OATWORD BOUND
It is said that oats were introduced to Britain as a crop to feed soldiers’ horses, but they were human fodder too: puls (as it was known) was a central pillar in the diet of the Roman soldiers who marched the chilly northern reaches of empire in the first century.
Oats like cool, moist growing conditions and can germinate in sub-zero conditions. Oats therefore liked Britain – especially the North, and Ireland too. In fact, they liked it more than the Romans, who soon got cold and bored and went home to grow olives and lemons in the Mediteranean sun and soporifically slid into being obsolescent and Italian. But the oats stayed, and thrived.
Oats have long typified a North/South divide: Pliny the Elder (23–79AD) referred to oats as “the barbaric bread grain of the Germans’ – likely conflating the wild oat species exclusively used for animal feed with the cultivated variety that was prevalent throughout Northern mainland Europe by the first Century AD.
The Romans blended oats with grains, barley, salt and water to make a nutritious porridge, but the same mixture was also dried, thinly sliced and fried. From this we have polenta but, by an alternate derivation, the oatcake – an oatier version of the venerable pancake.
Pancakes are considerably older, of course. Flour/water batters probably spawned at the dawn of agriculture, with variants in many cuisines: from the corn-based tortilla of South America and teff-based injera of Ethopia to the roti and chapati of India and the lacy crêpe of France – but in the north and west of that country we find the many-membered galette family who are the closest yeasty cousins of the Staffordshire, or Pennine, variety.
Unfathomably, what is today known as the soft ‘Staffordshire oatcake’ lives in the linguistic shadow of the hard Scottish oatcake – an altogether different beastie – just as Newcastle-under-Lyme forever hides behind the cultural mass of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. I lived in Newcastle(-under-Lyme) for seventeen years but never heard an oatcake nicknamed ‘The Potteries Poppadom’, ‘The Tunstall Tortilla’ or even ‘The Clay Suzette’ as it has been alleged. ‘Food of the gods’ – yes.
Even curiouser, the oatcake traditions of Yorkshire, Lancashire and Derbyshire are now almost extinct: like some culinary coelocanth, the Staffordshire Oatcake is the only extant example of a once-common breed. Oatcakes were a key component of the diet of all those living on the backbone of England. High on the windswept Pennines, oats grow more readily than wheat, and therefore oatmeal was, until recently, the most commonly available flour.
Confusingly, ‘oatmeal’ means ‘porridge’ in America – which is doubly confusing, because in America ‘porridge’ means ‘a thick soup made of trousers’. Same issue with chips, pants, and suspenders. It’s triply confounding because Americans usually nail the most literal nomenclature: contrast ‘fall’, ‘eyeglasses’ and ‘sidewalk’ with the poetically oblique ‘autumn’, ‘spectacles’ and ‘pavement’. Quadruply perplexing, in America, oatmeal (the dish) can be made with oatmeal (the ingredient). For our purpose, we’ll continute to refer to oatmeal as milled oats rather than the breakfast dish made with hot, wet, rolled oats.
Extending a diversion into oat lore we should also consider havers and groats.
The presence of the Nordic haver (oats) in old English attests to oat-based agriculture being widely practiced in the British Isles in the 9th Century. From this we obtain the word ‘haversack’ – still in use to describe a military-style back with a single strap of the type that could contain a horse’s breakfast. In Lancashire and the West Riding up to the early 20th Century, they were more commonly known as ‘havercakes’ than oatcakes. Indeed the Lancashire Regiment was once known as ‘The Havercake Lads’. And if you’ve ever visited Le Havre (‘The Oat’?) in Normandy, you’ll have had the opportunity to get confused about the similarity between the old Dutch and German words for oats and havens/harbour, and if you speak Scottish you’ll already be wondering where all this havering is getting us.
‘Groat’ is something of an etymological trickster too. You may encounter oat groats as well as wheat groats. A groat can also mean an oat groat. Or it can refer to a fourpenny bit. That’s the problem with nouns meaning ‘a bit of something’, which is the original sense of the Old English ‘ate’ from which we get ‘oat’, and by extension the Dutch ‘groot’
The Latin botanical name ‘avena sativa’ refers to the most common cultivated form of the oat plant that accounts for over 75% of global oat planting. The American Botanical Council reports:
“Avena sativa is a member of the grass (Poaceae) family and an annual with tall, hollow stems that can grow up to 1.2 meters (about 4 ft) in height. The stems produce flat, bladelike leaves and loosely branched inflorescences, or panicles, that produce golden seeds. These seeds, or groats, are the main part of the plant used commercially, though all the above-ground parts (known as oat straw when harvested before seeding) have been used traditionally. When unripe, the seeds are referred to as “green” or “milky” oats. Ripened seeds are dried and often processed into flakes for human consumption. Oats are native to the Eurasian continent, with a range that spans the Mediterranean, North Africa, Europe, and Northern Central Asia. They have been cultivated by humans for 2,000–5,000 years. Thought to be descended from wild red oat (A. fatua),”
A. Vogel notes: “The meaning of the word Avena, which the Romans used to refer to both cultivated oats as well as wild oats, has not been established. It could well be that the word is derived from either the Sanskrit word “avi”, meaning “sheep” or “avàsa”, meaning “foodstuff”. Grimm has ascertained that in almost every European language the word for oats has something to do with the word for ram. For this reason, oats acquired the name “goat fodder”.”
