Words are one of the principal tools by which we can navigate our complex world, but they frequently serve to obfuscate reality in equal measure. If you’ve ever been stuck next to a member of the flat earth society on a long-haul flight, or studied Donald Trump’s in-depth analysis of global warming, you will of course know what I mean.

When it comes to what we eat, words play their critical part too. But then so does culinary misdirection it seems.

Odd to think, following a radio interview I caught, some folk still believe that sourdough bread was borne of bourgeois sociailist activism during the Covid crisis in and around Shoreditch, rather than its pre-bronze age development along the fertile crescent of the Middle East. Whilst on a parallel social pathway, Ciabatta, a soulless loaf with a vaulting ambition, has been widely mythologised as a rural Italian peasant loaf. Yet, invented by a canny baker in Venice, it only entered the culinary world as recently as 1982. Margaret Thatcher had already been in number 10 for several years before we had even set eyes on Ciabatta bread.

As one may expect, bona fide information’s not necessarily found in the descriptors either – as the makers of turkey twizzlers and crab sticks will be happy to confirm. It’s the Japanese Surimi fish that has far more to fear from the crab stick industry than my nearby Cromer crabs.

It’s not as though all delicious tastes are diminished accordingly, but the loss of context frequently misdirects, and if you followed the scandals surrounding caviar, extra virgin olive oil or Austrian wine, you will know such misdirection can be perilous as well as expensive.

Adapted titles have always haunted the global food system too. Bombay Duck (nothing resembling a Duck), Sweetbreads (definitely not Sweet), Prairie Oysters (anatomically nowhere near an Oyster), Head Cheese (no Cheese in sight), Laverbread (seaweed isn’t  bread), and occasionally, a supermarket favourite, Farm Fresh (at least no Farm you might wish to visit). So apart from hazy questions surrounding etymology, and the duplicitous underbelly of some of our supply chains, it’s not beyond one’s imagination for shades of Sweeny Todd’s baking misdemeanours to be repositioned today – if the marketing were to be carefully curated that is.

But this tale of gastronomic muddling focuses on Whitebait and Rarebit.

Whitebait, although the confirmed non sequitur of the angling world, can at least trace its lineage back to the mid eighteenth-century and was a popular dish in the ale houses that lined the Thames. It was here, along the water’s edge, that fisherman plied their trade with what was becoming an ever-diminishing catch. When the Lord Mayor of London tried to enforce a ban in order to preserve the juvenile fish, local fisherman had a linguistic trick up their sleeves. Instead of acknowledging the over-fishing of immature herring, flounder, smelt, roach, sprat and shad, they convinced the riparian authorities that their catch of diminutive ‘White Bait’ was an entirely distinctive and fully grown species. They even invented a Latin name, Clupea Alba, to ram their message home. So, for many years myriad species were caught without restraint, dipped whole in flour, sprinkled with salt and Cayenne pepper and deep fried in pork fat, all whilst stocks of their primogenitors continued to decline.

As a result, very few are caught here today, most are imported from the Netherlands. Whitebait, still known by its confusing title, is noted for its shimmering silver rather than White scales, and has always been far too valuable to be used as Bait, but to this day the individual species’ nomenclature still remain hidden from the eager diner – however delicious the dish may be. A demonstration perhaps of that Flat Earth philosophy conveniently masking the everyday realities of the food industry. On the other hand, maybe our food system’s induced customer malaise has forever been deployed to support fishing rascals. Someone’s got to net those crab sticks after all.

So to Welsh Rabbit (or Welsh Rarebit for the more refined reader of this blog). A dish that has precious little to do with Wales and even less to do with rabbits. As the principal ingredients are cheese and bread, found almost everywhere in the UK, and the dish is entirely meat free, one is at a loss to pin down the title’s genesis. However that didn’t stop it crossing the channel, being appropriated by French chefs, exalted as Lapin Gallois during the nineteenth century, before being exported back to us.

Suffice to say it would be folly to make further guesses as to origins or content, even after three centuries of welcome consumption, but I am very happy to share this delicious recipe with you. It borders on a delicate pillow-like soufflé, such a far cry from that well known offender at school dinner times – ‘mouse trap’ cheddar, warmly sweating on a lifeless slice of white bread.

Below is surely the benchmark cheese on toast. The very best I have tasted and it was garnered from Gary Rhodes’ fine volume, New British Classics (1999).

350g mature Cheddar, grated. (Caerphilly, if you believe the title)
85ml milk.
25g plain flour.
25g breadcrumbs.
½ tsp English mustard powder.
A few shakes of Worcestershire Sauce.
1 egg.
1 egg yolk.
Salt and pepper to taste.

Melt the cheese in the milk, do not allow to boil, it will separate the cheese.
When the mixture is smooth and just begins to bubble, add the flour, breadcrumbs and mustard.
Cook for a few minutes over a low heat, stirring continuously, until the mixture comes away from the side of the pan and starts to form a ball.
Season with the Worcestershire Sauce, salt and pepper, then leave to cool.
When the mixture is cool, put it in a food processor, turn on the motor, then slowly add the egg and the egg yolk.
Gary says you can beat vigorously with a wooden spoon if you don’t have a food processor.
When the eggs are mixed in, chill in the fridge for a few hours. The mixture will be very pliable and easy to handle.
When ready, lightly toast some sourdough bread and spread the mixture liberally.
Place under the grill until burnished.

And just when it begins to look straightforward, you could add a poached egg on top. Voila...you now have a Buck Rabbit, although please don’t press me on how that sound bite was appended.