By the late 1970s and early 1980s, the Boomer generation was taking control. They were earning money their ancestors could only dream of, and they had the swagger of a superior race.
Before they could ask what to do with the money, the marketing people spotted them coming.
They persuaded them that they were sophisticated and even continental. An early manifestation of this was the dining out experience. Note, it was now dining out, not eating out. That was sharing a bag of chips before a greasy snog. If you wanted to impress a lady now, you would take her to a fine-dining establishment. You had to pay, of course, even if she half offered. You would wave this away with the air of Aristotle Onassis settling an invoice for a yacht.
The fancy dining would be a pub that claimed it had a “restaurant area”, usually separated from the lounge by a trellis with plastic ivy woven through it. These places had names like ‘The Tally Ho’ and served steaks. Vegetarians were expected to stay at home in those days, and vegans were regarded as a strange cult.
You knew the drill, as you had watched Roger Moore in a white dinner jacket in a Bond movie ordering an exotic item. You had to work with the menu provided in a biblical leather binder. You knew how to impress. A prawn cocktail starter in Marie Rose sauce, buried in lettuce leaves. Nobody knew who Marie Rose was, but she had clearly done wonders for seafood. Rump steak garni was the main course. Garni meant the plate had been exposed to half a tomato, a mushroom, and possibly a sprig of parsley. The dessert was inevitably Black Forest Gateau. All of this washed down with a bottle of Liebfraumilch. More sweet stuff from the Germans.
Apparently, sweet German wine was appropriate for any meal. We had recently discovered that wine did not always come from a communion chalice. The French, meanwhile, were in tears of laughter rolling into their coq au vin. They even joined in the fun by creating a wine for us called ‘Le Piat d’Or’. They never drank it themselves, of course, but, in an act of supreme French satire, they marketed it with the slogan ‘The French adore Le Piat d’Or’.
The Italians joined in with Ferrero Rocher and the notion that it was standard fare at an ambassador’s party. We were convinced that international diplomacy consisted largely of pyramids of hazelnut sweets and people saying, “Excellente.”
We were not deterred; we simply progressed to Blue Nun and Black Tower to demonstrate our cultural development. This was great for the Germans, as no other countries were buying it.
As the Boomers became mortgage holders, their disposable income reduced significantly. Nevertheless, they found new ways to demonstrate their lower-middle-class superiority. The dinner party springs to mind, wonderfully lampooned by Mike Leigh’s play ‘Abigails party’. Pre-dinner drinks might be a gin and Schweppes tonic or a ridiculously sweet cherry. Perhaps a Babycham for the ladies.
The Boomers were required to act as relaxed hosts whilst being as nervous as a hotel manager on a HQ inspection. The allegedly informal event had been well rehearsed. Guests were invited to inspect the new G-Plan furniture before a half-hour session sharing slides from the holiday in Benidorm.
Eventually, there was food, of a sort. Cheese and pineapple on sticks preceding the fondue. The Swiss had joined in the satire by now. This was a dangerous device that held boiling oil in a central communal pot, into which you dipped bread and cheese, hoping not to drip onto the linen tablecloth or, even worse, burn your mouth on impact.
The wine, meanwhile, had not improved dramatically. But the bottles had become useful. A Mateus Rosé bottle made a cheap table lamp, although very few ever made it that far.
Every meal now ended with After Eights. After Eights were not simply sweets. They were a signal. They meant the evening had reached its refined stage. Instant coffee might be served from a cafetière, as someone had forgotten to buy ground coffee.
The French were laughing over proper wine. The Italians were laughing over espresso. The Swiss were laughing in several languages while counting their fondue royalties. The Spanish were wondering why the British and Irish flew all the way to Benidorm only to look for egg and chips. The Germans were quietly exporting sweet white wine by the tanker.
I think it took a couple of decades before the Europeans stopped laughing and let us have their proper food and wine. They still laugh at the idea of cheese and onion crisps, but we are gradually getting culinary acceptance. But not for the Italians until we stop putting pineapple on pizza