I lived in Newcastle(-under-Lyme) for 17 years, and on any and every given Sunday, oatcakes were served religiously (as the tradition went) on tin plates. If I said that everyone in the Potteries eats oatcakes so regularly, it wouldn’t strictly be true: most eat them more often. A few never touch them, but they’re in the minority.
The oatcake industry in north Staffordshire has proved to be at least as enduring as the ceramic industry after which it is named. It is said to have begun with ‘hole in the wall’ vendors – enterprising housewives selling oatcakes from their kitchen windows, or similarly bijou town centre premises. This naturally proliferated into small cafés catering to walk-in, stand-up trade – typically family businesses handed down from parent (usually father) to child (usually son).
Demand for oatcakes in the Potteries is staggering – particularly by contrast with the overwhelming ignorance of their existence prevalent beyond the region. A startup best representing the current generation, Oatbakers of Longport, recently celebrated the manufacture of their one millionth oatcake, barely five years after opening. Yet south of Stafford, they are unobtainium.
The failure of this authentic, satisfying, and truly home-grown, English regional food to travel and find an audience beyond a few miles of its heartland has always been a mystery to me, and many a Potteries emigrée.
Your first bite of an oatcake is memorable. It looks familiar, but weird: like a small, dark, shrivelled, rubbery crêpe. In the mouth, it’s thicker, spongier, and altogether more malty and unctuous than a mere pancake. The savoury, toasty notes of a fresh oatcake cry out for a foundation of umami proteins and the sharp top-notes of relish. The time-honoured default recipe of cheddar, bacon and HP sauce ticks all boxes.
Batter recipes vary. For no very accountable reason they remain closely-guarded family secrets among the professional oatbaking community. To be fair, a Poveys oatcake is not the same as an oatcake sold by the generic-owning ‘Staffordshire Oatcakes’ company, which is slightly different again from the ones I used to get from Mellors in Newcastle(-under-Lyme). But differences are slight.
Historically, oatcakes were cooked on a cast-iron ‘baxton’ (bake stone), but the main makers today use large hotplates capable of simultaneously satisfying dozens of hungry breakfasters. The flavour of an oatcake is strongly influenced by the cooking surface: for my money, stainless steel is the poorest option, but by far the most practical when serving in volume. The tastiest oatcakes in north Staffordshire (in my, highly contestable, view) come from those using old-school cast-iron griddles. Equally good, though slightly different, are those contacted by well-seasoned carbon steel.
The mix itself only comprises a handful variables: the ratio of oats to flour, the type and blend of flour(s) and the ratio of milk to water. Almost all recipes call for something in the region of a 2:1 mix of wet to dry ingredients – though it’s possible to work a thicker batter than this, depending on when you plan to eat them. It is said that the earliest oatcake recipes called for water as the only wet ingredient, but within living memory all oatcake recipes I have collected recommend using at least 50% milk in the wet mix. The milk adds body, flavour and lactose that assists caramelisation. Similarly, more modern recipes tend to specify wholemeal flour for a more complex flavour profile and greater bulk. Wartime recipes tended to omit both of these more expensive ingredients – the legacy of which endured until the 1970s and its pogrom on ‘the killer whites’.
Elsewhere I explain how and why we’ve deviated from ‘classic’ oatcake recipes in pursuit of richer flavour in the context of home cooking and street food. The problem, as I see it, is that most of the thousands of oatcakes eaten by Stokies each week now come from wholesale producers selling cooked oatcakes in plastic bags, often via supermarkets. Oatcakes tolerate being re-heated suprisingly well. In fact, there’s a case to be made that they are optimal that way, because a new, hot oatcake needs time to relax and knit its gluten together. A griddle-fresh oatcake has a semi-crisp outer skin and lightly puffy innards, but the perfect oatcake has the firmer, but still yielding texture of a rested sample.
