MARGINAL COMMENT
By HAROLD NICOLSON
IT is customary for those who have travelled much—whether on the Continent of Europe or in those extensive areas over which the white soul of America spreads her hygienic influence—to decry British inns. Before the advent of the railways our hostelries enjoyed a high repute, and even foreign visitors would comment with approval upon the hospitality, cleanliness and efficiency which they encountered. French visitors, it is true, would sometimes criticise the hardness of our beds and the inability of our cooks to prepare vegetables ; but these minor inconveniences were compensated in their eyes by the comparative cleanliness of the linen provided and by the absence of that extortion to which they were exposed at home. Moreover the high quality of our posting arrangements, the un- rivalled superiority of our macadamised roads, the excellence of our horses and ostlers, all contributed to the impression that travel in England was safer, cleaner and more comfortable than in any other country. With the advent of the railways the old coaching inns were replaced by railway hotels ; but during the half century in which we have all taken to the road again these disused hostelries have come into their own. Our inns have not, I am glad to say, attained that level of mechanised proficiency which the hotel industry in the United States has standardised and spread. Every American is trained from childhood to become a health-fuss ; no nation in the world is so microbe-conscious ; with the result that their hotels suggest, not cleanliness merely, but actual sterilisation. The waiters in their white coats convey the impression of being hospital atten- dants ; the waitresses suggest that they are put away for the night in envelopes of cellophane ; the clinical atmosphere is so pervasive that a major surgical operation appears imminent. Desperately do they seek to counteract this institutional effect by the deliberate ex- ploitation of the personal and the intimate. The officer on duty at the reception desk has his name and initials displayed in front of him on a neat little board ; one's own name is repeated with weari- some iteration ; and the telephone operator will soothe one with the brisk friendliness of a trained nurse.
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Continental inns are less standardised and far less proficient. The personal element is so obtrusive that one's welcome may depend upon the temperament, the momentary condition of health, and even the political sympathies of the proprietor and his staff. If the pro- prietor is feeling eupeptic and western-minded, then nothing can excel the solicitude and engaging curiosity which he will display ; but if his health be disordered or if he be too credulous a reader of the Humanite, then sullen hostility will result. One never knows. And it is this uncertainty regarding the quality of the reception to be accorded to one which gives to foreign travel the spice of the unpredictable. Having during the last ten days visited many English inns in many different counties I have derived the impression that we have struck a happy mean between the ,standardised and the eccentric. The welcome accorded to one, although seldom effusive, is uniformly polite ; the farther one travels from London the less does one become aware of the sullen apathy which appears to have infected the capital city ; and one feels that a sane balance has been
struck between the mutual dignities of host and guests. Above all one rejoices at the infinite variety of our English inns. There are those which seek to recapture and to exploit the eighteenth century, and even the Elizabethan, tradition ; there are those which, in their furnishings, strive to suggest culture, or at least arts and crafts ; and there are those which rely for their effect upon the more sedate amenities, upon the ferns and Turkey rugs, of the Victorian age. One never knows. But here again I prefer the unpredictable to the clinical standardisation of American hotels.
* * * When one considers the difficulties imposed upon managers by the present shortages and restrictions, one can only feel respect and admiration for the level of comfort which they manage to contrive. It may well be that our inns were not designed to provide each guest with a private bathroom ; but what reasonable citizen can resent having to walk a yard or two to have his bath? It may be that soap and towels are not always available, but who among us, con- scious as we are of laundry delays, can sensibly complain? The water is hot and the sheets are clean ; what more can any sane traveller expect? It may be that the rooms are numbered in no logical sequence and that one strays helpless from floor to floor, lost in a labyrinth more intricate than any that Daedalus conceived ; but does one really wish our hostelries to be tabulated as neatly as any prison house? It may be that one's shoes, in the silent hours of dawn, do not receive the polish of pre-war years, but even in the most modern American hotel one has to descend to the basement if one wants a shine. So far from feeling that our hotel industry is struggling without faith or hope against insurmountable difficulties, I feel that already it is conquering those difficulties ; it seems to present the first overt signs of recovery and reconstruction. Yet over the whole effort, gallant and meritorious though it be, upon every inn, every hostelry and every provincial hotel, there hangs a blight which will for long prevent us from creating a real tourist industry. No words can describe the apathy, the ignorance, or the lack of imagination which render our cooking the worst in all the world. Even in a Thibetan monastery the monks would accord more intelligent thought to food.
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I am aware that in present conditions the problem of catering for any hotel or restaurant is a problem of immense difficulty and that it is impossible, or almost impossible, to cook succulently with- out a lavish provision of butter and fats. I know that it is unfair, and suggestive of lack of civic worth, to compare the meals provided in our inns with those which one can obtain in France ; there they rely upon, and charge for, black market supplies. Yet the restric- tions which impede them should stimulate our caterers and cooks to greater feats of imagination and ingenuity. It does not appear intelligent to me to rely too rigidly in August on a menu elaborated for January. The midday meal must, I suppose, begin with soup, since that is a commodity which can with minimum effort be supplied. I do not complain even if the identical synthetic soup is served up on different days under varied names, such as " pea " or " vegetable " or even "minestrone." Yet why, in the dog days, should these synthetic soups be always hot? I know that it is not possible today to cook vegetables in butter, but why should potatoes be inadequately boiled? And why should that revolting condiment which is known as custard be slopped over one's stewed apples whether one desires it or no? The fault lies, I know, as much with those who consume this food as with those who supply it. The British public is today so humble in its expectations that the thought of rebellion, even the thought of protest, does not reach the surface of its mind. But it was not always so. There was a time when the British citizen not only ate enormously but knew when his food was lazily prepared. That knowledge seems to have been lost. I have been reading this week an excellent little book written by Mr. John Hampson for the Britain in Pictures series and entitled The English at Table. Mr. Hampson is as puzzled as I am by the fact that we, who possessed the finest material in the world, forgot in the middle of the seventeenth century that tradition of delicate cooking which had subsisted from Roman times. He attributes this forgetfulness, partly to our climate and partly to the survival of puritanism. He may be right.
* * * * But why, now that fats are denied us, do we not revive our ancient custom of using herbs? Our ancestors used to enjoy pine kernels, hippocras, morat, ambergris, garlic, cinnamon, mint, peony, borage, violets and marigolds. Even Cromwell stewed his veal in oranges: and Dr. Johnson was only precluded by his natural indol- ence from writing a cookery book in several volumes. Who today knows how to make Pippin Pies, or gooseberry sauce for turbot, or Berries Charter, or even Atterdale pudding? After all Mr. Strachey does not mind us cooking chestnuts. But no—we must continue in the old uneatable round of custard and synthetic soup, flavoured with the spice of civic worth.
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