High Tea, High Fashion: Prêt-à-Portea at The Maybourne Beverly Hills

The sixth Duchess of Bedford was my kind of woman. Around 1840, she noticed a ‘sinking feeling’ at the same time every afternoon. Baffled by this sensation, she tried to solve it by ordering to her room a fortifying tray of bread and butter, cake, and tea.

As I know all too well, sinking feelings are often buoyed by a delicious crumb of cake. Unsurprisingly, the Duchess was cured. She began ordering the same tray at four every afternoon and inviting friends to cure their own sinking feelings (or ‘hunger,’ as we might refer to it today). Afternoon tea was born.

There is, the Duchess and I agree, a long stretch between lunch and dinner. And what could be lovelier than boosting one’s spirits—and stomach—with morsels of carbohydrate and a hot cup of tea?

Some say afternoon tea is Britain’s great culinary offering, although its elements vary and some may not even be British. There are sandwiches, but their shape and stuffing can differ. Cucumber, probably. Egg and cress. But there might be slivers of smoked salmon, or perfectly pink roast beef pepped up with horseradish. Crumpets dripping with proper butter and honey are also always welcome.

There may be tartlets or éclairs, and Florentines or shortbread. Victoria sponge or ginger cake. The late Queen Elizabeth II liked chocolate fridge cake. There are sardines on toast and soft-boiled eggs in The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. Mary Poppins was delighted by two plates of whelks. There’s seed cake in Jane Eyre and cold tongue (yuk) in Little Women, while Crawley cousin Matthew helps himself to a tray of madeleines in Downton Abbey. Afternoon tea can be a wonderfully childish treat of whatever you most fancy.

But the Duchess of Bedford was a posh lady, and the custom spread quickly among other posh ladies, including her friend Queen Victoria. And there are—technically—a few rules.

I say ‘technically’ because some people stick too rigidly to certain rules. Who cares whether you pour your milk before or after your tea? Yet this is a topic that causes British people to not speak to one another for years. Back in the day, it was considered grander to pour the tea into your cup—or have your footman do it - then add a splash of milk. The working classes, however, had cheaper mugs, so needed to put milk in before the hot tea, to cool the vessel and prevent it breaking or staining. Milk after tea, therefore, was deemed posh; milk before tea not posh. Astonishingly, this idea persists, and you'll still find snobs who gasp if you reach for the milk jug before the teapot.

My mother insists on pouring the milk first because she says the hot tea 'cooks' it and gives it a different flavour. Try both. See what you prefer. Don’t be cowed by stuffy preconceptions. Sticklers say you’re supposed to stir your tea by moving the teaspoon clockwise, from the six o'clock position to twelve o'clock. But I promise the sky won’t fall if you stir it anticlockwise. No tapping the teaspoon on the side of the cup afterward, though. That is a bit vulgar. Sorry.

Sandwiches before sweet stuff is another rule, on the grounds that they're savoury. If you're in Devon, you dollop cream on your scones before the jam. If you’re in Cornwall, it’s vice versa. They feel very strongly about that in the West Country. Don’t slap the halves together; eat them separately. Oh, and scone rhymes with ‘gone,’ not ‘cone.’

Rules, rules, rules. Afternoon tea is supposed to be fun. The Duchess of Bedford presumably had a laugh, gathering pals to gossip over cake about who was flirting with whom at court. So don’t get too hung up on making a teatime faux pas. Get stuck in. Reach for an egg sandwich with one hand and a strawberry tart with the other. Have a glass of champagne, if you fancy. Why not? Dinner’s ages away, after all.

Prêt-à-Portea: The Red Carpet Collection is available to book at The Maybourne Beverly Hills.