Shop-bought oatcakes generally have a dollop of bicarbonate of soda, which imparts an unpleasant aftertaste. They quickly ride the shark, too, when it comes to storage. Cooking them – usually under a grill – it’s relatively tricky to melt the cheese without embrittling the edges of the oatcake. Personally, I favour a bit of overcooking here – otherwise the whole enchilada becomes a sad, floppy mess. But there are those for whom that very thing is oatcake paradise – just as there are those who dip (no matter how much sauce is inside) and those who do not. I’m with team dip, just so you know – along with all the children.
We tend to eulogise the food of our childhood. Rightly or wrongly, Pop Tarts, Angel Delight and a really specific type of Sherry trifle (for instance) may remain stuck in your brain as definitive. But the sad truth is that the Staffordshire Oatcake, beloved of generations – however comforting – is a somewhat shrivelled hand-me-down compared to the ancient Proto-Pennine Havercake from which it descended. As we’ll consider, the range of toppings and fillings offered has withered to a handful of time-tested, but unimaginative, breakfast items. Sweet oatcakes have become anathema. And the poor thing shrank: perhaps a victim of wartime rationing, but more likely a Victorian-era trend. Previously, oatcakes were considerably larger, and oval. Not only were they served with honey and butter, they were dried, preserved and sold with potted meat and onions – like Pennine bruschetta. In Yorkshire they were filled with ‘tatie hash’ and a combination of butter, cheese and ‘crappins’ (rendered pork fat). Hard oatcakes were served like ship’s tack to rehydrate in stews. Oatcakes were served with beer at lunch and dinner. Mindful that I’m about to trample wantonly on a myriad childhood memories – they were (and can be) more than cheese and bacon on a hot tin plate.
Fillings and Toppings
Another contentious topic is whether an oatcake should be rolled or folded. Advocates of the latter point to the larger quantity of filling achievable via this configuration; the former group favours the superior texture and tactility of the roll – quality over quantity. However, for all the acrimony about how to fill them, there’s suprisingly little disagreement about what to fill them with: it shall be all the items of breakfast: cheese, bacon, sausage and mushrooms – even (if you have a plate) eggs and beans. Two accompaniments are sanctioned: red and brown sauce. Hail the English breakfast. But is that all an oatcake can be?
Surely, the joy of a pancake is its blank canvas.
At this juncture, I would like to credit Mrs. Ping. On the Higherlands in Newcastle(-under-Lyme) a Chinese lady once ran a small cafe. Mrs. Ping was happily unconstrained by English culinary traditions. When Mrs. Ping made coconut cake, it was half the size and weight of a brick, coated with chocolate as thick as mortar. When Mrs. Ping made a ‘Special Oatcake’ it came in a box that needed wheels. The Mrs. Ping Special Oatcake (eaten once weekly, on Friday, thank you) comprised six stacked oatcakes layered with evey magical hue of the breakfast rainbow. I’ve served Mrs. Ping special oatcakes, cut into towering slices, at dinner parties. My point is that Mrs. Ping pushed oatcake science as far as those ingredients can be taken. Hers were the last words in traditional oatcakes, and I salute her.
But what if they were galettes? In Brittany, the best galettes for my money are filled with seafood. Cheddar can be a wonderful thing, but there’s a world of cheese out there that tastes more complex, and melts better. Who makes the best sausages? Sit down, Staffordshire. And if we’re talking about oat-compatible flavours – the sky’s your oyster.
The Oatery is my long-daydreamed attempt to help Staffordshire oatcakes escape their native habitat, proliferate, and claim their rightful place in British food culture – which means connecting it to other cultures, too. I have a dream that one day little Scouse boys and little Cornish girls will be holding Marinara oatcakes with little Londoners and Stokies as sisters and brothers. To that end, I’ve enriched and expanded the classic batter recipes, and broadened the range of fillings offered to include global comfort foods that hit the same pleasure centres as traditional Staffordshire oatcakes – only more so.
If you visit a stall or pop-up, you’ll find we’re still offering the classic combos, but using crunchy matured cheddar, wine-caramelised onions, fresh chives, local foraged wild garlic in season, and sausages made by local suppliers as well as Polish and Bavarian makers. We might offer you a tasting tour of the Alps with cheeses from Swiss, French and Italian Alpine makers, before making an oatcake with your favourite. There may be Indian and Lebanese specials, soufflé omelettes with truffle, and even a selection of heretical sweet oatcakes like the popular Highlander – made with whiskey crème patisserie and whiskey-steeped sultanas and by Scottish bees.
Because surely oatcakes can be more.
Mark Welsh
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