Throughout this blog I’ve written about the way that food in literature is always about more than just the food. Amongst its many narrative functions, food may reveal character, act as a metaphor for feelings and relationships or reflect key themes and issues in the text.
Sometimes the food functions as a vehicle for some other purpose, often involving love or sex: a seduction over strawberries in Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles or an adulterous liaison over steak and onions in Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair.
However, meals can also be a vehicle for diplomacy and political manoeuvres. We don’t need to read books to tell us that. It is rumoured that on 31st May 1994, over a meal at Granita, a restaurant in Islington in North London, the then UK Shadow Home Secretary, Tony Blair, and Shadow Chancellor of the Exchequer, Gordon Brown, reached a gentleman’s agreement about the succession to the Labour party leadership following the unexpected death of party leader John Smith less than 3 weeks earlier. Blair would stand, unopposed by Brown, to give him the best chance to secure an easy victory, whilst Brown would be granted wide powers over domestic policy in any future government led by Blair. In the event of a Blair victory, he would stand down after two terms in favour of Brown. Both men denied the existence of a deal for many years, and it has never been confirmed whether any deal was actually struck in Granita, as opposed to somewhere else. Whatever the truth, the myth of a political deal struck over dinner in a London restaurant has persisted with the deal known colloquially as the ‘Granita pact’. Nowhere, however, could I find what dishes the two men supposedly ate, highlighting that politics, rather than food, was the key focus of the meal.
A meal in the opening section of Hilary Mantel’s latest novel also functions as the site of political conversation, although far more detail about what is eaten is provided.
The Mirror and the Light, which was published in 2020, is the final novel in Mantel’s trilogy about the rise and fall of Thomas Cromwell, Henry VIII’s chief minister. The first two novels – Wolf Hall and Bring up the Bodies – published in 2009 and 2012 respectively, span the years 1527 to 1536 and document Cromwell’s rapid rise to power as Henry VIII’s trusted adviser. In Wolf Hall Cromwell oversees the annulment of Henry and Katherine of Aragon’s marriage, enabling Henry to marry Anne Boleyn. In Bring up the Bodies the King has tired of Anne and her inability to provide him with a male heir. Cromwell comes to the rescue, finding evidence to convict Anne of treason.
The Mirror and the Light covers the years 1536 to 1540, the final years of Cromwell’s life. The novel opens with the execution of Anne Boleyn – the first sentence is ‘Once the queen’s head is severed, he walks away’ – which is swiftly followed by Henry’s marriage to Jane Seymour, the only one of his six wives with whom he had a male child (the future Edward VI). When Jane dies, Cromwell arranges Henry’s marriage to the German Anne of Cleves. However, the marriage is a disaster – Henry allegedly found Anne unattractive – and was annulled after six months. Cromwell fell from Henry’s favour as a result and was himself executed for treason and heresy on 28th July 1540.
However, at the beginning of The Mirror and the Light Cromwell is still in his ascendant. Henry confides in him, seeking his advice on matters political, religious and familial.
One of Henry’s concerns at this stage relates to Mary, his daughter with Katherine of Aragon. During his marriage to Anne Boleyn, Henry shunned her. However, with Anne discredited, and Katherine now dead – she died in 1536 – Henry is keen to restore his relationship with his elder daughter. At the same time, the annulment of his marriage to Katherine was only enabled by Henry assuming the role of head of the Church in England – and breaking with Rome – a difficulty for his fiercely Catholic daughter.
A discussion about how to handle this situation takes place early in the novel between Cromwell and Eustache Chapuys, a lawyer and diplomat, serving as the London ambassador of Charles V, the Holy Roman Emperor. And this political conversation takes place over dinner at Cromwell’s home. Although they were diametrically opposed in political matters – Chapuys had defended Catherine of Aragon, aunt to the Emperor, in the legal proceedings to annul her marriage to Henry – the two men seem to have got on well. In a report to the Emperor, Chapuys wrote of Cromwell: ‘He is witty and well-versed in government affairs, and reasonable enough to judge correctly of them’.
In Mantel’s imagined dinner the two men discuss Mary’s situation. Cromwell communicates to Chapuys Henry’s insistence that Mary swear the Oath of Supremacy, declaring her allegiance to the monarch as Supreme Governor of the Church of England. In doing so, Mary would be accepting that her father, not the Pope, had the ultimate power over the English church. But Cromwell knows that ‘she cannot accept her father as head of the church’. Chapuys also points out that by swearing the oath Mary would be accepting ‘that her mother’s marriage was of no effect, and that she, though the king’s eldest child, is not his heir’.
