In Jack Vance’s wonderful science fiction story The Killing Machine, his hero Kerth Gerson visits an area of a city inhabited by a people called the ‘Sandusk’, notorious for their cuisine:
The air of Ard Court smelled richly indeed, with a heavy sweet-sour organic reek that distended the nostrils. Gersen grimaced and went to the shop from which the odours seemed to emanate. Taking a deep breath and bowing his head, he entered. To right and left were wooden tubs, containing pastes, liquids, and submerged solids; overhead hung rows of withered blue-green objects the size of a man's fist. At the rear, behind a counter stacked with limp pink sausages stood a clown-faced youth of twenty, wearing a patterned black and brown smock, a black velvet headkerchief. He leaned upon the counter without spirit or vitality, and without expression watched Gersen sidle past the tubs.
"You're a Sandusker?" asked Gersen.
"What else?" This was spoken in a tone Gersen could not identify, a complex mood of many discords: sad pride, whimsical malice, insolent humility. The youth asked, "You wish to eat?"
Gersen shook his head. "I am not of your religion."
"Ha ho!" said the youth. "You know Sandusk then?"
"Only at second-hand."
The youth smiled. "You must not believe that old foolish story, that we Sanduskers are religious fanatics who eat vile food rather than flagellate ourselves. It is quite incorrect. Come now. Are you a fair man?"
Gersen considered. "Not unusually so."
The youth went to one of the tubs, dipped up a wad of glistening black-crusted maroon paste. "Taste! Judge for yourself! Use your mouth rather than your nose!"
Gersen gave a fatalistic shrug, tasted. The inside of his mouth seemed first to tingle, then expand. His tongue coiled back in his throat.
"Well?" asked the youth.
"If anything," said Gersen at last, "it tastes worse than it smells."
The youth sighed. "Such is the general consensus."
The general consensus is that English food was in the past not far removed from that of the Sanduskers, although things are thought to have improved in recent decades with food introduced by South Asians, Europeans and others. My memories of food from the 1950s are different - there was certainly a lack of variety, but the food (at least that cooked by my mother) was tasty and nourishing. When I was at primary school, each day began with porridge and milk. At lunchtime, I would walk home and have dinner, which usually comprised meat and two veg, followed by a pudding such as apple pie and custard. I would then walk back to school. After school, I would have tea, which might be poached eggs on toast. A bit later, my father would cycle home from work, and would sit in the kitchen having his dinner (the main course of which he flavoured heavily with brown sauce). We would all eat supper together. This was a snack just before bedtime, and always comprised toast and a cup of tea.
Sundays were different. We would start the day with a vast fried breakfast. This would be followed in mid-morning with coffee (the only coffee we had all week). This was made from instant coffee with milk. At about 1pm, we would have our dinner, which was usually roast meat with roast potatoes and sundry boiled vegetables in season. My father would have sausages instead because he disliked the appearance of meat. Pudding might be a sponge or apple pie with custard. In the evening, tea would be a salad. This was never chopped or dressed, although there might be a sweet salad cream available. Supper was as usual.
Despite considerable amounts of food, we did not become obese or otherwise unhealthy. This was probably because we walked everywhere, played in the street until it got dark, and watched very little television. The state rations of orange juice and cod liver oil probably also helped.
Since those days, I have led a less healthy lifestyle. I do, however, eat food from many different cuisines, much of it frozen, processed, or transported long distances. I have, like many English people, also become utterly confused about what to call the meals I eat. Words like ‘dinner’, ‘supper’, ‘tea’ (including its ‘high’ or ‘afternoon’ variants), ‘lunch’ and ‘luncheon’ seem to mean different things to different people.‘Dinner’ now seems to be any sizeable meal whenever it is eaten, although this rule does not apply to Sundays, when local pubs advertise a ‘Sunday lunch’ of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. In despair, I now use the phrases ‘midday meal’ and ‘evening meal’ in conversations to enhance mutual understanding. Everybody seems to understand what a breakfast is, although what we eat at that meal varies greatly. Still, on Sundays I still eat a big fried breakfast with a roast dinner later. Some traditions never die.
