Sweet

Like ‘dinner’, this word is not in itself a class indicator, but it becomes one when
misapplied. The upper-middle and upper classes insist that the sweet course at the end of a meal
is called the ‘pudding’ – never the ‘sweet’, or ‘afters’, or ‘dessert’, all of which are déclassé,
unacceptable words. ‘Sweet’ can be used freely as an adjective, but as a noun it is piece of
confectionary – what the Americans call ‘candy’ – and nothing else. The course at the end of the
meal is always ‘pudding’, whatever it consists of: a slice of cake is ‘pudding’, so is a lemon
sorbet. Asking: ‘Does anyone want a sweet?’ at the end of a meal will get you immediately
classified as middle-middle or below. ‘Afters’ will also activate the class-radar and get you
demoted. Some American-influenced young uppermiddles are starting to say ‘dessert’, and this
is therefore the least offensive of the three – and the least reliable as a class indicator. It can also
cause confusion as, to the upper classes, ‘dessert’ traditionally means a selection of fresh fruit,
served right at the end of a dinner, after the pudding, and eaten with a knife and fork.

Dinner
There is nothing wrong with the word ‘dinner’ in itself: it is only a working-class
hallmark if you use it to refer to the midday meal, which should be called ‘lunch’. Calling your
evening meal ‘tea’ is also a working-class indicator: the higher echelons call this meal ‘dinner’
or ‘supper’. (Technically, a dinner is a somewhat grander meal than a supper: if you are invited
to ‘supper’, this is likely to be an informal family meal, eaten in the kitchen – sometimes this is
made explicit, as in ‘family supper’ or ‘kitchen supper’. The uppers and upper-middles use the
term ‘supper’ more than the middle- and lower-middles). ‘Tea’, for the higher classes, is taken at
around four o’clock, and consists of tea and cakes or scones (which they pronounce with a short
‘o’), and perhaps little sandwiches (pronounced ‘sanwidges’, not ‘sand-witches’). The lower
classes call this ‘afternoon tea’. All this can pose a few problems for foreign visitors: if you are
invited to ‘dinner’, should you turn up at midday or in the evening? Does ‘come for tea’ mean
four o’clock or seven o’clock? To be safe, you will have to ask what time you are expected. The
answer will help you to place your hosts on the social scale.

Timing and Linguistic Indicators

Dinner/Tea/Supper Rules
What do you call your evening meal? And at what time do you eat it?
If you call it ‘tea’, and eat it at around half past six, you are almost certainly working
class or of workingclass origin. (If you have a tendency to personalize the meal, calling it ‘my
tea’, ‘our/us tea’ and ‘your tea’ – as in ‘I must be going home for my tea’, ‘What’s for us tea,
love?’ or ‘Come back to mine for your tea’ – you are probably northern working class.)
If you call the evening meal ‘dinner’, and eat it at around seven o’clock, you are
probably lower-middle or middle-middle.
If you normally only use the term ‘dinner’ for rather more formal evening meals, and
call your informal, family evening meal ‘supper’ (pronounced ‘suppah’), you are probably
upper-middle or upper class. The timing of these meals tends to be more flexible, but a family
‘supper’ is generally eaten at around half-past seven, while a ‘dinner’ would usually be later,
from half past eight onwards.
To everyone but the working classes, ‘tea’ is a light meal taken at around four o’clock
in the afternoon, and consists of tea (the drink) with cakes, scones, jam, biscuits and perhaps
little sandwiches – traditionally including cucumber sandwiches – with the crusts cut off. The
working classes call this ‘afternoon tea’, to distinguish it from the evening ‘tea’ that the rest call
supper or dinner.
Lunch/Dinner Rules
The timing of lunch is not a class indicator, as almost everyone has lunch at around one
o’clock. The only class indicator is what you call this meal: if you call it ‘dinner’, you are
working class; everyone else, from the lowermiddles upwards, calls it ‘lunch’. People who say
‘d’lunch’ – which Jilly Cooper notes has a slightly West Indian sound to it – are trying to
conceal their working-class origins, remembering at the last second not to call it ‘dinner’. (They
may also say ‘t’dinner’ – which confusingly sounds a bit Yorkshire – for the evening meal, just
stopping themselves from calling it ‘tea’.) Whatever their class, and whatever they may call it,
the English do not take the middle-of-the-day meal at all seriously: most make do with a
sandwich or some other quick, easy, single-dish meal.
The long, lavish, boozy ‘business lunch’ is nowadays somewhat frowned upon (more of
that American-inspired puritanical health-correctness), which is a great shame, as it was based on
very sound anthropological and psychological principles. The giving and sharing of food is
universally known to be one of the most effective forms of human social bonding.

