by Erin Moore
The class calculator released to the public (although apparently derived from research conducted privately with much longer questionnaires) based its scores on only five questions. The first three were measures of cold, hard cash: income, renting vs. owning a home (and of what value), and amount of savings. The final two questions in the class calculator—preferred leisure activities and the variety of professions within one’s social circle—were not weighted heavily enough to counteract the influence of the crass cash-flow questions. This was controversial because the English consider how much money one has a weak indicator of class—how it was acquired and what one chooses to do with it matter far more. I experimented by giving identical answers for the “friends” and “culture” questions, varying only my answers to the financial questions, and was assessed at nearly opposite ends of the spectrum: first “Elite” and then “Emergent Service Worker.” So it’s easy to see why the class calculator was considered a blunt instrument by many.
A majority of both Americans and English people describe themselves as middle-class. However, as we have seen, just because they use the same words doesn’t mean that Americans and the English are thinking the same way. In America, the middle class is more an economic category than a state of mind, and membership in it is not predicated on as many complicated and specific class markers. Where Americans shop, what they buy, and how they entertain themselves are only mild predictors of whether they will identify as middle-class. The same is not true in England, where membership in the middle class is more dependent upon being the product of specific types of families and schools, and the shared tastes that one develops as a result.
The artist Grayson Perry, in his documentary All in the Best Possible Taste, divided the English middle class into two tribes with different preoccupations. Both tribes are defined by their consumption, but whereas one is more about shopping and identifying with known brands (clothing, cars), the other defines itself by education and ideas, primarily consuming culture (performances, exhibits). Members of both tribes share a similar anxiety about appearances and the desire, above all, to be appropriate and “get it right.” In short, both branches of the middle class care deeply what others think and are liable to try too hard—and to disagree strenuously about what signifiers mark the middle.
In my experience these tribes are far from distinct. Both culture and commerce have a place in the middle-class heart, as do peremptory judgments about how others might choose to spend their time and money. But American and English attitudes toward the middle class are very different. In brief, the English middle class likes to make fun of itself, and comes in for a lot of mocking, both good-natured and otherwise, from other classes. In England, making fun of the middles is a national sport. Americans are far more serious—and sentimental—about their middle class. Why? It all comes down to social mobility and self-consciousness.
There is less social mobility in England, so the middle class is more stable and secure from generation to generation. It is seen by outsiders as quite privileged—and possibly more than a little bit smug. Because of this, its members are far less worried about losing their place in society than they are about drawing the enmity of other classes. The middle needs approval to enjoy the spoils of its position (Barbour jackets, cottages in the country, organic produce boxes, fancy cheeses, Range Rovers—aka Chelsea tractors—Farrow & Ball’s twenty shades of white paint, and the like), so they mustn’t ruin it for themselves by boasting or appearing to strive, but instead make themselves as charming and likable as possible. In England, this is achieved through self-deprecation—jokes at one’s own expense. Sharp-eyed observers have noted that at one extreme, this self-deprecation can become boastful, as it shows one is so comfortable, so confident, that one can choose to appear less so. The delicate art of the humble-brag was made for the English middle class.
In England, mocking the middle is a way to distance yourself from it while still enjoying its comforts. Friends of mine who are indisputably among the elite in England, whether by virtue of hard work, birth, or both, are fond of doing down (disparaging) the middle class as if from a lower point on the socioeconomic ladder. It takes on a pejorative ring. “That’s so middle-class,” they’ll snort—meaning boring, bourgeois, predictable, uncool. As one man wrote before taking the BBC class quiz: “If I’m middle class, I’ll fill a 4 x 4 with organic pesto and drown myself.” The English can afford to be lighthearted about their middle class, knowing all the while they form the backbone of the country, providing political and economic stability. As David Boyle pointed out in The Guardian, “Without the middle classes there is no hope for the poor either . . . The alternative to a thriving middle class is a new tyranny by the few who own everything.” As an American reading this, I felt a queasy sense of recognition. Many Americans fear that this is exactly the direction the US economy is taking, and their fears seem justified.