Chapuys suggests an alternative solution – that Mary be permitted to enter a convent: ‘She could not then be suspected of wanting the throne. It would be an honourable retreat from the world’. However, Cromwell dismisses this idea immediately: ‘Oh, spare me, ambassador! She will no more enter a convent than you will. If she cares so little for the world and all in it, why does she not take the oath and have done?’
The conversation lingers on slightly, but no solution is reached: there is no Brown-Blair pact here. Perhaps as a result of the political irresolution, more emphasis is placed on food. The evening begins with Chapuys referring to the food of his student-days: ‘In my days in Italy as a student… I never took more than bread and olives for supper…Perhaps a handful of tender broad beans, still in their pod. A small glass of vin santo.’ And when the conversation over Mary stumbles and it is clear a resolution is not forthcoming, Chapuys returns to food: ‘It grieves me, Thomas, that in the old days we were in Rome at the same time and did not know each another. How congenial, if we had been able to take supper together? Did you ever try those little ravioli, stuffed with cheese and herbs? They were light as air, if the cook knew his job’.
Chapuys clearly likes his food. He praises the dishes that Cromwell’s cook Thurston produces: ‘If your cook ever wants a new post, send him to my door also’. The two men eat veal, ‘eels presented in two fashions: salted in an almond sauce, and baked with the juice of an orange’ and ‘a spinach tart, green as the summer evening, flavoured with nutmeg and a splash of rosewater’.
In honour of this political conversation I made spinach tart – with the cheese I put in I don’t think it could be described as ‘green as the summer evening’, and I wasn’t sure about the addition of rosewater, so left that out, but there’s definitely nutmeg in there – so one out of three. The lattice topping adds a sophisticated touch, but you can omit it.
DIPLOMATIC SPINACH TART
Ingredients (serves 3-4)
for the pastry:
150g flour
40g unsalted butter cubed
35g solid vegetable fat (or lard) fat
pinch salt
cold water
1 beaten egg (for glazing the finished tart)
for the filling:
200g spinach (weight after the tough stalks have been removed)
1/8 teaspoon nutmeg
2 eggs
200ml single cream
4 tablespoons grated parmesan
salt and pepper
Method:
Begin by making the shortcrust pastry. Place the flour and a pinch of salt into a medium-sized bowl. Add the butter and vegetable fat, and rub into the flour using your fingertips until the mixture resembles breadcrumbs. Then add the cold water a small amount at a time, mixing it with a knife, until the mixture comes together. Wrap in clingfilm or place in a freezer bag and chill in the fridge for at least 30 minutes.
Remove the dough from the fridge. If it has been in the fridge for longer than 1 hour leave it out for 20-30 minutes otherwise it will be too hard to roll out. Cut off about 1/3 off the pastry and roll out the remainder to a large enough circle to line a 20cm greased tart tin or pie dish. At this point, preheat the oven to 200C, 180C fan, gas mark 6
Now it’s time to make the spinach filling. Wash the spinach thoroughly and drain. Put in a saucepan with a lid and place over a gentle heat for about 5 minutes until it is wilted, stirring occasionally. The drops of water that remain on the spinach after draining will provide enough moisture for it to cook. Leave to cool slightly, then squeeze out the water (I do this by pressing the back of a wooden spoon against the cooked spinach, holding the saucepan over the sink and allowing the cooking liquid to drain away). Chop the spinach on a chopping board, then place back in the saucepan and season with the nutmeg and salt and pepper.
Spoon the spinach over the bottom of the uncooked pastry case.
Break the 2 eggs into a jug, add the single cream and mix together using a fork. Then stir in the grated parmesan and season with salt and pepper. Pour the egg and cream mixture over the spinach.
Roll out the remaining pastry and, using a knife, cut it into approximately 10 strips about 1cm wide: 2 about 18cm long, 4 17cm long and 4 13cm long. Wet both ends of each strip so that they stick to the outer rim of the pastry case and make a simple lattice design as in the photo below. Using a pastry brush, brush the lattice with beaten egg and then bake in the oven for 30-40 minutes until the pastry is golden brown and the filling is risen and set.
Delicious both warm and cold.
