Spag Bol

Growing up in the culinary desert that was Austerity Britain, furrin food was hard to find and frankly distrusted by a lot of Brits. Even in the 1990s there was a generation who eschewed food that even hinted at exotic origins. To illustrate, many Brits in the 1950s and 60s honestly believed that spaghetti grew on trees. "Meat and two veg" was still a staple of many meals, and overuse of spices, herbs and seasonings was frowned upon. Salt and pepper were probably fine, but stray outside that safe fence and your guests might pull faces and pick at their plates. We will ignore curry for this discussion; it's practically British by this time, and has its own complex place in society.

I was fortunate enough to grow up with a father who not only knew how to cook, but had travelled the world with the Royal Air Force and understood that bland and overcooked food was truly the British Disease. He was free with his use of spices; curries and other fragrant delights often made their way onto my childhood platter. But his crowning glory (in my young eyes) was his Spag Bol.

We were fortunate enough to be relatively wealthy and so many Sunday dinners consisted of a roast meat (usually beef) and Yorkshire puddings with all the trimmings. In addition, my parents had grown up surrounded by fresh vegetables, frequently homegrown. The Sunday roast would usually be large enough for there to be sufficient leftovers for beef sandwiches and salad additions. In a good week my father would make his most special of dishes, modelled on the Italian ragù alla bolognese. Pasta was not a common dish in the ordinary household; most Brits knew it from canned spaghetti in a cloying tomato sauce, so this was quite exceptional.

Dad, bless him, knew better than most Brits how to cook, and he relished this dish. He'd start by mincing leftover beef (sometimes lamb) and onions together in a wonderful manual Spong mincer. This would be thrown into the pan with bacon pieces and browned, before opening a tin or two of plum tomatoes (from Italy!). The tomatoes were roughly chopped before being dumped into the pan with the tomato juice. Finally he would slice some carrots, mushrooms, and maybe celery (sometimes peas or homegrown green runner beans) and add those. If there was an opened bottle of red wine, one glass (added, not drunk). A bay leaf, a quick stir, a tiny tin of tomato purée, some pepper pepper pepper, and cover. Cook spaghetti according to the instructions on the box, and serve the sauce on a pile of pasta.

Now the modren¹ reader is wondering "Where's the olive oil‽" and they would be right to wonder. At this time in post-war Blighty, olive oil was most frequently encountered in the pharmacy (think "drug store", Yanks) in tiny wee bottles. Its use was predominantly medical, for softening ear wax; no respectable Brit would cook with it. Ew. I don't recall my dad using olive oil, but my memory is unclear. Let's assume that my father, being a Renaissance Man, did. So let's say he added a little olive oil to the cooked spaghetti. Other families would chop the pasta into forkable lengths, but we enjoyed it as God intended.

It turns out that my family were not the only ones to stray from the straight and narrow, and that some variation of this dish were quite popular in the slowly regrowing country. The name is of course a contraction of the Italian, but I believe it's also carefully chosen because it reflects the origin without offending those who would pour scorn on a recipe from foreign climes. It's not spicy, uses ingredients commonly known to be "safe" (ignoring the fact that tomatoes are well foreign, innit). But it has an air of exoticism and was probably a delight to many other families. Certainly many emigrés carried similar recipes to the far-flung parts of The Empire (I know it to be common in Australia and New Zealand).

The recipe, for what it's worth

Of spaghetti, one handful 1 pound or c. ½ kilo of ground beef A couple of strips of bacon A decent onion or two A large tin or so of Roma plum tomatoes, chopped Tomato puree Green garlic is wonderful, cured is fine; add as much as you can stand Carrots Sundry stray vegetables Mushrooms if you have 'em A little stock from your stockpot, or whatever Maybe a glass of wine, if handy Celery salt Olive oil Basil leaves and a little oregano Salt and pepper should go without saying

The method is simple. Chop the bacon, cook slowly in the olive oil until crisping. Hurl in the meat and the diced onion, salt and pepper. Add half the garlic, which by now you've finely minced in a small pile of celery salt or (if you're a philistine, crushed). Add the tomatoes both. Dice the carrots, slice the mushrooms and toss them in along with any other vegetables lurking in the fridge. Pour in enough stock and/or wine until it's juicy. Add the herbs and seasonings, stir, cover, and then go and cook the spaghetti to your perfection. Add the remaining garlic to the sauce toward the end of cooking.

One word of caution on the veggies. The carrots are practically compulsory. Bell peppers are fine when they're in season. Celery is great if I have it, small quantities of celeriac have found success occasionally. Garden or snap pease are okay. Potatoes, no. Eggplant is the fruit of the Devil, artichokes are a vile waste of time.

Is it a great meal? Well obviously yes. Is it authentic? If you have Italian ancestry or have a passion for Italian food, no. But for me it's a nostalgic treat. Enjoy, and raise a glass to Ray. Thanks, Dad.

¹a cromulent word

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