In America, where there is no proscription against hustle, and birth to a certain kind of family is no guarantee, people aspire very earnestly to join the middle class, and those on the inside actively fear falling out. This is a real possibility. According to a recent survey by Pew, the number of Americans self-identifying as lower-class or lower-middle-class increased by 25 percent between 2008 and 2012. The greatest increase was among the young. Americans between the ages of eighteen and twenty-nine, having come of age in a recession, were far more likely to place themselves in the lower brackets. Three-quarters of Americans said that it was harder to advance than it had been a decade ago, and parents no longer believed that their children would grow up to live better than they did.
These anxieties are central to life in America now. The middle class is the country’s largest political interest group, and politicians both liberal and conservative constantly appeal to it, defining it even more broadly than demographers would—beyond a mere income category. The term middle class has become symbolic of aspiration itself. During the last presidential election, in a campaign stop in Parma, Ohio, President Obama made it clear that his personal definition included the poor: “I want to say . . . that when I talk about the middle class, I’m also talking about poor folks that are doing the right thing and trying to get to the middle class. The middle class is also an attitude. It’s not just about income, it’s about knowing what’s important . . . your values and being responsible and looking after each other and giving back.” It is essential that an American politician appear as middle-class as possible, and bring as many voters into that circle as he or she can, because belonging to the middle class is the right thing to aspire to.
In England, politicians have a difficult balancing act. They, too, must appeal to the middle-class majority, but they must do it while trying not to appear too middle-class themselves. They would risk alienating not only working-class voters, but also many in the middle who roll their eyes at inherited privilege even as they enjoy it themselves. Because in England, membership in the Establishment carries not only positive connotations, like working hard, wanting the best for one’s children, and stretching culturally, but also uneasy ones, like the possibility of the better-off conspiring against the worse. Lawrence James, in The Middle Class: A History, gives evidence that audible trappings of status have lapsed. Politicians who have been to private school and “Oxbridge” (Oxford or Cambridge universities) typically hide their posh accents to avoid charges of condescension because “in public life it is now a handicap to sound even remotely like Bertie Wooster.” The last fifty years have seen the rise of not only Margaret Thatcher, who never let anyone forget she was a greengrocer’s daughter, but Ted “Grocer” Heath and John Major—the first prime minister not to have attended college (or, as the English say, “gone to university”). In fact, David Cameron is the first Tory toff (member of the upper class) England has elected prime minister in a generation.
In England, because class is so much more than an income category, it usually takes more than one generation for a fam
ily to achieve true class mobility. A family might earn enough to place them in the middle, but lingering working-class accents and tastes can be a sign that their roots—and refusal to put on airs that would be seen through anyway—are a source of pride. The desire of members of the English middle class to appear less posh has even given rise to “mockney”—a fake Cockney accent used by middles to downplay their origins and borrow some working-class cred. Tom Heyden, a twenty-five-year-old university graduate from a London suburb, writing in response to the class calculator, admitted most of his school friends did this. “I went to a private school. It wasn’t the type of school with Downton Abbey accents. Many of the kids talked more like the crack dealers from gritty dramas.” You aren’t supposed to believe these put-on accents, but you are supposed to buy into the de facto rejection of certain naff (silly) attributes of the middle class, like caring about accents.
I think it’s safe to say that Americans on a similar class journey take on the trappings of the middle class as soon as possible, and with fewer negative social consequences. It helps that these days, although regional distinctions persist in American accents, class distinctions have largely disappeared. (No one in New York today speaks like Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the quintessential New York aristocrat of the early twentieth century.) The middle class in America has historically taken its role as the backbone of the country and the keeper of its ideals very seriously. Yet the middle is shrinking. The fluidity of social mobility in the United States is like a roller coaster—exhilarating when you’re up, and nauseating when you’re down. But the reason the middle class is beloved—not mocked—by those within and without, is that hope springs eternal. If you’re down today, you could be up tomorrow. As James Fallows wrote in the National Journal, “Because I’m middle class, I have something in common with my neighbors and fellow citizens. The United States has been at its best politically and economically when we have viewed other members of society as ‘us’ rather than ‘them.’”
