Aged
twelve, I was invited to Sunday lunch by a school friend. It was a more formal
affair than at home. My friend had three younger brothers and they sat solemnly
around the table, hands clasped in laps, while their father, a vicar, incanted
grace. I had read about prayers before meals in Jane Austen novels but, coming
from a rabidly atheist family, bracketed the custom with ancient rites like head shrinking.
Encountering it in twentieth century suburbia was as much of a surprise as
stumbling on bear baiting in the local Wetherspoons. My friend’s mother, the
plump, capable woman you’d expect of a vicar’s wife, hefted a serving platter
bearing a leg of lamb from the sideboard and placed it before the head of
the household. As it steamed in the chilly protestant air, the parson
apportioned the joint, impaling each piece with a fork as it unpeeled and depositing
it on a plate proffered by his wife. She gave it to the nearest child from
whence it was passed around the table by human conveyor belt. It was not until
I had a full complement of vegetables on my plate that the second surprise
registered. Having attended to the needs of his family and their guest, this
man of the cloth had helped himself to a portion of meat and was tucking in
like a trencherman. My father didn’t eat meat and would have had no notion how
to carve a joint; subconsciously I had attributed these unorthodox characteristics
to all adult men.
My father was a
strict vegetarian, eschewed fish and was obliged to subsist on a diet whose
only source of protein was eggs and cheese, mostly, in those days, cheddar or
Edam. During family holidays in France, restaurateurs would be bemused by his
demurral over bacon in an omelette.
In
thrall to the message of the influential Limits
to Growth and other prescient works of the 1970s, I became a vegetarian in
early adulthood. Public
perception of vegetarianism had scarcely altered since Oscar Wilde remarked, ‘I
never go without my dinner. No one ever does, except vegetarians and people
like that.’ So even in London, acquiring basic ingredients such as blackeye
peas necessitated journeying to obscure parts of the capital and patronising
establishments hardly less sleazy than Soho porn shops.
I was
a convert but not a zealot. In search of like-minded people during the summer
holiday after my second year at university, I joined the London vegetarian
society. After a meal at one of the then rare, veggie restaurants, we repaired
to Hampstead Heath and lounged on the grass. Cheque cards and credit cards were
still a novelty and we fell to comparing the contents of our wallets. Thinking
it a trump card, I produced, with some pride, my identity card for the National
Institute for Medical Research where I had won a summer internship. Immediately
the group recoiled and I was cold-shouldered for the rest of the evening.
My
ten year penance ended with a dietary rebellion marking the termination of my
first marriage. During the following decades, I would jocularly refer to my
status as a ‘reformed vegetarian’, occasionally meeting people of a similar age
who had travelled the same path, most notably my friend Andy.
A
generation later, and influenced by a three month sojourn in meat-dominated Italy,
my daughter Hermione announced she was adopting vegetarianism. While continuing
to eat fish, she was renouncing meat on the same grounds I had done thirty
years earlier. Environmental concerns around the inefficiency of feeding
cereals to animals were now supplemented by even more cogent and worrisome
arguments about the impact of ruminants’ methane emissions on climate change, lucidly
and compellingly articulated by advocates such as the Guardian’s George Monbiot.
Over
nearly two decades of living by myself, I have eaten less and less meat at
home. Eventually it reduced to lunchtime precooked chicken, more for convenience
than in an attempt to titillate my degraded taste buds. Even when presented
with a restaurant menu, I would often opt for the non-meat option. Recently,
having selected a goat’s cheese and roasted vegetable wrap from a pub menu
dominated by the usual meaty fare, a new acquaintance asked whether I was a
vegetarian. Surprised by the question, I said no, sensing that justification
was expected for my choice if it was not dictated by conviction.
These
behavioural nudges triggered a cautious exploration of the unfamiliar aisles of
the supermarket. With what would I substitute dull chicken if I wanted to
transition from eating minimal meat at home to none, without resorting to eggs or
spending hours boiling grains? I discovered a cornucopia! A burgeoning
population of vegetarians and pescatarians; the invention of meat-less Monday; a
market for ethic ingredients by immigrants have all conspired to generate an
expanded demand for vegetarian options. The infinitely malleable Quorn and
similar products facilitated much of the solution. Now, the challenge is what
to buy from the mesmerising choice available.
This
time, I will not label myself a vegetarian, nor will I demand special treatment
at dinner parties, my aversion to beetroot excepted. Instead, without fanfare,
I will effect a small shift in my preferences to align myself more closely with
the culinary and environmental zeitgeist.
