I am not going to lie. The temptation to invent British fake stews has never been greater than it has been during these past few weeks. The more I spoke to, sorry, listened to, our continental cousins passionately relaying the histories of their national hunting dishes, conveying recipes with such pride, the more I related to Gore Vidal: “Every time a friend succeeds, something inside me dies.” This culminated with a German friend of a friend, Leopold, laughingly saying, “But stews are not British, are they? It’s Irish stew, isn’t it?”
“Oh no,” I replied. “We have beef stew.” I know, I know, rubbish response, I let the side down.
Bigos, for example, is not just a hunter’s stew – it is the national dish of Poland. My friend Marta, the…