Introduction
In Britain, what you eat has long been a powerful signifier of who you are. The ability to serve French champagne instead of local ale, to slather your bread with avocado instead of margarine, to braise lamb instead of frying up spam fritters – these choices place you in the social hierarchy just as effectively as your accent or your alma mater. In Scoff: A History of Food and Class in Britain, historian Pen Vogler argues that the British elite have wielded food as a tool to differentiate themselves and justify their power. But this has come at the cost of a deep inequality in access to healthy, nourishing meals.
The Medieval Origins of Modern Snobbery
Food snobbery has deep roots in Britain, but it was during the medieval period that the consumption of certain foods became firmly entrenched as elite pursuits. Wealthy nobles dined on exotic fare like swan, peacock, and even porpoise, often elaborately adorned with sauces and "subtleties" – intricate sugar sculptures meant to impress guests. Meanwhile, the peasantry subsisted on a monotonous diet of pottage (vegetable soup), dark breads, and the occasional bit of salted pork or fish.
As Vogler points out, "the medieval period established many of the crucial distinctions that would define the food culture of later centuries, most importantly cementing the idea that the rich had a right to a greater variety and quantity of food than the poor." The working class were seen as undeserving of fine dining, their coarse palates and constitutions better suited to cheap, filling grains and offal. This logic would persist well into the modern era.
The Rise and Fall of Elite Eats
Starting in the 16th century, the British empire‘s colonization of much of the globe began to radically reshape the foods available to both rich and poor. Exotic new ingredients like sugar, spices, coffee, tea, and chocolate flooded the market, but their high cost initially restricted them to the nobility. Vogler vividly describes the trend of wealthy women hosting "coffee-clatch" get-togethers to gossip and show off their access to this trendy new beverage.
But as the empire expanded and global trade intensified, these once-exclusive imports became more accessible to the working class. Inevitably, they lost their luster for the elites, who then had to cultivate new rarified tastes. This pattern repeated itself again and again, with foods like:
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Gin: Once a high-class spirit favored for its "medicinal" qualities, gin became associated with the working poor by the 18th century, leading to moral panic about the "Gin Craze" destroying society. The wealthy pivoted to imported French brandy as their drink of choice.
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Lobster: In the 17th and 18th centuries, lobster was so abundant in British waters that it was commonly fed to prisoners and apprentices – a cheap source of protein for the lowest rungs of society. But as overfishing diminished stocks and the railways allowed fresh seafood to be rushed to cities, lobster became a prized delicacy for the rich.
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Curry: Britain‘s colonization of India introduced curry powder to the nation in the 18th century, an instant hit with aristocrats as an exciting, spicy novelty. But by the late 20th century, curry had become firmly established as a working-class takeaway staple – beloved by all, but no longer a marker of refinement.
As Vogler summarizes, "the cultural value put on food in Britain works in a cycle of innovation, imitation and back to innovation." The trickle-down of trends means that "as those in a class perceived ‘beneath you‘ start eating your favourite foods, you will immediately start to look for alternatives."
Etiquette as Exclusion
Beyond just the foods consumed, the British upper class have a long history of using dining etiquette and rituals as covert class markers. In the Victorian era, this reached almost absurd heights, with diners expected to navigate a dizzying array of specialized utensils and inviolable rules. Using the wrong fork for your salad or putting your bread on the wrong side of your plate was an unforgivable faux pas, immediately marking you as unrefined.
Some of these shibboleths have proven surprisingly persistent. Vogler cites the example of how placing milk in your tea cup before or after the tea itself is poured is widely understood to signal your class background. Even the terms used for meals are fraught – historically, the upper classes had "breakfast, luncheon, and dinner", while the lower classes made do with "breakfast, dinner, and tea". Insisting on calling the evening meal "supper" became a way for the elites to set themselves apart.
In the mid-20th century, these class food codes were being carefully policed by self-appointed arbiters of taste like Nancy Mitford, who coined the terms "U and non-U" to distinguish the behaviors of the upper class and the rest. While Mitford and her ilk claimed they were simply defending standards, Vogler argues these "petty differences in terminology were a deliberate ploy to catch out those who didn‘t belong."
Empire and Appropriation
No discussion of British food culture can ignore the legacy of the British Empire, which subjugated much of the world in part to feed the mother country‘s appetites. The Brits plundered the natural resources and labor of the colonies to import an unprecedented array of produce, from tea to sugar to spices. And as Britain became more multicultural through waves of immigration, the nation‘s palate diversified.
But just as with the appropriation of working class cuisines, the popularization of foods from formerly colonized populations has been rife with class tension. The arrival of the first Indian restaurants in the UK in the 19th century was met with fascination from the upper class, but it wasn‘t until a century later that Indian food was widely embraced as a national cuisine – at the same time as denigration of South Asian immigrants was rampant.
As Vogler asserts, "The British love affair with Indian food is a direct product of colonial exploitation. The same society that demanded complete assimilation from immigrants… had no problem cherry-picking the parts of their cuisines that appealed to the British palate." This dynamic continues today, with the trendiest "ethnic" restaurants helmed by white Michelin-starred chefs, and the cuisines of more recent immigrant groups like Somalis excluded from the foodie mainstream.
Inequality on the Plate
Perhaps the most pernicious impact of food classism in Britain is how it has created a two-tiered food system, with serious health consequences for those on the bottom rungs of society. In the 18th and 19th centuries, the rural poor were increasingly forced off the land through the Enclosure Acts, depriving them of access to fresh produce, wild game, and fuel wood for cooking. Instead, they had to rely on meager wages to purchase processed foods like white bread and syrup, leading to widespread malnutrition.
