A seat at the table

From the sugar of the Empire to the fish and chips of the East End, British cuisine has always been about arrival. Today, every newcomer to the city is reshaping life in London – through what they bring, adapt, and transform at the table.

(Illustration/Joanna Chan)

When people first land in London, many experience a sensory gap. The fruits and vegetables in the supermarket look neat and clean, but they are often barely noticeable at all. For those who are used to intense or direct flavours, this ‘light’ may be disappointing at first. 

One thing to know about London’s food scene is that taste takes shape completely through preparation. This continuous layering of flavour depends on new arrivals consistently stepping into the city. That pattern of change is not new. As historian Dr Neil Buttery notes, “Plum pudding and roast beef were once considered as national dishes; now it’s chicken tikka masala.” This necessity also creates an opening: because the flavour must be built, there is room for the cook to shape it through layering and seasoning.

Searching for flavour

Learning to navigate London feels a lot like adjusting to its food. At first, the city’s unspoken social rules can leave you feeling culturally adrift. But just as you learn to build flavour with unfamiliar ingredients, you eventually decode the culture through your senses. To find your footing in this city, the best place to start is the kitchen.

The kitchen acts as a space of constant movement, where different accents, techniques, and memories bleed into one another. For the migrant chefs working behind the stoves, this adaptation is a daily survival skill. Brazilian chef Kaue Menumatch, 41, who has worked in London for over 14 years, knows this sensory gap well. 

Coming from a strong-flavoured food culture, he sees this contrast as built into the food culture itself, rather than a matter of good or bad. “British produce can have a more subtle flavour compared to what I’m used to in Brazil, especially fruits and vegetables, which in Brazil are often intensely sweet and aromatic,” Kaue admits.

(Illustration/Joanna Chan)

What had first felt bland gradually took shape in his understanding; Kaue began to value the consistency and seasonality of British ingredients, especially root vegetables and leafy greens. “I learned that the secret to bringing out the best in ingredients lies in technique and seasoning, not by changing the ingredient itself. I adjust heat, timing, and layering flavour step by step.”

Although Kaue is Brazilian, in his daily work routine in London, he does not make Brazilian food. He works with a menu of British and Continental staples, yet he knows he doesn’t leave his background at the door. “Even when preparing dishes like pasta, roasts, or burgers, I tend to think about bold seasoning, balance, and layers of flavour,” Kaue explains, “I also like to incorporate small touches, such as marinades, citrus, herbs, or sauces, that reflect my roots.”

The dish may stay the same, but choices in acidity, the depth of taste, or sauce can really tell you where a cook comes from. A standard pub burger might hide a sharp, citrus marinade, or a Sunday roast could be rubbed with an unexpected mix of herbs. Step into any shared kitchen across London on a weekday evening, and you’ll see the exact same thing. You might buy the same standard carrots and chicken breasts from the local Sainsbury’s as your British flatmates, but what happens once they hit the frying pan is entirely yours.

The broken plate

Entry into this food culture often starts with small adjustments. Instead of deciding whether you belong here, ask first: what can I add to this plate? Once you look past the sensory gap, a deeper question emerges: what is British cuisine? The answer is far less stable than most expect.

Dr Buttery sees the nation’s food culture as a mix of self-deprecation and pride. Instead of debating quality, he points to what matters more: British cuisine is defined less by borders than by what it absorbs. “It is a cuisine rooted in tradition, yet also readily absorbs new ingredients, dishes and flavours from other countries”.

This perceived taste fault is not due to a lack of history. Dr Buttery suggests that the tradition has been “interrupted and rebuilt too many times”, through repeated social and economic disruption. From the Industrial Revolution to wartime rationing, the British table was constantly rewritten, and much of its older food folklore disappeared along the way. Change didn’t happen gently; it happened out of necessity.

“We absorbed the ingredients and recipes and made them British,” Dr Buttery adds. This habit goes back centuries, starting with the Crusades. He explains that ingredients such as sugar, dried fruits, and almonds, which are now central to mince pies and marzipan, arrived via trade routes connected to the Islamic world. 

Even regional icons are deceptive. Dr Buttery notes that many local legends are effectively myths hidden by time: Yorkshire pudding may not originate from Yorkshire, and Haggis was originally eaten across the entire British Isles before history rewrote the script and designated it as Scottish.

Another example of this migrant tradition is found in Liverpool, with its famous stew, Scouse. The dish is so central to the city’s identity that the locals are called scousers, a name literally derived from it. It is not an ancient English recipe, but a migrant from the sea. A shortened version of lobscouse, a preserved meat stew eaten by Norwegian and German sailors, it arrived at the docks in the 18th century and became a staple for the working class. It wasn’t born in the city; it was anchored there.

(Illustration/Joanna Chan)

This same mechanism appears in the nation’s sweeteners. The colonial sugar trade didn’t just add flavour; it changed the entire British dessert system. Dr Buttery describes this influence as what he calls a “sugar-slave complex”, a structure so deep-rooted that Britain effectively became the “sweetshop of Europe”.

