Richard Cobden sought world peace and gave us French wine

Richard Cobden, the nineteenth century independent MP, believed that free trade would nurture international peace.  As an appreciative student of Cobden, that much I knew.

That in campaigning for free trade he enabled these shores to be flooded with an influx of French wine is a fact that I was unaware of.

Cobden's role in the 1860 Treaty of Commerce is mentioned by History & Policy's first policy paper of 2011, 'Wine, supermarkets and British alcohol policy', by Bath Spa historian James Nicholls.  History & Policy's raison d'être is to connect historians to policymakers and the media, in order to inform contemporary debate with historical insight.

According to Nicholls, Cobden called on Gladstone, the Prime Minister, in September 1859, to propose that freer trade between Great Britain and France might defuse the "worrying evidence of mutual sabre-rattling."

Whether or not a French invasion was averted was in all likelihood more a result of other diplomatic plays than the reduction of tariffs.  What cannot be doubted, however, is the effect that Cobden and the 1860 Treaty of Commerce had on British wine consumption.

The 'era of cheap Gladstone claret' witnessed imports of French wine climb from just 600,000 gallons in 1850 to a sobering [sic] seven million gallons in 1880.  The Liberal Prime minister claimed, and philosopher Roger Scruton would affirm, that Britain became more "civilised."

That might be credible under the influence of rarefied Bordelaise tipples in Victorian England; on the back of 3-for-2 discounts of cheap Aussie plonk in a box in modern supermarkets, it feels less so.  (Is this democratisation of wine 'progress'?)

That is the chief critique of Nicholl's essay, centring as it does on current debates about minimum unit alcohol pricing, public health and the tip in the balance between domestic and public boozing.

The ability of such history to tell today's politicians how to act on all of this is highly debatable.  The current scenario sees the SNP in Scotland having adopted minimum alcohol pricing as policy, whereas both Labour (under the previous Government at least, heaven knows what Ed Miliband thinks now) and the Conservatives have neither welcomed it nor poured cold water over it.

Where Nicholls does have a pertinent point, and what this history does teach us, is that to impose restrictions on alcohol in this country you must take the moderate middle classes with you and not be seen to be discriminating against poorer drinkers at the same time. This is the biggest concern of David Cameron, says Nicholls.  (The middle class point is ironic, given that we used to have an apparently over-consumptive middle class occupant of 10 Downing Street only a few years ago.)

Nicholls' essay might well give some useful anecdotes to the tune of 'calm down, we've been here before, dontcha know', but I do not believe it will change people's minds.  It is, however, (and raise a glass here) a bright and sparkling little read - like a sumptuous half bottle of biscuity English bubbly - and it taught me something new.

If that isn't a good enough justification for the sort of 'relevance-driven' history that History & Policy promotes, I don't know what is.

Au contraire, mon frere - English wine and cheese is world's best

 The French presume themselves a cultured race.  If the US is the world's policeman, France is the world's critic.  Les philosophes taught us enlightenment and reason; les révolutionnaires brought us liberty, equality and fraternity; and great chefs like Escoffier gave us haute cuisine.  The French have instructed us how to think, how to govern and how to cook.  Or so they deign to believe.

If we think of perceived French cultural superiority today, we think principally of gastronomy and oenology (at least, I certainly do, having lived in Paris in my formative years).  Food and wine.

It in their regional produce that the French proclaim gastronomic pre-eminence.  The world may have become adept at imitating its cuisine but you cannot mimic le terroir.  First growth claret, regal Burgundy, or exclusive, extravagant, celebratory Champagne.  Michelin stars.  Oozing, pungent, lavish, sumptuous cheese: Brie de Meaux, Pont-l'Évêque, Livarot, or Vacherin Mont d'Or.

In their own eyes, no other nation can match them for the quality of their wine and cheese.  Not the Spanish with their manchego and Rioja, nor the Italians with their parmiggiano and Chianti.  Certainly not the English.  The gulf between France and its ancient adversaries, les rosbifs, in matters culinary and vine is as wide as Gerard Depardieu's nose.

Of course it is.  The French could not hope to match England's green and pleasant land for wine and cheese, we have always known that, and now the world believes it too.

The writing was on le mur in 1992 when a blind tasting of West Sussex vineyard Nyetimber's Blanc des Blancs caused a fierce debate about which appellation of France it came from.  Since then, its Classic Cuvée and Blanc des Blancs vintages of sparkling wine (i.e. Champagne) have scooped numerous global awards.  Nyetimber is a three times winner of the 'Best Worldwide Sparkling Wine' at the IWSC competition as well as 'Champion of Worldwide Sparkling Wines 2009' at the Bollicine del Mondo, ahead of 13 sparklers from Champagne.

This year, the producers of Epernay and Reims could not even better Nyetimber's relatively unknown Sussex neighbour, Ridgeview, whose 2006 vintage Grosvenor Blanc des Blancs was awarded the illustrious 2010 Decanter Trophy for best sparkling wine in the world.

And just as France was recovering from collective cultural miasma, the unthinkable happened.  Not only can French sparkling wine no longer compete with England, nor can its cheese.

Cornish Blue cheese

An English cheese, Cornish Blue from Liskeard, ranked ahead of 2,600 entries from 26 countries to win this year's World Cheese Awards.  A cow's milk cheese, it has "a freshness that is a world away from the briny tang of Roquefort or the aged complexity of Stilton...a wholly different approach to blue cheese."

Former French president, Jacques Chirac, who stands trial for corruption early next year, once said that "the only thing [the English] have ever done for European agriculture is mad cow disease [and] after Finland, it is the country with the worst food."

It tickles me pink as a Ladurée macaroon to think of Monsieur Chirac, spluttering over his morning croissant as he eats metaphorical tarte pénitente.

Sherlock Holmes' portly companion Dr Watson uttered:

"Even the coeur flottant merveilleux aux fraises, presented with a great flourish, made little impression, for it was no more than what may happen to the simple, honest dish of strawberries and cream once it falls into the hands of a Frenchman."

The craft and complexity of France's soccer skills might still be too much for the English, but as this country is steadfastly proving, when it comes to gastronomy, brilliant simplicity trumps over-elaboration and pretence.

American cartoon comedy The Simpsons, in 1995, labelled the French "cheese eating surrender monkeys".  They're right about the first bit, but in the world of cheese and wine, don't bet on the French believing a word of the hype over England's triumphant offerings.

They won't surrender.  Not one bit.  Their cheese and wine will always be the best.  But after all, the French wouldn't be the French without that endearing belief in their cultural superiority.

Cheer up, mes amis, you still have the Alps, the climate and Carla Bruni.  You can plan the party.  Just leave the catering to us.