As Vogler makes clear, "the burgeoning of British cities and rise of factory work fundamentally divorced the working class from control over their own diets." In contrast, the Victorian middle class prized home cooking, nutrition, and self-sufficiency, as evidenced by the proliferation of household management manuals emphasizing the preparation of wholesome meals as the duty of a good housewife.
Today, public health experts describe Britain as a "divided food nation," with higher-income groups able to access fresh, nutrient-dense foods while lower-income communities are often confined to highly processed options. The fetishization of "clean eating" and the widespread scorn for those who rely on cheap ready meals and fast food has only deepened the class divide, as journalist Bee Wilson has documented.
A 2018 report by the Food Foundation found that:
- The poorest 10% of UK households would need to spend 74% of their disposable income on food to meet the government‘s recommended Eatwell Guide costs.
- 4 million children in the UK live in households for whom a healthy diet is unaffordable.
- Adults in the most deprived areas are 40% less likely to eat their 5-a-day of fruits and vegetables compared to the least deprived areas.
With the rising cost of living disproportionately impacting the working poor, the ability to eat healthfully is increasingly out of reach for many in Britain. But as Vogler points out, "the cultural politics of food have steered the conversation away from collective solutions to these structural inequities, instead placing the blame on individuals for their own dietary shortcomings."
The Search for Authenticity
One of the dominant trends in the modern British food scene has been the pursuit of authenticity, with the upper middle classes clamoring for rustic, "artisanal" fare that can differentiate them from the industrial food system. This started in the post-war period with Elizabeth David‘s influential cookbooks that introduced Mediterranean ideas of simple, seasonal eating to Brits weary of years of rationing.
Over the following decades, the authenticity obsession took many forms: the Slow Food movement‘s embrace of regional heritage foods, the rise of organic farming as an alternative to Big Ag, the proliferation of farmers markets catering to locavores. More recently, the Instagram-driven fetishization of aesthetically rustic food experiences, from pop-up supper clubs in reclaimed industrial spaces to food trucks hawking globally-inspired street eats, has dominated trendy dining.
On one level, this shift represents an admirable pushback against the processed monoculture peddled by major corporations. Supporting small producers, celebrating culinary traditions, and connecting more deeply with the origins of our food are worthy goals. But Vogler is adept at deconstructing the underlying classism in these trends, revealing how "those with disposable incomes burnish their sense of distinction by what they consume, not just economically but morally."
The pursuit of authentic, ethical eating becomes a form of "culinary capital" that further demarcates class lines – who has the taste, education, and means to source the right kind of whole grains, heirloom vegetables, and grass-fed meats. In 2011, Waitrose managing director Mark Price summed up this mindset when he proclaimed that his upmarket supermarket chain would "slay the myth that the middle classes care only about price. They care about the provenance of their food, not just how much it costs."
Meanwhile, Vogler argues, "the vast majority of Britain is priced out of this bespoke version of good eating." Alternative food movements that romanticize a pre-industrial pastoral ideal ignore the fact that most Britons now live in cities, many in food deserts with severely limited access to the expensive specialty grocers and trendy whole food chains so beloved by food snobs. Truly fixing the inequities in the food system will require systemic changes, not just voting with your pocket book (if you are privileged enough to have a vote).
A Multicultural Culinary Future?
As global immigration to Britain continues apace and younger generations are increasingly "culture omnivores" – as likely to crave curry and kebabs as Yorkshire puddings – some of the traditional class boundaries around food are eroding. In 2012, then-Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg gave a speech in which he enthusiastically declared that a "multicultural Britain" had led to "our national dish" being "a curry rather than fish and chips."
But some worry that the mainstream embrace of "global" cuisine risks flattening cultural differences and reinforcing a white norm, as journalist Sejal Sukhadwala has argued. Too often, immigrant restaurateurs must adapt their offerings to suit a narrow British conception of "foreign" food – toning down bold flavors, eschewing traditional preparations – in order to win acceptance from middle class diners. The enduring popularity of ultra-cheap South Asian curry houses, despite frequent criticism of their exploitative labor practices and adulterated ingredients, shows there is still a way to go before all communities can access good food with dignity.
As historian Panikos Panayi has documented, the incredible diversity of foods now consumed in Britain – from Chinese takeout to Polish kielbasa to Afro-Caribbean jerk chicken – is the direct result of immigration, but this culinary multiculturalism has not always gone hand-in-hand with greater social equality. Perhaps one way forward is to embrace what chef Asma Khan calls "pluralism" in food culture – not a melting pot where everything blends together, but a truly equitable society in which diverse culinary traditions are celebrated side-by-side.
Conclusion
Food has always been deeply entangled with class hierarchies in Britain, as Vogler incisively illuminates. The pursuit of distinction through dining has been an elite preoccupation for centuries, but it has had serious consequences for those on the lower rungs of society, who have endured hunger, malnutrition, and stigma as a result of being excluded from access to healthy, culturally appropriate foods.
While the sands of fashionable cuisine are always shifting, as lobster becomes a luxury only to be supplanted by avocado toast – which is now apparently on the outs with trendsetters – the underlying classism remains constant. Unless we reckon with how food production and consumption in Britain has been shaped by the exploitation of the working classes, the ravages of imperialism, and the corporate takeover of the food system, durable and equitable solutions will remain elusive.
As we look to the future of food in Britain, it‘s clear that the left-behind former factory towns with dilapidated high streets need more than a sleek new artisanal food hall to revitalize their communities; recent immigrants deserve to proudly cook their traditional dishes without having to cater to white middle class tastes; and the swelling ranks of the working poor need public policy solutions that make hearty, healthy meals a right and not a privilege. A sustainable food culture for all is possible, but disentangling it from the class snobbery of the past will require a concerted effort.
