In a social media age, certain ingredients – long esteemed by those in the know – suddenly burst on to the scene. One morning we woke up to all the supermarkets stocking Mutti tinned tomatoes. Ortiz sardines and Perello Gordal olives are now in the limelight. I wonder – given the current zeitgeist for all things umami – whether Patum Peperium (Latin: ‘peppered paste’) could be next.
Then again, the ‘Gentleman’s Relish’ – an anchovy paste made with butter and spices – isn’t for everyone. Much like Marmite, it has embraced this contentious reputation: ‘Dividing opinions since 1828’ it declares in its branding.
After almost 200 years on the scene, it has started popping up in trendy spots, like a debonair rake sauntering into a party fashionably late. I saw it recently stocked at the oh-so-fashionable Pophams Home store in Islington. But it’s always been available for those who’ve hankered after its savoury piquancy. The old porcelain pots have sadly been replaced with plastic, but it’ll cost you around just £3 at Sainsbury’s or Waitrose. Pleasingly it has not, yet, experienced Instagram inflation.
First unveiled circa 1828 by John Osborn at the Paris Food Shows, it clinched a ‘Citation Favorable’ accolade and, voila, the rest was history. Brought to London by John’s son where it found favour on Pall Mall, it acquired its moniker. As the brand explains: ‘Originally, it graced the savouries of exclusive gentlemen’s clubs, deemed too robust for the fairer sex and too refined for the common populace.’ Mrs Beeton recommended it as ‘an excellent bonne bouche which enables gentlemen at wine-parties to enjoy their port with redoubled gusto’. Ladies too, from the Mitford sisters to Nigella, have since joined its legions of fans. The late Rose Gray of the River Café enthused about spreading it on toasted rye bread with sweet Italian butter.
It is handmade according to the original recipe: anchovy fillets from Spain (‘In mare internum’ reads its logo), packed in barrels of salt and matured for 18 months before being rinsed in brine, gently cooked, and blended with butter, rusk, and a secret blend of herbs and spices. The manufacturer would not be drawn when I asked after the recipe; it purportedly ensures no single employee knows the full list of ingredients. But a clue can be gleaned from Fortnum and Mason who use dill, garlic and Sarawak pepper in their attempt to rival the classic. I suspect cayenne, mace, cinnamon and nutmeg may lurk within the enigmatic white pots too.
It’s crying out to be rediscovered for canapes. In clubland it never went away, as a long-favoured savoury. You cannot make a Scotch woodcock without it
It is not a looker. Brown and sludgy, it also has a pongy odour, not far off cat food. If taste is 80 per cent smell it’s a wonder it so delights. But, in the traditional preparation, spread on hot buttered toast, it brings a certain savoury – and intensely salty – je ne sais quoi. The packaging cautions to apply ‘very sparingly’ (which makes using within four weeks of opening, as instructed, a challenge except for the most ardent of fans). In combining seafood with butter and spices it has much in common with potted shrimp. Since 1998 there has been a rather good Poacher’s Relish (salmon) and Angler’s Relish (mackerel) too, both flavoured with a whack of lemon. Owned by AB World Foods, the relishes are now sadly made in Poland. The manufacturer couldn’t tell me why. Maybe a Plumber’s Relish will be next in the range.
Its umami character means its uses extend to cooking. You can add a small teaspoon to a shepherd’s or cottage pie, as you might Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce (which it predates) or Marmite. It can be melted into scrambled eggs. It is much more agreeable scraped on to a rosti or pommes Anna than the current chefs’ fashion for topping everything with caviar. It’s crying out to be rediscovered for canapes. In clubland it never went away, as a long-favoured savoury. You cannot make a Scotch woodcock without it.
It still offers proper English cachet, and an air of refinement. It is the height of good paste. It appears in a sandwich in Ian Fleming’s For Your Eyes Only – sparingly scraped, one assumes, rather than shaken or stirred. As Andrew Webb observed in Food Britannia (2011), it is not ‘a product for lavish slathering, but for gentlemanly deportment’. Enjoyed mainly for brekkie or tea, it is sometimes combined with a little cucumber or dainty cress.
Dividing opinions is not necessarily bad. Change is not always good. I take comfort from a divisive product, and an unchanged recipe. I relish this relish. You might too.
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