Vance J (1967) The Killing Machine. Glasgow: Grafton Books.
See also Dining in Yuppieland
The air of Ard Court smelled richly indeed, with a heavy sweet-sour organic reek that distended the nostrils. Gersen grimaced and went to the shop from which the odours seemed to emanate. Taking a deep breath and bowing his head, he entered. To right and left were wooden tubs, containing pastes, liquids, and submerged solids; overhead hung rows of withered blue-green objects the size of a man's fist. At the rear, behind a counter stacked with limp pink sausages stood a clown-faced youth of twenty, wearing a patterned black and brown smock, a black velvet headkerchief. He leaned upon the counter without spirit or vitality, and without expression watched Gersen sidle past the tubs.
"You're a Sandusker?" asked Gersen.
"What else?" This was spoken in a tone Gersen could not identify, a complex mood of many discords: sad pride, whimsical malice, insolent humility. The youth asked, "You wish to eat?"
Gersen shook his head. "I am not of your religion."
"Ha ho!" said the youth. "You know Sandusk then?"
"Only at second-hand."
The youth smiled. "You must not believe that old foolish story, that we Sanduskers are religious fanatics who eat vile food rather than flagellate ourselves. It is quite incorrect. Come now. Are you a fair man?"
Gersen considered. "Not unusually so."
The youth went to one of the tubs, dipped up a wad of glistening black-crusted maroon paste. "Taste! Judge for yourself! Use your mouth rather than your nose!"
Gersen gave a fatalistic shrug, tasted. The inside of his mouth seemed first to tingle, then expand. His tongue coiled back in his throat.
"Well?" asked the youth.
"If anything," said Gersen at last, "it tastes worse than it smells."
The youth sighed. "Such is the general consensus."
The general consensus is that English food was in the past not far removed from that of the Sanduskers, although things are thought to have improved in recent decades with food introduced by South Asians, Europeans and others. My memories of food from the 1950s are different - there was certainly a lack of variety, but the food (at least that cooked by my mother) was tasty and nourishing. When I was at primary school, each day began with porridge and milk. At lunchtime, I would walk home and have dinner, which usually comprised meat and two veg, followed by a pudding such as apple pie and custard. I would then walk back to school. After school, I would have tea, which might be poached eggs on toast. A bit later, my father would cycle home from work, and would sit in the kitchen having his dinner (the main course of which he flavoured heavily with brown sauce). We would all eat supper together. This was a snack just before bedtime, and always comprised toast and a cup of tea.
Sundays were different. We would start the day with a vast fried breakfast. This would be followed in mid-morning with coffee (the only coffee we had all week). This was made from instant coffee with milk. At about 1pm, we would have our dinner, which was usually roast meat with roast potatoes and sundry boiled vegetables in season. My father would have sausages instead because he disliked the appearance of meat. Pudding might be a sponge or apple pie with custard. In the evening, tea would be a salad. This was never chopped or dressed, although there might be a sweet salad cream available. Supper was as usual.
Despite considerable amounts of food, we did not become obese or otherwise unhealthy. This was probably because we walked everywhere, played in the street until it got dark, and watched very little television. The state rations of orange juice and cod liver oil probably also helped.
Since those days, I have led a less healthy lifestyle. I do, however, eat food from many different cuisines, much of it frozen, processed, or transported long distances. I have, like many English people, also become utterly confused about what to call the meals I eat. Words like ‘dinner’, ‘supper’, ‘tea’ (including its ‘high’ or ‘afternoon’ variants), ‘lunch’ and ‘luncheon’ seem to mean different things to different people.‘Dinner’ now seems to be any sizeable meal whenever it is eaten, although this rule does not apply to Sundays, when local pubs advertise a ‘Sunday lunch’ of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. In despair, I now use the phrases ‘midday meal’ and ‘evening meal’ in conversations to enhance mutual understanding. Everybody seems to understand what a breakfast is, although what we eat at that meal varies greatly. Still, on Sundays I still eat a big fried breakfast with a roast dinner later. Some traditions never die.
Vance J (1967) The Killing Machine. Glasgow: Grafton Books.
See also Dining in Yuppieland
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