HERE we are on the beach at Broadstairs. 'We' are
your Imperative Research Unit, self and Mrs A. We are here to find out what 'they' — no explanation needed — are eating. Of course, we can only find out what they are eating on the beach, and that is not typical. But it's a start. Indeed beach- es are a good start because, unlike food eaten in private homes, you can see what people are eating there.
We are based in what visitors incorrectly call a hut, but which Bradstonians refer to anachronistically as a tent. Around us is a good space cordoned off by 'windshields', which are nothing of the sort. Their func- tion is social not elemental exclusion. Very necessary too, and not because our subjects are badly behaved. Although some look alarming with earrings and tattoos, they are pleasant, quiet and orderly, except in one respect. Although 'they' arrive in little fam- ily groups, they rapidly spread. Each family carries at least three inflatable items: a lilo, a bigger blow-up dinghy called by a heroic name such as Adventurer and a tyre or ring. Once inflated they mean the family occu- pies twice the space. What will the family blow itself up with?
There are four hypotheses. Mrs A. has read of new research which says the masses, contrary to what is assumed, still prepare food from raw and eat traditional things. If right, we shall see ham rolls, pork pies, egg sandwiches, flasks of tea, or perhaps tradi- tional seaside food, a crab sandwich for Mother and the odd winkle for Dad. There are four hypotheses. Mrs A. has read of new research which says the masses, contrary to what is assumed, still prepare food from raw and eat traditional things. If right, we shall see ham rolls, pork pies, egg sandwiches, flasks of tea, or perhaps tradi- tional seaside food, a crab sandwich for Mother and the odd winkle for Dad.
Then there's the 'How much British food has improved' hypothesis. While the beach is not quite the place for herb crusts and jus, might we spot some cold pink lamb, some bass in lime, a vacuum flask of gazpa- cho or vichyssoise?
The third hypothesis is that of the food- Leninists, the crazed fanatics who want and are about to get a state eating policy and commissariat, the Food Standards Agency. They believe we all eat what the evil food industry manipulates us to eat. In particular they believe we dutifully obey advertise- ments and buy what they advocate. If right, we shall see lots of packets, tubs and tubes of highly processed food. We shall also hear lots of children wailing because they have not been given the latest product. The last hypothesis to test is that espoused by bodies such as Alcohol Con- cern, the dour lobby to which the govern- ment seems to listen for something called 'alcohol policy'. Perhaps there will be no food at all on the beach, just bottles and bottles of 'units' defiantly and self-destruc- tively breaching the caring government's weekly guidelines.
Of course, it's possible that two hypothe- ses might be sustained: those, for instance, of the traditionalists and the 'tide of alco- hol abuse' Jeremiahs. Will the dusk find the shore littered with empty brown ale bottles or, better still, Blue Nun?
I'd better say a word about the research methodology. It would not do to convey the impression that our 'population' was restricted to those we could see from our barricade, I mean research headquarters. Periodically, one researcher was sent all along the beach and back into the town. This was partly to keep the team furnished with cold champagne, but it also meant the whole beach was surveyed several times.
The result? Which hypothesis was sus- tained? Hold on. The first was obliterated. In hours of scorching sunshine and among hundreds of people, we were only able to identify one hard-boiled egg. Precious few sandwiches either, and next to no tea. Not a single winkle. There may well have been many elsewhere in the town or on the jetty, but they were not seen by our team on the beach. And there was no evidence that the much famed New British Food even exist- ed, not a whiff of lime, not a duck breast as far as the salty eye could see. There were hardly any packets or processed foods either. There was the odd crisp, but surpris- ingly few of those. No children wailed because their sweetie bars were not shaped in the latest mode: there were not many sweetie bars.
Most alarming of all, the beach was also a desert. We counted not one bottle of wine (outside the research headquarters) and no bottles of beer. That evening, trudg- ing home, there were a paltry few empty tins of lager. What did 'they' eat? Well, they arrived late, about 11 o'clock. Immedi- ately one member was despatched back into the town, sometimes one had stayed behind in the town, but anyway, about ten minutes after the main group's arrival, this person would come and hand out to each of the party a small — and I mean small — tray of pale, rather soggy chips with a small dollop of tomato ketchup in the middle. Each would slowly eat these. There was no ravenous or delighted attack. Some shov- elled gloomily with plastic utensils. More usually each chip was picked up in the fin- gers and held a while; no enthusiasm at all. Some of the ladies held them so long they were used as pointers: 'Ooh, look over there, there are donkeys.' At one o'clock, another member was despatched for anoth- er dose per person. At three it happened again, and at five for the few who stayed that long. Make of it what you will. That's what happened.
What did the research team eat? Pâté of dark crab meat with olive oil, whelks in a mustardy vinaigrette, a dish of Spanish rice and peas cooked in fish stock with bits of plaice and gurnard in it, a frisee salad, home-made bread and, after the fizz, a spot of Touraine.
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