The Realm Of The Senses

London's borough market doesn't seem to be the sort of place you'd go in search of unbridled sensuality. On a gray winter day, the wind from the Thames wafts the smell of rotting cabbage through the arcades. Worn Victorian signs advertise wholesale potatoes. But nearby, hedonism reigns. At the Cook & Konditor bakery, a queue of hungry office workers on lunch break waits for takeout Thai noodle salad and curried parsnip soup. They contemplate the Parmesan shortbread and jars of figs ranged along the counters. Around the corner, at the Neal's Yard Dairy, some civil servants are eying fat wheels of succulent Cooleas and creamy "New Wave" cheeses like T'yn Grug. "I come here every weekend with my son," says one man in hushed tones. "We walk down here together, just to look."

Once upon a time in Britain, food was simply something you ate. Industrialized early, Britain became a country of cities and factories well before the Continent, and Britons got used to eating from tins. In the '40s and '50s, 15 years of war rations locked in the tradition: food was consumed, but it wasn't consuming. "I would never have dreamt of discussing a dish at the table with my parents," says cookbook writer Nigel Slater. "Food was just something you wouldn't talk about."

Now Britons won't shut up about it. Last week the debate over "Frankenstein foods," as the tabs christened genetically modified crops, reached fever pitch in the papers and Parliament. Resisting calls for a moratorium on genetically modified crops, Tony Blair's Labour government tried to convince a frightened public that GM foods were safe to eat. But, then, the British nation is used to reading about food: every week newspapers and magazines publish roughly 40,000 words on food. Books on eating and drinking now account for more than 10 percent of all nonfiction sales. The 43 food programs on British television range from the elegant exoticism of "Ken Hom's Chinese Cookery" to the slapstick of "Ready, Steady, Cook" or "Two Fat Ladies."

It's not just that Britons have discovered good food. It's that the stuff has suddenly become a national obsession, nestling squarely between New Labour and football as topic A at dinner parties and gyms. People who used to think about God, Bosnia and fringe theater have shifted their focus to pancetta and salsa verde. With articles like "What Is the World's Greatest Caramel?" Sainsbury's Magazine--sold at the supermarket chain's checkout counters--has a readership of 2.8 million, nearly three times that of The Times. Sunday magazines feature spread after sexy spread of juicy roast peppers, melting goat cheese or steaming tamarind curries. If Diana's death revealed a willingness for Britons to emote, the new gastronomic revolution is revealing their willingness to eat. Observes Nigella Lawson, author of "How to Eat": "We are all Tuscans now."

What produced this infatuation? Start with Britain's sea change from a largely Anglo-Saxon nation to a multicultural European one. Mix in the new ease of travel, which broadens gastronomic horizons. Add the power of television, newly chic supermarkets and a new sensitivity to what one ingests brought on by a series of food scares. And voila: food is hot. "Ten years ago at a club, you'd tell people you were a fashion designer," says Eric Treuille, a French chef who moved to London in the mid-'80s. "Now all the designers are telling people they're chefs." In the 1980s, small cults formed around handsome chefs who launched high-profile restaurants in Britain's capital. "In the '80s, it was restaurant as temple," says Lawson. "You venerated the chef. You were reverential towards the food. It was designer meal as sacrament. But as in most religions, people were made to feel like unworthy sinners. Diners felt like unworthy eaters."