From Fitzroy's Private Diary (Extract 57)

Now, I am not a man to denigrate the grand tradition of Sunday lunch, with rare roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes and lashings of horseradish. Of course, you require a chef who understands gravy, or the whole thing is ruined. I also have a soft spot for an English crumpet, and an appreciation of dense fruit cake, particularly when one is feeling low on energy. But, to be honest, the rest of so-called English cuisine can go hang!

I know I am more travelled than the average British citizen, but English cooking is bland beyond redemption.  There are days when I am in London city and served, yet again, grey mutton chops in a thin, oily slime, when I would kill my own grandmother for a decent curry. Fortunately, she is no longer among us. I want something with taste, and if the warmth of ginger, curry leaves, crushed black pepper, turmeric - ah, earthy turmeric - and paprika are not available to me, I’d sooner munch on raw chilli than eat another soulless shepherd's pie.

India is the Jewel in the Empire’s Crown, and I have found that English people living in India are quite prepared to eat Indian food, and they appear to enjoy it. However, it is not something they bring back to their English estates and, accordingly, their dinner menus at home. I can only think that the trouble of getting the various spices is too much effort, or they believe an English or French cook will make a terrible hash of it. It’s true, although a man of considerable intelligence, it has taken Griffin a long time to manage the art of the Korma or the Biryani. The idea of putting dried fruit in savoury meals appalled him, which is odd as it was terribly popular here in the Middle Ages. However, one night we sat together and broke down the components of Indian cuisine (such as I have managed to learn) and agreed the constituents made much healthier meals than the ones frequently served here.

I do recall Euphemia bringing dried chilis home with her, after one of our foreign missions, despite my imploring her not to. She gave them to the cook at home, instructing only one was to be chopped and liberally sprinkled in that night’s stew. The cook, thinking them rather small - and as the initiated know, the smaller the chilli, the hotter it is - added the lot. Bertram turned scarlet at the first bite and spent the rest of the evening in the cloakroom. Euphemia ate her plateful and had seconds, with no ill effects. I suspect she has a stomach of cast iron.  Fortunately, Hope was not dining with them.

A friend I met during the short time I was at college introduced me to some of the principles of Mexican cooking. Now, that is one place I have never been, but if his culinary approximations are even half right, I would doubtless put on a stone in weight if I did. Tortillas and tacos are so flexible compared to a slice of British bread. I have eaten avocado and have once convinced a foreign hotel chef to make me up a mess of avocado, chili, lemon juice and salt, which was divine, and well worth the large tip I had to give the man. Sadly, avocados do not travel well, so it will be a long time before I introduce Griffin to the art of making such a tasty mixture. He still worries when he knows I am in a new country without him. I believe one Korean recipe I brought back (for Gamja-tang) gave him nightmares for a week. I always point out that none of the dishes I have either cooked, or suggested, have ever made us ill. This is far more than one can say of your average hotel restaurant and far, far more than you can say of the chefs who lurk at various country estates. I am half convinced the lot of them are convicts on the run, hiding out at noble estates where they believe no one will look, and out to murder the entire British aristocracy with terminally bland dinners. Said aristocracy’s cold insistence on never understanding more than the name of a dish on the menu means that they would accept anything up to, and including, pigswill, if it sounded posh enough, because they simply could not do any better themselves.

I am happy to say that Euphemia, and now her young daughter, have a much more focussed interest in food. I taught Euphemia to cook, and happily she has both enjoyed this and taken it on as an adventure. As I have recorded, she prefers her food to be far spicier than I. I want subtle, glowing, layered flavours, and most of the time Euphemia agrees with me, but let her get her slender fingers on some chilli’s and everyone at dinner is in big trouble! Hope, on the other hand, is on the verge of being addicted to ginger, and wants to put it into everything. I was told the other day that she asked the cook to put in it into a Shepherd's Pie. When told that would ruin the flavour, the little minx said she quite disagreed and that nothing, in her opinion, could make it any worse than it already is. I confess, I roared with laughter when her mother told me. Although, next time I saw Hope, we had a chat about treating those who serve us with some respect.