Ride that gravy train
THE connection between Odysseus —erstwhile hero of Homer’s Odyssey —and gravy, the meaty lifeblood of British food, seems tenuous to say the least. Whereas the first battles gods, monsters, sorceresses and sirens, the second adds succour to a Sunday roast. Yet in George Chapman’s 1615 translation of the epic poem (the one so beloved by Keats), he talks of goats roasted ‘with all their fat and gravy’. So, there we go. Gravy. Not merely a liquid so luscious that I slurp it straight from the jug, but one beloved by ancient heroes, too.
Because gravy is no mere sauce and far less a condiment, but rather the very essence of meat and also an essence of Britishness. It’s a word that sings of joy and plenty, ‘something desirable, easily or unexpectedly obtained’. None of us are averse to
