Elizabeth David

Today happens to be the 17th anniversary of the death in 1992 of the remarkable Elizabeth David, whose influence on what we eat now and the revolution in British cooking is immeasurable. I was made aware of the date when, by a curious co-incidence in the early hours of this morning, I randomly picked up an old copy of Convivium, a shortlived magazine-cum-book (think Granta or Readers Digest) which existed briefly in the early 1990's and whose 1993 inaugural edition, the one I was holding in my hands, was dedicated to David. It contained a fascinating series of pieces, adapted from the addresses given to her memorial service the previous autumn by some of those who knew her well. I re-read them with great pleasure, being reminded of David's dedication to stylish restraint and simple, elemental cooking - a dish of plain, grilled red peppers was a favourite - and that she considered herself first and foremost a writer, rather than a cook. She also abhorred the word 'foodie' which is deeply ironic considering that many of those who today described themselves as foodies - myself included - owe an enormous debt to David for changing the way we eat. Anyone wanting to know more about Davi's extraordinary life should read the fabulous (but curiously recipe free) biography by Artemis Cooper, Writing At The Kitchen Table.
In another strange co-incidence, earlier this week I had actually been discussing David's kitchen table with the great Prue Leith, another person who has done enormous amounts to drag British cooking out of its post-Second World War ration induced mire.
I was sitting next to Leith (or Prue as I now feel emboldened to call her, since we got on so well) at a magnificent seven course charity dinner at the Marriott Hotel, created by seven leading British chefs in aid of Hospitality Action, a charity that helps needy people associated with the catering trade. You can read my account of the meal in the Evening Standard website here: http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/standard/article-23694512-details/Great+British+Menu+chefs+cook+up+seven+course+feast/article.do
Stupidly, I didnt think to ask Prue, who knew David well, what she would have made of the elegantly constructed modern takes on British food - a haggis mousse and a verbena blancmange might have been a bit fussy for her, but I'm sure she would have enjoyed the halibut with cockles and the lamb baked in a pastry crust. But Prue did regale me with stories of how grumpy and rude David became in her later years, as well as being mostly drunk, something I thought Cooper rather played down. The stairs in her small Chelsea house, said Prue, were almost impossible to negotiate - piles of books on one side, cases of her favourite French white wines on the other.
Prue's best tale concern the heavy old French table on which David made the centrepiece of her kitchen, where she spent most of her days, writing at one end, cooking at the other. At the auction of her kitchen contents which followed David's death, Leith paid £1,100 for the table, by then much battered, stained and worn, complete with ancient crumbs embedded in its cracks. "I had to have it,'' she said, 'It was the table, the one she wrote one. I mean, this is part of food history. It was an iconic table.'' At the insistence of her husband, she had much of the dirt and grease scraped away, but it remained a treasure for some years. She admitted that at one point she had considered widening it, but was unable to find a piece of wood sufficiently thick.
Prue confided that a few years ago she was made an offer she simply could not refuse. She explained: "Jill Norman, [the cookery writer] another friend of mine and Elizabeths, confessed that her husband had set his heart on buying the table - for a decent sum - so that he could give it to Jill for her 60th birthday. Jill was Elizabeth's editor at Penguin and literary executor, so I couldn't refuse, could I?'' She didn't say how much she was paid for it, but clearly, every kitchen table has its price.
Coincidence and memories. So that's why tonight, in my kitchen, at my table, I'm going to raise a glass of fine French white wine and nibble one of her favourite Rokka crackers, in memory of the great Elizabeth David.