by Ben Fogle
The tea room was picture-postcard perfection as I moved from table to table, carrying tiers of sandwiches and scones and trays of brewing tea.
I wonder what kind of people still take afternoon tea? ‘We had Russell Brand not long ago,’ Jen told me as she glided elegantly to one of the tables. Does that make afternoon tea ironic or iconic?
Of course, there would be no afternoon tea without the revered leaves themselves.
When I think of tea, the song ‘Everything Stops for Tea’ automatically starts playing in my head. It’s one of the songs that helped the British through the Second World War, the Blitz etc …
Every nation in creation has its favourite drink
France is famous for its wine, it’s beer in Germany
Turkey has its coffee and they serve it blacker than ink
Russians go for vodka and England loves its tea
Oh, the factories may be roaring
With a boom-a-lacka, zoom-a-lacka, wee
But there isn’t any roar when the clock strikes four
Everything stops for tea
Oh, a lawyer in the courtroom
In the middle of an alimony plea
Has to stop and help ’em pour when the clock strikes four
Everything stops for tea.
It’s a very good English custom
Though the weather be cold or hot
When you need a little pick-up, you’ll find a little tea cup
Will always hit the spot
You remember Cleopatra
Had a date to meet Mark Antony at three
When he came an hour late she said ‘You’ll have to wait’
For everything stops for tea.
Oh, they may be playing football
And the crowd is yelling ‘Kill the referee!’
But no matter what the score, when the clock strikes four
Everything stops for tea.
Oh, the golfer may be golfing
And is just about to make a hole-in-three
But it always gets them sore when the clock yells ‘four!’
Everything stops for tea.
It’s a very good English custom
And a stimulant for the brain
When you feel a little weary, a cup’ll make you cheery
And it’s cheaper than champagne
Now I know just why Franz Schubert
Didn’t finish his unfinished symphony
He might have written more but the clock struck four
And everything stops for tea.
Tea is the most quintessential of English drinks, but it only really arrived in the mid-seventeenth century, much later than you might expect. And, strangely, it was the London coffee houses that were responsible for spreading the word about tea to England. One of the first tea merchants was Thomas Garway, who owned a house in Exchange Alley. He sold both liquid and dry tea to the public as early as 1657, but the prices were outlandish – between sixteen and fifty shillings per pound. Even so, tea soon gained popularity and by 1700 over five hundred coffee houses served it.
It has been estimated that 84 per cent of the British population drink tea every day. That works out at 165 million cups a day or 60.2 billion cups of tea a year; an average of 900 cups for every man, woman and child per year, or three cups a day. Yikes. That really is a lot of tea.
Typhoo, Tetley, PG Tips, Yorkshire Tea, Twinings … all are iconic English brands of tea, but what you may not realize is the art that goes into making the perfect cuppa. Behind all the great English teas is the hidden army of ‘tea tasters’ who, depending on your attitude towards tea, might have the best jobs in the world. Indeed a recent job advertisement for Tetley tea described it as ‘the best job in the country, but one that few know exists’.
I first learned about tea tasting when I went to spend a day with Typhoo’s master blender in their factory in the Wirral.
Tea is a natural crop, which means there is always variety between different harvests; which in turn means that the taste of the leaves will change. The tea manufacturer must constantly adjust and tweak the recipe for each bag to ensure consistency and ‘brand taste’. This makes tea tasting as demanding on the palate as wine tasting or whisky blending.
Across the world, every day, from East Africa to Sri Lanka and China, tea plantations harvest their precious leaves and send the bales to huge tea markets, upon which buyers from across the globe descend to buy the leaves. The key is ensuring the correct mix of leaves are bought to ensure the perfect blend, and this is where the ‘master taster’ comes into their own. Every day they must sip, slurp and swirl hundreds of varieties of tea, in tiny samples couriered in from across the globe before they come to auction. It is a race against both time and fellow tea companies to ensure a ready supply of the right blend of tea leaves.
You see, to the connoisseur, tea really is like wine: the soil, rainfall, even the gradient of the hill can affect the flavour of the leaves. Any change in the weather will alter the taste. Even tea that comes from the same bush will vary in flavour over time. We Brits are pretty fussy when it comes to tea and our highly refined taste buds can detect even the subtlest of inconsistencies; therefore the blenders must perform their magic to create a perfect consistent blend, using thousands of different leaves from all corners of the globe.
When I arrived at the Typhoo factory I was shown into a huge room that looked like a cross between an old school kitchen and a science lab. On the benches there were more than a hundred cups. At the end of the room were two huge industrial gas stoves, on which stood the same metal kettles for boiling water that have been used for decades. It’s all about consistency.
I stood next to the counter with the hundreds of cups and little sachets of tea leaves next to them, each one with a market code. Each cup of tea has a slightly different colour and cloudiness, although appearance is just one aspect of a multi-sensory experience. The taster is looking for impact, liveliness, and zestiness. My mind boggled at the idea of drinking hundreds of cups of tea each day, until I realized they merely slurp a tiny sample from a spoon, the same spoon that has been used – again for consistency – for many years.