Breakfast Rules – and Tea Beliefs

The traditional English breakfast – tea, toast, marmalade, eggs, bacon, sausages,
tomatoes, mushrooms, etc. – is both good and filling, and breakfast is the only aspect of English
cooking that is frequently and enthusiastically praised by foreigners. Few of us eat this ‘full
English breakfast’ regularly, however: foreign tourists staying in hotels get far more traditional
breakfasts than we natives ever enjoy at home.
The tradition is maintained more at the top and bottom of the social scale than among the
middle ranks. Some members of the upper class and aristocracy still have proper English
breakfasts in their country houses, and some working-class people (mostly males) still believe in
starting the day with a ‘cooked breakfast’ of bacon, eggs, sausages, baked beans, fried bread,
toast and so on.
This feast may often be eaten in a ‘caff’ rather than at home, and is washed down with
industrial quantities of strong, brick-coloured, sweet, milky tea. Lower-middles and middle-
middles drink a paler, ‘posher’ version, Twining’s English Breakfast, say, rather than PG Tips.
The upper-middle and upper classes drink weak, dishwatercoloured, unsweetened Earl Grey.
Taking sugar in your tea is regarded by many as an infallible lower-class indicator: even one
spoonful is a bit suspect (unless you were born before about 1955); more than one and you are
lower-middle at best; more than two and you are definitely working class. Putting the milk into
the cup first is also a lower-class habit, as is over-vigorous, noisy stirring. Some pretentious
middles and upper-middles make an ostentatious point of drinking Lapsang Souchong, without
milk or sugar, as this is about as far removed from working-class tea as they can get. More
honest (or less class-anxious) upper-middles and uppers often admit to a secret liking for the
strong, rust-coloured ‘builders’ tea’. How snooty you are about ‘builders’ tea’, and how careful
you are to avoid it, is quite a good class-anxiety test.
Tea is still believed, by English people of all classes, to have miraculous properties. A
cup of tea can cure, or at least significantly alleviate, almost all minor physical ailments and
indispositions, from a headache to a scraped knee. Tea is also an essential remedy for all social
and psychological ills, from a bruised ego to the trauma of a divorce or bereavement. This
magical drink can be used equally effectively as a sedative or stimulant, to calm and soothe or to
revive and invigorate. Whatever your mental or physical state, what you need is ‘a nice cup of
tea’.
Perhaps most importantly, tea-making is the perfect displacement activity: whenever the
English feel awkward or uncomfortable in a social situation (that is, almost all of the time), they
make tea. It’s a universal rule: when in doubt, put the kettle on. Visitors arrive; we have our
usual difficulties over greeting protocol. We say, ‘I’ll just put the kettle on’. There is one of
those uneasy lulls in the conversation, and we’ve run out of weather-speak.
We say, ‘Now, who’d like more tea? I’ll just go and put the kettle on’. A business
meeting might involve having to talk about money. We postpone the uncomfortable bit by
making sure everyone has tea. A bad accident – people are injured and in shock: tea is needed.
‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ World War Three breaks out – a nuclear attack is imminent. ‘I’ll put the
kettle on.’
 You get the idea. We are rather fond of tea.
We are also very partial to toast. Toast is a breakfast staple, and an all-purpose, anytime
comfort food. What tea alone does not cure, tea and toast surely will. The ‘toast rack’ is a
peculiarly English object. My father, who lives in America and has become somewhat American
in his tastes and habits, calls it a ‘toast cooler’ and claims that its sole function is to ensure that
one’s toast gets stone cold as quickly as possible. English supporters of the toast rack would
argue that it keeps toast dry and crisp, that separating the slices of toast and standing them
upright stops them becoming soggy, which is what happens to American toast, served piled up
huggermugger in a humid, perspiring stack on the plate, sometimes even wrapped in a napkin to
retain yet more moisture. The English would rather have their toast cool and dry than warm and
damp. American toast lacks reserve and dignity: it is too sweaty and indiscreet and emotional.
But toast is not much use as a class indicator: everybody likes toast. The higher social
ranks do have a bit of a prejudice against packaged sliced bread, but only the very class-anxious
will go to great lengths to avoid it.
What you choose to spread on your toast, however, can provide clues to your social
position. Margarine is regarded as decidedly ‘common’ by the middle and upper classes, who
use butter (unless they are on a diet or have a dairy intolerance, that is). Marmalade is universally
popular, but the dark, thick-cut Oxford or Dundee marmalade is favoured by the higher echelons,
while the lower ranks generally prefer the lighter-coloured, thincut Golden Shred.
The unwritten class rules about jam are much the same: the darker the colour and the
bigger the lumps of fruit, the more socially elevated the jam. Some class-anxious middles and
upper-middles secretly prefer the paler, smoother, low-class marmalades and jams (possibly
because they come from lower-class backgrounds, and were fed Golden Shred and the like as
children), but feel obliged to buy the socially superior chunky ones. Only the lower classes – the
lower-middles in particular – try to sound posh by calling jam ‘preserves’.