Cradock - Tea is as refined as it is simple and basic.
It is drunk by the plumber who mends the lord’s drain and by the lord himself; by seamstresses and the fine ladies whose hems they sew. It is consumed throughout the world, from Asia to Europe to the Americas and Africa, and every nation has one or other variation of how tea can or should be made.
It’s English, naturally. Right? Um, nope. As we all know, tea is Indian. I mean Sri Lankan, i.e. from the former Ceylon. Yes? Nope. Right then, in that case it can only be Chinese. But nothing is ever as clear and simple as to say that. As Wikipedia tells us, tea is thought to have originated at the meeting points of parts of China, Burma (now Myanmar), and the easternmost part of India.
But India did not seem much interested in the drink the Chinese had for generations called “t’u”, and only really took to the beverage once introduced to it by, yes, the British, centuries after the Chinese had begun consuming it.
All you needed then was merchants and priests from Portugal to come along and for Catherine of Braganza to get her hubby, King Charles II, to enjoy a cuppa, and for him in turn to introduce it to the diarist Samuel Pepys, and there was something for a Londoner to whet his whistle with while the city burnt.
Can it be argued that the English perfected the perfect cup of tea? It probably wouldn’t be worth arguing the toss, seeing how that Cameron man is looking pretty feisty now that his Tories finally have a chance to govern alone and bid to put to rest the spectre of Thatcherism. We must hope he isn’t looking for his own Falklands.
Let the British have their way with tea and believe it to be as English as distrusting foreigners, eating fish and chips when on holiday in Spain, and deciding whether to queue for the dole or go out on strike. Oh no, that’s Daily Mail readers, sorry.
But I’d argue that they did perfect the cup of tea and elevate it to a social art, which is not to deride the wonderful way the Turkish have with apple tea, the Chinese with jasmine and green, or the Indians with chai.
But the tradition of afternoon tea, commonly and mistakenly referred to in the former colonies as high tea, takes the business of drinking it to a higher plane. High tea is more correctly the tradition of the working class supper in the early evening. Coming from English working class stock myself, I’ve experienced it first-hand, joining my cousin’s family for “tea” when some family members came home after a shift at the wool mill. But that was back in the days when the wool mills were still operating; the industry has since been decimated. (The pedants among my readers will be quick to say, “Ah, but decimate means to reduce to a tenth”, but the word has come to mean to obliterate, wipe out, massacre, and so on.) Language is like that and it’s a part of its charm and usefulness.
Just as with the English working class, for whom “tea” around six o’clock is in fact a meal that would traditionally include a cup or two of strongly-brewed tea, in the higher tradition of afternoon tea, such as is served in the languid lounges of posh hotels, it is as much about that cup of char as it is about the dainties that go with it.
Spreads are set out on gleaming wooden tables, displaying chocolate gateaux, sachertorte and other delights to be savoured with your pot of speciality teas from many parts of the world. But we don’t have to mortgage the house to enjoy this tradition. We can pare it down to a simple afternoon tea at home, with a freshly baked cake and a lovely pot of brew for friends or family.
A lemon syrup cake is a perfect choice for this.
Lemon Syrup Cake
125g salted butter
175g castor sugar
Finely grated zest of 2 lemons
2 jumbo eggs
175g self-raising flour
Pinch of salt
4 Tbs full cream milk
For the lemon syrup
Juice of 3 lemons
90g castor sugar
Soften butter to room temperature. Beat butter and sugar together with a wooden spoon until pale and creamy. Add lemon zest and eggs and combine well. Sift the flour and add with the salt. Fold into the mix. Stir in the milk. Pour into a greased loaf tin and bake in a 180°C oven for 40 to 45 minutes, but keep an eye towards the end so that it does not darken too much. I would advise against using the fan setting.
While it’s in the oven, heat the lemon juice (of the remaining three lemons) with the 100g castor sugar in a saucepan until the sugar is thoroughly dissolved. When the cake is done, remove on to a wire rack, make about 15 insertions with a skewer, and pour over the syrup. Serve with your favourite tea.
Weekend Argus