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The question of "What is British cuisine?" has changed multiple times throughout the years. Both the country and the cuisine have become hubs for diversity, inclusion, and the mixing of cultural differences. What started as the British Empire's search for new ingredients led to the introduction of new tastes, flavors, and dishes into the country's own classic cuisines. While the traditional foods in England are steeped in the rich history and heritage of the culture, the centuries of successful colonization have allowed the modern face of the cuisine to thrive in dynamic diversity. By establishing British colonies in subcontinent India, it allowed for new cultures and influences to infiltrate the preparation of British food, therefore, creating a melting pot of diverse tastes and flavors.

Before Britain began to colonize the rest of the world, the country first had its own foreign invaders that were the original influence on British cuisine. It started in the 9th century when Danish and Norwegian Vikings brought the techniques of smoking and drying fish to the Brits. From there came the Normans with French influences and rabbits to the cuisine, and the introduction of spices from Knights returning to England after their crusades in the Middle East.

The biggest influence on British cuisine came from the colonization of India. Britain's quest for spices is what drove the rapid rise of their empire, and India was the jack-of-all-trades. The subcontinent flourished in delicacies, such as: cumin, cinnamon, pepper, turmeric, and coriander - all spices now commonly found within the kitchens of great British chefs. Before the 1800s, Indian food was still a mystery to the Brits; in 1809 the first Indian restaurant, Hindoostane Coffee house, opened for business in London, but it closed after three years due to lack of popularity. Over the 19th century, Indian cuisine became very fashionable thanks to the support of Queen Victoria, and curry was starting to accompany every meal. It was during the British Raj, British rule of Indian subcontinent from 1857-1947, that Anglo-Indian cuisine was invented. It derived from British housewives interacting with their Indian cooks, and then merging the two cuisines together to make one.

The introduction of new dishes with exotic Indian flavors had a profound, positive impact on the palates Englishman; the most notable of these dishes being chicken tikka masala and mulligatawny soup. It is now debatable that the most popular dish in England is no longer fish and chips, but is instead chicken tikka masala. While there is no direct origin for this English-interpreted cuisine, some believe it came from the Punjab region of subcontinent India. The dish is made of roasted chicken in spiced curry sauce accompanied by a bed of rice. There is no one correct way to make chicken tikka masala, but turmeric, coriander, and cumin are usually always included in the ingredients. A popular Anglo-Indian cuisine is the mulligatawny soup or "pepper water." It was created during the British Raj for those who demanded a soup from a cuisine that did not have one. The dishes' basic ingredients are curry, turmeric, and pepper. There are many different ways to make mulligatawny soup, and today's versions are completely different from the original with the additions of meat, apples, and chicken broth.

Diversity in British cuisine is directly related to the country's growth as an empire. Before this, traditional English dishes would feature meat, potatoes, and one form of vegetable, because these were the products readily available in the country. So, while the country's own geography has a played a role in its more traditional dishes, like fish and chips, the most considerable influence has come from the British colonization in subcontinent India. The spices produced in India's landscape was something the Brits could not attain on their own at home. Therefore, the acquiring of these spices impacted the variety of cuisines that can now be found in modern day England. Not only that, but it helped transform traditionally bland English dishes into something more flavorful. The migration of Indians to England in the 1950s and 60s reinstated the "curry craze", which increased the amount of Indian restaurants in the country.

Foreign influences, mainly Indian, have helped infuse British cuisine and create a more multifaceted food culture than ever before. England has now become a melting pot of diversity in both its population and cuisine. The transformation of views towards British cuisine, a cuisine typically ridiculed for being boring, bland, and basic, has helped changed the entire British dining experience. With people now thinking of British cuisine in a positive light, it has opened the doors to new opportunities for chefs wishing to pursue that area of cooking.

Sources:
Blythman, Joanna. "The Hungry Empire: How Britain's Quest for Food Shaped the Modern World by Lizzie Collingham - review." The Observer, Guardian News and Media, 13 Aug. 2017
"English Cuisine and Recipes." English Cuisine: History and information about English Cooking, English Food and English Recipes, Feb. 2005
Knight, Emily. "How Indian cuisine has influenced the UK's palate." Cafe Asia, 18 Aug. 2015, 9:09 a.m.
"Posts about British Empire on British Food: A History." British Food: A History

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Cultural Influences on British Cuisine through Colonization

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The question of "What is British cuisine?" has changed multiple times throughout the years. Both the country and the cuisine have become hubs for diversity, inclusion, and the mixing of cultural differences. What started as the British Empire's search for new ingredients led to the introduction of new tastes, flavors, and dishes into the country's own classic cuisines.

