Can British charcuterie win the deli war?
The cured meat scene has long been dominated by continental offerings – now local producers want a slice of the action. But can they match up? Xanthe Clay conducts the ultimate taste test
Slicing knives at the ready: it’s the Duel of the Deli Counter. While continental names such as prosciutto, chorizo and salami dominate the chiller cabinets, British charcuterie is on the rise. Prices of our home-cured hams are steep though, and while we all love local produce, can it really taste as good as the established names such as Parma and San Daniele, made by producers with centuries of experience?
In a bid to find out, I, along with Henrietta Green, founder of the British Charcuterie Awards, set up a Big Pig Fight – a porcine version, if you will, of the Judgement of Paris. The Parisian event was back in 1976, when an enterprising British wine merchant pitted Californian wine against France’s finest in a blind tasting. The Yanks won every category, and the reverberations were felt through the wine industry.
Our charcuterie tussle (also undertaken blind) was set in the upstairs dining room of Macellaio Soho, a temple to Italian meat on London’s Shaftesbury Avenue. The panel (below) was an illustrious crew, including Roberto Costa, owner of Macellaio; Brett Graham, chef patron of the (temporarily closed) Ledbury restaurant; Michela Pagano, charcuterie expert and buyer at Fine Cheese Co; Nokx Majozi, chef at Holborn Dining Rooms; and James Robertson of Spanish importers Brindisa.
Keeping us in order was Henrietta Green herself, and the aim was to pit the winners from the Awards against their continental equivalents.
I was nervous as we sat down to the tasting. Could the Brits match up, or were we about to be trounced? British charcuterie is, after all, a new enterprise. We don’t have a formal tradition of fermented, air-dried meats, partly because of our damp climate but also because the breadcrumbs that are added to our sausages means they spoil if dried, unlike salamis. Our porky preservation has relied on salting, smoking and cooking to make the likes of York ham and Bath Chaps, or else ready-tocook staples like bacon and gammon. Woodall’s, who have been selling airdried Cumbrian ham since the 1980s, were rare outliers until less than two decades ago, with Monmouthshire’s Trealy Farm launching in 2004.
But we are nothing if not fast learners. Forty years ago, British cheesemakers aspired to nothing greater than Lymeswold, yet now boast more artisan cheese varieties than France and regularly win international competitions. Likewise with wine: at the turn of the millennium English sparkling wine was a laughing stock, but now it commands top dollar.
According to Phil Bartley, founder of the Brighton-based Great British Charcuterie Co: “When we started five years ago there were fewer than 20 serious producers of charcuterie – now the 150 mark has been hit.” In April they opened Old Brompton, a wine, cheese and charcuterie bar and deli in London’s South Kensington, and turned over £5million last year (in part, Bartley admits, because “we were lucky with the timing – increasingly people want to know where their food has come from”.)
That is the USP of British charcuterie. Continental producers are (with the exception of the highest end Jamón Ibérico producers) tight-lipped about the provenance of their animals, and the likes of Parma and Serrano hams are mostly made from indoor, factoryfarmed pigs. In contrast, many British producers focus on rare-breed pigs in high-welfare systems – and indeed, our basic welfare standards are mostly higher than those on the continent.
This is both our strength and our weakness, and one of the reasons that it’s very hard for British producers to compete on price, along with the sheer economies of scale that the big continental producers can command. That
scale also means that continental products tend to be more consistent: a persistent complaint about British charcuterie is its variability.
But, pointed out Green, as we passed around plates of cured meat, not having a tradition can be a good thing. “Italians get very heated about what is authentic – is it the right cure for San Daniele?” Graham, chomping on some coppa, agreed: “You can do what you want here, which is a good and a bad thing.”
But using the European names does mean that our expectation is fixed on particular flavours. “This is the wrong muscle for lomo,” muttered Costa, while Majozi declared, “I like this, it’s so British, the smokiness.” Could it be time to call British charcuterie – sorry, cured meat – by British names? “Cured longhorn beef with rosemary – is that as alluring as bresaola?” mused Green. “Do they need the continental names? Or is there an opportunity to say, ‘That’s my inspiration, but I’ve done something different.’”
The result? A very respectable draw, and an acknowledgement that British cured meat has definitely arrived.