he looked so much like Paul Hollywood- cue six weeks of two enormous men called Paul having bro-offs over bread, nodding and trading gruff, dudely handshakes over the specific crunchiness of biscotti. One week, Prison Officer Paul produced a giant dough sculpture of a lion's head and Judge Paul gave him a special prize and then they probably went off into a gingerbread sweat lodge together and it was the manliest moment ever in Bake Off history.

This is what Bake Off is about, and that’s why the people who are complaining that something other than merit might have been involved in selecting the finalists have missed the point entirely. The point of Bake Off is not to determine the best amateur baker in the land. That's just the excuse for Bake Off. Even the gentlest TV show needs a vague narrative structure, and otherwise there'd be no tension when someone's blancmange collapses in a heap of eggy foam and broken dreams. But in the end, when all's said and done, it's just cake. If your ornamental biscuit windmill has a soggy bottom, well, nobody died, and you can probably still eat the pieces on your way home to have a cup of tea and a little cry. 

That's the point of Bake Off. None of it really matters, and yet it consistently made me smile during a long, weary summer of geopolitical doomwrangling when absolutely everything else on television was unremitting misery. I hope Nadiya wins, because she’s an adorable dork and I love her and she gets so worried about everything and I want nothing remotely distressing to happen to her, ever; I expect Tamal Ray, the gay doctor whose meat pie had me drooling, is the best baker overall, but I can’t be objective there, because I keep getting distracted by his lovely smile. Ian Cumming, the last white person in the tent (apart from both of the presenters and both of the judges) is a little bit dull, which is a problem, because of all the delicious treats produced on the show, Ian's are the ones I would probably eat the most. I want his tarragon cheesecake in my face immediately. I would just rather have a conversation with Nadiya while I'm doing it.

But at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter! And that’s the utter, unremitting joy of Bake Off. It’s possibly the last show on earth where in the end, it doesn’t matter who wins, as long as everyone gave it their best shot and had a laugh over a disastrous scrambled-egg chocolate tart or two, because ultimately, it’s just cake. And that’s marvellous. Now let’s all have a nice fat slice of perspective and calm down.


Now listen to a discussion of the Bake Off on the NS pop culture podcast:

Laurie Penny is a contributing editor to the New Statesman. She is the author of five books, most recently Unspeakable Things.