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Commonplace and out-of-place diversities in London and Tokyo: migrant-run eateries as intercultural third places - Comparative Migration Studies

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In global cities such as London and Tokyo, there are neighbourhoods where ethnic, religious, cultural and other forms of diversity associated with migration are commonplace and others where migrants are regarded as unusual or even out-of-place. In both types of contexts, migrant-run eateries are spa…

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Storry, M. (2000) in British cultural identities. London: Routledge, pp. 257–269.

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Storry, M. (2000) in British cultural identities. London: Routledge, pp. 257–269.

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British food from the Romans to Sunday roast dinners, fish and chips and the great British curry!

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Last month, Angela Hartnett went on Desert Island Discs and said that the British don't have a food culture: there are just some people who have money and can afford to pay for good food.

Hartnett is a deity in the culinary pantheon, and is unusual in that she is both a shining star and an eminently sensible person. A woman of such no-nonsense credentials that she laughed in the pock-marked face of Gordon Ramsey, and lived to tell the tale. She takes none of this cheffy, foodie willy-wangling seriously, because it is, after all, "just a plate of carrots".

So I found her comment fascinating, and shaming. It feels true. I feel it as I walk up Islington's Chapel Market on a Sunday, from the farmers' market end to the daily market end. I felt it when I squealed with delight when my partner told me we were getting a Whole Foods at the end of the road, and when I moaned with disappointment when it turned out he was kidding. (We were, in fact, getting a joinery and an HSS Hire.)

I feel it when one of my neighbours at our housing co-op has to sign for my veg box or wine discovery crate, or when the Ocado van pulls up. I feel it when I drop off my food bank donations by the till at Waitrose or, worse, when I get an Uber to take it round in person. In Islington. Islington. Say it twice, for there are indeed two Islingtons.

But it also feels totally untrue. Who is the "we" here? Who are the British of whom we speak? What is this beige buffet of Britishness, class-ist, philistine, pale and bland as white bread?

I find all this talk of class alienating, because I - and I am inherent to any we I can participate in - was raised in a vibrant and class-fluid food culture. I'm sure it combined many diverse aspects of class, wealth and virtue signals, but it did so in such a mishmash that you could not hope to decode it, even with a copy of Debretts and minor public school education. I speak, of course, of the ancestral homeland, the Old Country.

Ilford.

Ilford: unexpectedly foodie. Image: Geograph.co.uk.

Ilford is a London suburb on the Essex/East End border, which, like a reverse Mecca or a shit Jerusalem, unites travellers from across the world in the fervent desire to get the hell out, go mad, or kill everyone. And, like Jerusalem, it has its Jewish, Muslim, and Christian quarters, with further fractions etched out by Hindu, Sikh and Chinese diasporas, waves and tides of 20th century immigration ebbing and lapping on the shores of the Cranbrook Road. It became home to the refugees of innumerable wars and disaster areas: Ugandan Indians, Kurds, Rwandans, Bosnians, Serbs and Croats. And the economic migrants, Nigerians, Polish, Hungarian. It was an Ithaca: a place you had hoped would be journey's end, but was in fact a bit of a disappointment. A rest rather than a new beginning. A bad motherland, to which we are all ambivalently attached.

Say what you like about Ilford, but it is a place where you've been able to find tahini, turmeric and jackfruit since decimalisation. Most of these items, you could buy at any hour of the day or night, and be served by a tiny child who had been left to mind the shop whilst the adults were at second jobs or night school, at the mosque or synagogue, or in prison. Purchase and consumption of these items signified nothing, except the taste of home.

And it really didn't matter whose home. On festivals we would exchange samosas or jalebi or pierogi or hammantashen or honey cake with our neighbours and drink masala chai three doors down. There is a whole world of dumplings, and a season for each one. We consumed a lot of chicken: fried pieces in boxes, or in a soup lovingly simmered for the precise amount of time to extract the maximum amount of guilt.

On a Sunday mornings you can wander along Barkingside High Street, which is by any normal metric an utter shithole, and join a queue for fresh Sri Lankan curries or Jewish bagels or Italian gelato. There is an egg-free cake shop, British, Halal, Kosher and African butchers and fishmongers. There are four Jewish delis and bakeries, ranging from the glatt to the glitzy. There is no shortage of grilled meat, kebabs, chicken shops, noodle bars. Vast banqueting suites accommodate large celebration meals, and local cooks cater for weddings of some thousand guests, often in marquees in suburban back gardens.

You could accuse us having no culture in Ilford - the cinema long ago became a bingo hall which became a mega-mosque which became flats - but you cannot say we have no food culture.

That said, and without wanting to sound racist against, y'know, white people, I do kind of agree that the British in general have no food culture. I can go to the house of any of my Indian, Spanish, Russian, Polish, Israeli, Nigerian, West Indian, or Scandinavian friends, safe in the knowledge and mutual understanding that I am going to be fed. And time and again I have been baffled and outraged by friends (only ever the white, British ones; and the whiter and more British they are the more likely this is to happen) turning up at my house, having already eaten, as if I wasn't going to feed them like foie gras geese from the moment they arrived to the second they left.

