Bonjour geezers!
Of course many know the tale of how the Rosbif got his
name. English soldiers fighting in
France, back in the day would order “roast beef”, because they couldn’t stand
all that foreign garlicy muck. The
locals started rolling their eyes and gesticulating over their shoulders
complaining about les “rosbifs”.
Further research into the etymology of the
word “rosbif” reveals everyone being very vague. Some place it to the
nineteenth century, others to the period of the Crusades or Middle Ages. Me? I can tell you exactly.
1045: the day Edward the Confessor went home to visit his mother in the rainy part of France and complained about the food.
And how very true it is that the English
love their beef (and also like complaining)!
On going on my working holiday a
Angleterre, their traditional Sunday roast revealed that an avoidance of garlic
and “that foreign muck” has made for several hundred years of concentrating on
how to do one thing well – as always a recipe for success!
The piece of meat central to the whole
experience, to sit cheek by jowl with your jowls, is of course the roast beef. I’ve tried differing ones with varying
success, but last weekend pushed the envelope and did a traditional English
roast (OK, I couldn’t come at the brussel sprouts), and learnt a thing or two
about roasting beef…
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