This explains why Americans have always loved Kate Middleton so much, while England was busy resisting her charms until the moment it became clear she was the chosen one. Americans can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t want a middle-class commoner—one of us rather than one of them—for a queen. Interestingly, though, many English women of similar age and class to the Duchess of Cambridge would admit to having, at least once, imagined filling her shoes. “It could have been any one of us,” said an English friend, sounding, for one unguarded moment, like a little girl in a princess dress—or an American. Kate had America at “hello” because, let’s face it: It’s hard to think of a more stylish way to fall out of the middle class.
Moreish
In which we are surprised to discover that the English eat more chocolate than Americans do.
Of all the words Americans have borrowed from the English, words with little cultural congruence, words that make them sound pretentious, or silly, or both (see Cheers), it is surprising the words that have been missed. Words that chime with the American character and would seem right at home. Words that would not make an American sound as if he or she had just returned from a junior year abroad. One such word is moreish, an adjective describing the quality of certain foods that makes one want to keep eating them. But you wouldn’t say, “That sous vide pigeon with morel reduction is really moreish,” even if you thought so. Because this word is really more about movie popcorn, salted peanuts, chocolate-covered raisins, malted milk balls . . . No word implies the hand in the snack packet quite like moreish. So why don’t Americans have this word? No one outsnacks an American. Or so I thought, before moving to England.
The English are great snafflers. To snaffle is to eat something quickly, and sometimes without permission. Snaffling is what you do with the last brownie in the breakroom, or the chocolate-covered biscuits that you bought “for the children.” Snaffling is to the kitchen cabinet what foraging is to the wilderness.
If the English snaffle, Americans prefer to mainline their snacks, typically on the run. Unlike the English, Americans do not have much allegiance to set mealtimes. Restaurants serve nonstop. Carryout and to-go containers are masterpieces of engineering. Think mini Oreos that you can pour into your piehole from a twelve-ounce cup. Think “big grab” bags of Cool Ranch Doritos. Or a “go sack” of Smartfood. (Translation for non-Americans: This is a magically delicious cheese-flavored popcorn.) Think chips made in the shape of little shovels, so as to hold a maximum quantity of dip. The equivalent large packages in England will say, in a large, admonishing font, “great for sharing!” or “love-to-share pack.” American snacks may be labeled “family-size” but, conveniently, the size of the family is not specified.
Ironically, it was American snack companies that also pioneered the practice of charging more for far less food, in the form of “100-calorie packs” containing five Cheez-Its or half a dozen creamless Oreo wafers, and if there’s anything more depressing in Snackdom, I don’t want to know. In America there is no middle way. You’re strapping on the feedbag, surrendering to your animal urges, or paying the Nabisco police to help you combat them. Americans like their snacks to come with health claims: low-fat, gluten-free, no trans fats, calcium-enriched, multigrain. They like it so much that one of the most effective diet tips ever marketed in the United States was Michael Pollan’s “avoid food products that make health claims.”
The English aren’t as into health claims as they are the concept of luxury—a word not generally associated with foodstuffs in America. Anything from a bag of granola to a box of chocolates can be labeled as luxury, almost as if to reassure a wary public. If it says luxury, it must be posh nosh. When you consider that, in living memory, potato chips, or crisps, came with a little packet of salt that you had to add yourself, maybe it is not so surprising. The flavoring technology simply didn’t exist. This is why bags of crisps are often labeled “ready salted” in England, even now. It’s as if the manufacturers are saying, “Don’t take these presalted crisps for granted, people.”