Food is my culture. I feel a twitch on the end of each strand of my DNA, like the taste of madeleines on a thousand foreign tongues. I feel it in my bones and the bones of my ancestors as they dissolve into distant soil: come, sit, eat.

A London curry house in action. Image: Getty.

In Pygmalion, Professor Henry Higgins boasts that he can pinpoint here a person is from by listening to the way they talk. "I can place any man within six miles. I can place him within two miles in London. Sometimes within two streets." I once had a linguistics tutor pull the same trick on me. It was creepy.

But I would defy him to do the same thing now. Talk to a young Londoner. The ubiquity of Multicultural London English is a great leveller. On the top deck of the bus, you can't tell the schools apart. And whilst there is a huge gulf between rich and poor, and the extremes of both in this capital are truly horrifying, there is a Multicultural London way of speaking.

There is a Multicultural London way of eating, too. In the centre of town, and in the places where being Minority Ethnic is not a minority position, there is a London Multicultural Food Culture which is divorced from class. An immigrant, diasporic, food culture. A sense of the importance and significance of food and meals and flavours. An appreciation of our own and your neighbours' diverse food heritage. A love of the marketplace and the communal table. An ear for languages where foreign is the same word as guest and friend. The importance, virtue, culture, and significance of hospitality.

Also, to be honest, some asshole's going to sprinkle sumac and pomegranate seeds on your kebab wherever you are, from Ilford to Islington. What you are prepared to pay for it, in what environs, and with what brand of soap in the bogs, is another story. And this is where the the conversation goes full circle: if you have no food culture, but you do have money, you can afford to buy one in, from the Connaught or Ottolenghi or Whole Foods or Deliveroo or Blue Apron or the DietChef.

Maybe I'm guilty of over-romanticising the immigrant food experience. The food of poverty, the bread of affliction, the cheap cuts of meat, the over-reliance of sweet treats, the economic and social impoverishment of generations of immigrant women slaving over hot stoves to feed the family on a pittance whilst the neighbours turn up their noses. We should talk of the dietary diseases more prevalent amongst People of Colour and second generation immigrants. We should talk of the chicken shops around the school gates. We should talk about the amounts of money spent on marketing crap food at kids and the totally other amounts of money being spent on school meals, home economics lessons, growing spaces, playgrounds. We should talk about those food banks.

My partner is from white, British working class stock. They do things differently there. I now too turn up Having Already Eaten, because I learnt the hard way: line your stomach, or you'll end up singing/falling over/throwing a chair/throwing up/getting naked by 3pm at a Romford wake because you assumed that lunch would be served. It's only five miles from Ilford and Romford, but it may as well be 500 or 5000.

I don't know what they make of me and my food. Foreign muck? Posh nosh? Do I give off wafts of a different culture entirely, like the tell-tale scent of frying onions and or slow-cooked sabbath cholent? Like the banquet of curry smells from next door when all their kids are home from university, the eye-watering wince of vinegar being boiled for pickles, or the uric tang of a hot pho pot bubbling away two doors down or the unseasonal barbecue from the house behind, a familiar-unfamiliar meat, like mutton or goat?

Throw the windows of your semi in Ilford open on a spring morning and you'll get waves of bacon, chai, cholla bread. And the sounds of TVs in a dozen languages, and music in a dozen different keys, and Sikh builders shouting at Polish builders, and the soft shoe shuffle of the Lubovitchers and the revving engines of the rudeboys before we all go home for Sunday lunch.

Sunday lunch: maybe that's something we can all agree on. That you should have a Sunday lunch with your mum or your auntie or your nan and whoever else is around. You gather at table, at your folks' house or the Toby Carvery or your uncle's restaurant, with a mountain of roast beef or bags full of bagels and plastic containers from the deli or six different curries and chutneys, with the old folks telling the same story for the hundredth time, and the ageless bickering of siblings and the screaming of babies. Maybe we can agree on the Great British Sunday Lunch, whatever the menu, as our shared food culture.

Leave room for pudding.

Sara Doctors writes about food and culture, and tweets as @UnusualSara. A version of this article first appeared on her .

This article is from the CityMetric archive: some formatting and images may not be present.

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"The British have no food culture" - but London's multicultural suburbs do

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Last month, Angela Hartnett went on Desert Island Discs and said that the British don't have a food culture: there are just some people who have money and can afford to pay for good food. Hartnett is a deity in the culinary pantheon, and is unusual in that she is both a shining star and an eminently sensible person.

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These are photos I took when I have flied trips in these markets