‘Slurp it into your mouth so you can feel the consistency and texture,’ the taster tells me. ‘Look at the sparkle. Is it thick or thin?’ he asks, while peering into the cup. We swirl the tea in our mouths and feel the flavour.
As with wine, the art is in the way the leaves are tasted. ‘Don’t swill the tea too much,’ the taster insists, after I have already gargled it like mouthwash. The key is in the spit; this is when you get the full impact of the flavour.
The provenance of the teas plays a large part in the flavour. Sri Lankan is citrus and floral, while Indonesian tea can be spicy and even sulphuric-tasting, possibly as result of the volcanic soil in which the tea plant grows.
The blending must also factor in the international variations of taste. In the same way that chocolate will be made with varying amounts of sugar, milk and cocoa according to the part of the world it’s being manufactured for and the corresponding variations in sweet tooth, tea also changes. The English prefer a smooth flavour, for example, while the Australians like a bitter tea. Tea bags must be altered according to the export market.
As we work our way up the long counter, sipping dozens of samples of tea, I marvel at the taster’s descriptions, which range from yeasty to fruity. There are more than 2,500 tea plantations across the world and a tea taster will often sample anything from 200 to 1,000 cups a day. Careful notes are taken with each sip as the team of tasters move along the benches. To taste is to understand the philosophy of tea and how it should be served. For example, black tea must be piping hot when tasted; the tea must not be diluted with milk as this takes possession of the tea’s properties and flavours. Green and fruity teas must be tasted once the temperature has cooled down; this allows one to evaluate the fresh, floral flavours.
So precious are the tea tasters to this billion-pound business that one tea manufactur
er recently insured the tastebuds of its master blender for £1 million, about the same sum as Heidi Klum’s legs. The company values its tasters so highly that, like the royal family, they are not allowed to travel on the same plane together for fear of losing a whole generation of tasters and the secrets of the perfect char.
I wonder what he drinks between tastings, on his tea break.
‘Tea, of course.’
So we now know what goes into the bag, but we still have the age-old question of how to brew the perfect cuppa.
According to the most recent scientific study of tea-making (only in England would scientists spend time researching tea-making rather than, say, studying cancer), the most important factor, it seems, is patience. After exhaustive testing, scientists discovered that the key to the best-tasting brew is to let it sit for six minutes before drinking. A university research team spent more than 180 hours testing volunteers with hundreds of cups of tea. They concluded that the best method was to add boiling water to a tea bag in a mug and to leave the bag for two minutes. They then suggested removing the bag before adding milk and leaving it to rest for a further six minutes until it reached the optimal temperature of 60°C; leave it any longer and it drops below 45°C destroying the flavour.
Of course, everyone has their own idea on how to make the perfect cuppa. For Jamie Oliver, for, example, it is all about the vessel from which you drink the tea. I agree that getting the right cup is important. Never use plastic as the tannins stick to the side of the cup; don’t use metal as the tea will taste metallic. While most might assume ceramic is best, this can be too porous, allowing the tea to cool down too quickly. Jamie suggests a porcelain cup, just as the Chinese used to serve their tea.
According to Twinings, it is about the water. They suggest always using freshly drawn, filtered, cold water in the kettle. The tea loves oxygen, which can help it develop a deep flavour; and you must never reboil water that has been boiled already. Then of course you must choose between an electric kettle and gas-heated water, but that’s a whole different subject.
Kate Fox, in her excellent anthropological study Watching the English, noted that the strongest black tea is drunk by the working class, while the brew gets progressively weaker as you move up the social ladder. She observes that even milk and sweeteners have their own codes:
‘Taking sugar in your tea is regarded by many as an infallible lower class indicator: even a spoonful is a bit suspect (unless you were born before 1955); more than one and you are lower middle at best; more than two and you are defiantly working class.’ According to one recent study, 98 per cent of tea is taken with milk.
According to Fox, ‘Tea-making is the perfect displacement activity: whenever the English feel awkward or uncomfortable in a social situation, they make tea.’ It reminds me of the famous Second World War poster, ‘If in Doubt Brew Up’. Tea, like the weather, is a cornerstone of English culture and society. It is the first thing you will be offered when you enter someone’s house. ‘Oh it’s cold, would you like a cup of tea?’ ‘Oh it’s hot, how about a cup of tea?’
Tea acts as a unifier, breaking down social barriers. Of course, there has been the slow creep of Americanization and we will sometimes hear the addition, ‘Or would you prefer coffee?’ But any Englishman or woman worth their salt will offer a cup of char.
A close contender to the cuppa is the pint, our other national drink.
The pub is a quintessential ingredient of our national identity. If you don’t have a local then you haven’t lived. ‘When you have lost your inns, drown your empty selves, for you will have lost the last of England,’ said Hilaire Belloc in 1912. The pub is a uniquely British institution – a place to drink beer, wine, cider or spirits and to enable people to meet. The 50,000 or so pubs in the British Isles are often the centre of community life – in cities, towns, villages and rural hamlets – and contribute significantly to the sum of the nation’s happiness. A British pub or boozer is uniquely social compared to European or North American bars. The pub is a place people go to chat to others, and it therefore plays a huge role in social cohesion.