Perhaps such privation is what paved the way for the absolute riot of taste combinations that awaits English crisp snafflers today: hog roast, beef and Yorkshire pudding, pickled onion, prawn cocktail, sweet chili, smoky bacon, lamb curry, Worcestershire sauce, and sausage and ketchup flavo(u)rs, just for a start. Americans—who normally view variety as a birthright—nevertheless find this a bit nauseating. They do love their barbecue and sour cream and onion—heck, even a little salt and vinegar from time to time, to mix things up. But beef and lamb flavor? No, thanks. Ask many expat Americans what snack they miss most and they will say Pirate’s Booty, little puffs made from cornmeal and rice, flavored with “aged white cheddar,” and “baked perfectly to pirate standards.” Clearly the English do not know what they are missing and have few pirate standards to speak of.
So you can see that while America and England are both snack-centric cultures, they do not always agree on what is moreish. For example, Americans might be surprised by the variation in social norms about when and how much peanut butter is appropriate to eat. Many Americans consider peanut butter a perfectly reasonable breakfast food, and why not? It probably has as much protein as eggs, and it goes better with syrup. The English don’t necessarily object to peanut butter, but they ingest it in far smaller quantities. The largest jar of peanut butter you could find in an English supermarket would fit cozily inside a child’s shoe. The largest one you would find in America is a gallon-size bucket with a handle, the better to swing it into the back of your minivan. The English generally do not touch peanut butter before noon, but many of them like their toast with Marmite—a sticky brown paste made of yeast extract. Which is grosser? I think we can answer that objectively.
No one believes me when I say it, but the English have a much sweeter sweet tooth than Americans. The cookie, or biscuit, offerings in an English supermarket are as varied as they are in America, but more of them are marketed to adults. Sweets (or swee
ties)—nonchocolate candies—are a lifelong indulgence and, for some, an obsession. Strong flavors are more common than they are in America. (An exception to the rule is Altoids, “The Original Celebrated Curiously Strong Mints,” which originated in eighteenth-century England, and whose nostalgic tins are now made in Chattanooga, Tennessee.) English lemon-and-pear drops (described by Roald Dahl in his memoir, Boy, as “smelling of nail varnish”) could burn the enamel off your teeth. Bendicks Bittermints are Peppermint Patties to a power of ten—in a distinctive dark green–and-gold box that proudly proclaims Bendicks’ Royal Warrant, “By Appointment to Her Majesty the Queen.” Liquorice Allsorts look like little pastel plastic Lego bricks but taste, to the American palate, like purest evil. Aniseed balls are dusky purple and, as advertised, taste like aniseed—another candy it is hard to imagine children going for, but English children do. In America, by contrast, Sour Patch Kids (sweet gummies coated with sour sugar) and Pop Rocks (tiny candies that are carbonated, creating tiny explosions in the mouth) are considered daring, and M&M’s are the bestselling candy.
This is not to say that the English don’t love chocolate, too. They put away about ten kilos per person, per year—roughly twice as much as the average American—and their bestselling bar is Cadbury Dairy Milk. But on the subject of American chocolate, they are united in disgust. The masters of understatement have proclaimed Hershey’s to taste of “cat vomit,” “poo,” and “sour milk.” It is widely known to English expats that even Cadbury-branded chocolate is not safe in America because, as one bitter chocolate-lover put it, “Cadbury made the mistake of letting the disgusting Hershey company of weasels fool around with the recipes . . . in America as part of a marketing and distributing scheme.” It is true that the manufacturing methods are different. A Cadbury Dairy Milk bar contains 23 percent cocoa solids, whereas a Hershey bar contains just 11 percent. The first ingredient in the Dairy Milk is milk; in a Hershey bar, it’s sugar. And, as Julia Moskin reported in The New York Times, although Hershey’s process is a closely guarded secret, “experts speculate that Hershey’s puts its milk through controlled lipolysis,” causing the fatty acids in the milk to break down. This produces “butyric acid, also found in Parmesan cheese and the spit-up of babies . . . a distinctive tang that Americans . . . now expect in chocolate.” To each his own.