Gentleman's (and Poacher's) Relish

Gentleman’s Relish!  It sounds more like the title of an erotic serial publication (‘porn mag’ to you) from the seventies than a spread.

 

Just as Poachers Relish sounds more like a nocturnal knee-trembler with a milkmaid up against a stout oak that a tasty toast topping.

Both sound more like foodstuffs likely to be encountered in literature published in the 1920’s than encountered, never mind consumed, in real life.  However, they are available in real life, via Fortnum & Masons food hall.

And both are pleasingly tasty, but then I’ve always been the sort of chap that favours the savoury – a pickle, a pork pie and a smile, that’s me – over the sweet (although obviously the glove compartment of the car is stuffed with confectionary).  The Poacher’s Relish, essentially ground game, was something of a pokey surprise, like essence of mince.  Gentleman’s Relish is the piscine alternative, a spiced anchovy paste and an excellent way of bolting fish like a pelican, or accessing anchovies if you are tired of pizza.

Both come with cultural baggage.  Consuming either, spread thinly on toast, gives one a not unpleasant sense that you are setting yourself up for a day that is going to involve a pregnant maid, a butler out of control in the pantry, trouble at the hunt and, probably, the baffling murder of at least one houseguest, precipitating the arrival of an eccentric detective. 

You don’t get that with marmite.

It’s good to overcome class prejudices and try new things, even if a trip to the penguin enclosure is inadvisable following consumption of anchovy paste.  There are certain foods associated with certain groups and we shouldn’t be afraid of trying pies just because they are consumed by footie fans, or fried chicken just because it’s – based on my observations of the clientele orbiting the various chicken franchises at the rough end of town, not to mention an entire routine by teevee funnyman Mickey Flannigan – favoured by delinquents.  And I’ve been known to involve a kebab.  They are very tasty, you don’t actually need to drink for seven hours beforehand to appreciate a good kebab.  Obviously you do if you want to enjoy a bad kebab, but those are the rules.

Some foods just have a class association, there’s no getting away from it.  Anything served by a footman, killed (intentionally) on your own estate or pulled from your own river, or indeed all three, and it’s probably upper class nosh.  Anything served in a wrapper, probably not so much.  Of course there are foods that defy classification, anything grown in the garden or allotment is surely fit for a King, every Englishman’s home being his castle, so every Englishman’s garden is his estate and every Englishman’s allotment is…well actually it’s a place to get away from the wife and to stash porn in the shed while cultivating carrots, but for the purposes of this metaphor let’s describe it as his small place in Tuscany.