We have the Romans to thank for our beloved local. When the Roman army invaded, they brought with them the idea of shops by the roadside that sold wine. They adapted these to cater to our local taste for ale or beer – the Latin word for these shops was taberna, which was corrupted to ‘tavern’. The popularity of taverns never looked back. King Edgar, who was on the throne around AD 970, introduced drinking restrictions including a limit to the number of taverns, or alehouses as they were now also called, in a town or village; he allegedly bought in a maximum quantity that could be drunk by a villager. This was called a ‘peg’ and led to the expression ‘to take someone down a peg or two’. A wish in government to restrict our drinking habits has a familiar ring to it.
As people became more mobile, moving around the country on horses or in carriages, inns sprang up offering accommodation as well as food and drink. These three institutions (alehouses, taverns and inns) were given the collective name ‘public houses’ at some point in the sixteenth century, and that of course was rapidly shortened to ‘pub’.
It’s one of those facts that always surprises me, but beer was the staple drink throughout this period because the water was unsafe to drink. So it was normal for everyone – including children – to drink beer for breakfast. Even when tea and coffee were introduced, they were so expensive that ale continued to be the national drink for many years. When spirits arrived, in the form of gin from Holland and brandy from France, the extra potency of these drinks caused huge public order problems, which King George II tried to control with the Gin Acts of 1736 and 1751. He was perhaps more successful than anyone before or since, reducing consumption by three-quarters and sobering up the population before the disorder got completely out of hand.
Since then, the pub has been a staple of our social lives and has been woven into this country’s and the world’s history. For example, Karl Marx drafted The Communist Manifesto above the Red Lion in Great Windmill Street in London; Sir Thomas More was tried in a pub in Staines; the discovery of the structure of DNA was announced by Francis Crick and James Watson at the Eagle in Cambridge; and the Bell in Peterborough was the first pub to sell Stilton cheese, when the owner (in the 1720s) paired it with beer and the combination ensured the success of the cheese.
Pub names themselves are familiar, comforting, entertaining and sometimes disturbing. For example, the name of the Dog & Duck refers to an old sport where dogs chased a duck that had had its wings clipped. (I told you we create sports out of whatever is to hand!) The Three-Legged Mare was actually a gallows that could hang three people at a time. The Red Lion (the second-most popular pub name after The Crown) refers to the heraldic red lion of Scotland, which James I (James VI of Scotland) insisted be displayed on all buildings of importance when he assumed the throne from Elizabeth I. Naturally the pub was a place of great importance, and James felt that it would remind his English subjects that the Scots were now in power. Likewise the White Horse is named after the sign of the House of Hanover.
The Dolphin meanwhile displays pride in English military achievements. Dolphin actually comes from the French Dauphin – we have always had problems pronouncing French words – and the pubs commemorate victories over France. There is a Dolphin pub in Wellington, Somerset that celebrates the win at the Battle of Waterloo. Others like the Three Tuns and the Brewers refer to livery companies. Pub names take inspiration from anything, and it’s that which gives them such a rich variety.
Our two national drinks are still going strong.
England is a country fuelled on tea and grog.
CONCLUSION
I am on the edge of a cricket green in Oxfordshire watching my child race around in cricket whites. There is a waft of freshly cut grass and the unmistakable sound of leather against wood as the cricket ball thuds against the willow bat. Behind us a couple of rowers are sculling quietly down the Thames, while a few peop
le walk their dogs and a family of swans glide along.
It is a picture-postcard image of Englishness. When I am in faraway places, this is how I see my nation. Green grass and weeping willows; cricket whites and cream teas; picnic rugs and hampers. Clichéd? Perhaps, but that doesn’t make it any less real. It is a projection of what it means to be English, a timelessness borne out in art, literature and film, a distillation of our hopes and aspirations
I am from the British Isles, I hold a UK passport. I am European and I’m a part (just) of the European Union. I am British but I am also English. I hold a Canadian passport and my grandfather was born in Scotland. It’s confusing.
I drive a Land Rover and have a labrador retriever. I wear a cloth cap, a Barbour and I am obsessed with the weather. I listen to The Archers and the Shipping Forecast on Radio 4. I love Marmite, tea and Digestive biscuits. I own a pair of cords and I enjoy fish and chips. I grew up on a diet of Enid Blyton and Roald Dahl and was inspired by the derring-do of the Boys’ Own adventures, by the great heroics of Scott and Shackleton.
Yet some parts of being English make me feel queasy. I would never fly the St George’s cross, preferring the idea of the Union flag. The St George’s cross has become a symbol of jingoistic nationalism. Even our English rugby team prefers to use the English rose rather than the red and white flag. We hide our Englishness, and that is something you don’t find anywhere else in the world.
But, then again, nothing about Englishness is straightforward. We are a people of contradictions and juxtapositions. A nation of contrary oddities.
When did we get a complex about our identity?