English sugar consumption exploded from just 6.5 lbs per person in 1710 to over 30 lbs by the turn of the century. It was not only about taste; it was about fuel. As tea became a staple, sugar provided the essential calorie boost for the working poor, turning a bland diet into the energy that powered the Industrial Revolution.

Yet, this system was among the most brutal in history. It relied on the ‘Triangular Trade’, where domestic ‘sugar bakers’ were powered by British coal, while the raw cane demanded the backbreaking toil of enslaved Africans. The profits reshaped the economy and the national taste, leaving a sweetness tied to violent origins.

Bring this historical pattern back to present-day London, and the transformation becomes clearer: the city is not changed by the outside; it is continued by it. “If you live in London, you’re a Londoner, wherever you may have been born,” Dr Buttery says. This offers a different kind of comfort: a sense of belonging forged through participation rather than descent.

The uncomfortable feast

If British cuisine has repeatedly rebuilt itself through foreign ingredients, another question follows: when a taste is accepted, are the people behind it accepted too?

At first glance, the link between migration and food seems simple. However, historian Dr Panikos Panayi reminds us that culinary appreciation does not naturally equate to social tolerance. He uses fish and chips, often regarded as the most British of national dishes, as an example of how migration and transport networks helped turn street food into ‘tradition’. Fried fish is linked to Jewish immigrants, chips came from continental Europe, and the railway network turned the pairing into a national habit.

(Illustration/Joanna Chan)

Dr Panayi notes that the railways made it possible for fresh fish to travel quickly inland, spreading the dish from East London across the country. It eventually replaced roast beef, becoming what he calls the “de facto national dish” of the working class. 

As Dr Panayi suggests, sampling the local cuisine is obligatory because it allows a sojourner to “taste the immigration and colonial history” of the country. Yet, he warns against confusing culinary appreciation with social acceptance. Noting that treats like ice cream arrived through Italian immigration, he argues that consuming a global product does not automatically make a society tolerant. He defines this phenomenon – where a palate is open to new flavours but society remains hostile to the communities behind them – as “multicultural racism”.

To illustrate this contradiction, Dr Panayi points to the 1970s and 80s, when white British men, after a night out, would enter Bangladeshi restaurants to enjoy a curry while racially abusing the staff who served them. It suggests that while integration does occur, it often coexists with outright exclusion. The stomach, it seems, accepts the food much faster than society accepts the people who cook it. As Dr Panayi concludes, “One can only understand British society if one accepts that racism and integration run parallel to each other.”

That tension is not only historical or theoretical; it appears right at the restaurant door. Mustakin Gohlam, 31, known as Abel, a Bangladeshi chef who has worked in London for 13 years, offers a lived perspective on a common phenomenon: why do so many Bangladeshi-run restaurants advertise themselves as ‘Indian Cuisine’?

He explains that it all comes down to recognisability. “It is easier to recognise the Indian cuisine among the multiple varieties of options available. Especially in the eyes of many Europeans, who might never have heard about Bangladesh,” says Abel.

He compares this to his years living in Italy, where many people did not know where Bangladesh was. To get people to try the food, you first have to give them a name they recognise. It is a form of survival communication; identity sometimes needs to be simplified before the taste can be swallowed. London’s food scene operates in this friction. Food flows across borders, but names, labels, and perceptions often have to be compromised first.

The warmth of the mix

Ultimately, the answer is not found in the history book, but in a takeaway box. When asked whether the curry house had rewritten the British tradition, Abel used a calm, critical word: “Not rewritten, but amplified”. 

This is the working rule of London kitchens. You do not overturn the structure; you amplify it. You do not replace; you add layers. Abel points to a daily example: fish and chips with curry sauce. “For me, it became so popular because it balances the crispy and sometimes dryness of the fish and chips,” he says.

Abel sees this combination as an operational logic rather than a conflict. “The elegance of the British cuisine and the spicy twist of the Asian one. For me, it is a win.” It is not about who saves whom. It is about how they complete each other.

When you first move here, London feels cold at first. The weather is cold, the tone is cold, and the social distance is cold. You can exist legally in the system, but you may not feel included immediately. Food culture provides a way to participate without the need to pass the language test, social rules, or class code.

In the kitchen, if something is dry, you add sauce. If it is too crisp, you build layers. Living in London works much the same way.

Looking back at the lineage, you will find that British food is never a closed tradition but a continuous addition: sugar, potatoes, frying techniques, and spices, each an arrival. Many times, we worry that we are intruders; we scare ourselves into thinking we are too noisy, too spicy, and too different. 

Part of this city’s food identity lies in disruption and openness, which makes every new arrival part of the structure, not a disturbance. You are not interrupting the recipe, you are completing the flavour – an ingredient rather than an intruder. Without that sourness, that spiciness, that extra layer, the city risks sliding back toward the bland Kaue first noticed.

So there is no need to rush to prove you are a “real Londoner”, or to feel rejected because your hometown name sits awkwardly on the menu. Sometimes, belonging is not written on an ID card. It shows in the dishes you cook, the restaurants you recommend, and the warmth you bring to this city.

Pull up a stool and sit down. This table has never really been full; it has been waiting for you to come with salt.