It was sad to read of the death of Enoch Powell the other day - end of an era and all that. It was also sad to hear of the death of Beach Boys founder-member Carl Wilson on the same day - end of another era. And it was devastating to read of the demise of the little black dress: end of the world, almost.
The latter death was announced by Vogue editor Alexandra Shulman. Obituary coverage was minimal, muted. No memorial service was announced. This was not surprising, because almost as soon as Ms Shulman announced the death, she foretold the resurrection. She is not throwing out her favourite little black number but banishing it to the back of the wardrobe until its time comes round again. Enoch Powell was for many years a deeply unfashionable figure, but he has already been reborn in the obituaries. Images of a heroic age are once again called up around him. He is hailed as a giant among pygmies, a protean figure among his political contemporaries, an outstanding scholar and brilliant orator. That sort of thing. It is all a little over the top - just the sort of thing Powell would have abhorred. Yet there are aspects of his life and career which have been under-reported.
Powell seemed an unlikely soldier, but he enlisted in the Royal Warwicks in September 1939 and was recruited from the kitchens for intelligence services after addressing a senior officer in classical Greek.
What most commentators have forgotten is the love of British cuisine which had been instilled in him during his time in the army kitchens, and his expertise in classical dishes of the Empire.
The gain to army intelligence was an enormous loss to army cuisine. As a sous-chef, while never using anything but the best of British ingredients, Powell's side dishes were acclaimed throughout the ranks. He was generally regarded as the best Chef-of-Staff the British army never had.
After the war however, things were different. The good old British chop-house was in decline. Foreign culinary know-alls were making their presence felt throughout the country. Fancy French menus were beginning to appear in hitherto untainted London restaurants, and further afield. Enoch Powell, by now gone back to his first love - plain food - had become a force to be reckoned with in matters of national cuisine. After some years spent analysing the situation, he decided that enough was enough. In 1968, at a dinner party in Birmingham to honour famous British chefs, Powell stood up and made the speech that defined him for ever. Birmingham was deliberately chosen because its ethnic restaurants and takeaways had been multiplying at a dizzying rate. Powell painted a nightmare vision of a Britain torn by battles over Balti, Szechuan, traditional Chinese, Tex-Mex, French, Irish, Thai, sushi houses, noodle emporiums, Cal-Ital and Asian Fusion. He spoke out fervently in defence of traditional British cuisine. He mounted a spirited defence of bangers and mash. He hailed the bacon buttie as a mark of advanced civilisation. He held up the Sunday roast as the symbol of national pride.
In particular, he abhorred the hamburger and its home: "That tragic and intractable phenomenon which we watch with horror on the other side of the Atlantic is coming upon us here by our own volition and our own neglect."
But Powell was saying the unsayable. The speech that made him almost destroyed him. Cuisine was the only subject that brought him majority public support; but the more popular he became among dockers and other trenchermen, the more unacceptable he was to the culinary elite.
The foodie establishment, already deeply in hock to huge American, Asian and European food multiples, closed ranks against him. He was sacked from his consultancy cuisine posts. Restaurateurs blackened his name and refused his custom. In the most notorious incident, a package of rancid black pudding was shoved through his letter-box.
There were ironies. Powell enjoyed close friendships with Marcella Hazan and Albert Roux. He adored tortellini and would never turn down a spring roll. He was a dab hand at preparing Normandy Duck. But he believed national issues rose above personal preferences. Therein lay his patriotism.
His final incarnation as a Northern Ireland unionist was quite in character. He saw the threat to British culinary sovereignty in tiny outposts of the Empire. He recognised the danger in the la-de-da restaurants sprouting in Belfast, Derry and even the forgotten villages of South Down. His wish was to preserve the province, but not in balsamic vinegar. He was the last champion of the mushy pea.
