Diane Purkiss’s fantasy dinner: chefs from history show off in Oxford’s oldest banquet hall

Well, this is going to be a very uncomfortable evening. Having spent years researching the history of English food, I have managed to gather together a group of influential cooks from across the centuries for a potluck fantasy dinner party. The venue is as beautiful as I remember it: New College Hall, Oxford, the oldest surviving dining hall in the city. Oxford college architecture exists to bridge the gap between the centuries, but looking at my guests I wonder if this will be possible.

Jacob, a Jewish café proprietor from 19th-century Nottingham, is first to step up to the table, confidently carrying battered and fried fish accompanied by golden chips. He isn’t a real person, but a composite of the many Jewish people who gave us our national dish. Surely everybody will enjoy this national favourite, even if it was invented by immigrants?

But his nearest tablemate, a cook for Richard II, explodes with fury. “You invited us to a feast! And yet you allow a single mean dish to be served,” says the man, whom I’ll call Thomas Burton. “Where is the roast swan? Who is charged with bringing the grilled porpoise?”

“Just try it,” I say.

Victorian domestic goddess Eliza Acton backs me up. “We are all here to learn, Mr Burton. Civility requires that you try and taste.”

But taste rarely transcends the centuries. Thomas tries the fish and is disgusted to find it totally lacking in spice; he suggests adding a shake of galangal and perhaps some saunders (sandalwood) and cubeb pepper. In fact, he decides it’s better just to show us how it’s done. He makes for the exit and returns carrying a gold tray of what look and smell like roses placed on slices of bread. We each take a polite bite.

Acton turns her head in surprise.

“Chicken! Thomas, you have played a fine trick.”

You invited us to a feast! Where is the roast swan? Who is charged with fetching the grilled porpoise?

“It’s rosee,” Thomas says, not ill-pleased. This is a dish that delighted Richard II, and I’ve always wanted to try it. The chicken paste, richly scented with rosewater and saffron, is quite delicious. (There is no telling how it was served, but the rose-shaped flourish seems a reasonable conjecture given the tendency for visual tricks in pre-industrial feasting.) I am reminded of a Moroccan chicken tagine.

The sense of competition is building. Stuart-era royal chef Robert May is on his feet. “Allow me to demonstrate what a real banquet means.”

After a pause, he re-enters carrying perhaps the strangest, most astonishing dish I have encountered in old recipe books: a castle, a ship and a stag made from pastry. He turns to me. “I beg you, lady, pluck the arrow out of this poor stag.” I pull the arrow as instructed and what looks like blood pours forth. Luckily, I have read May’s 17th-century The Accomplisht Cook and know it’s claret. He opens the lid of one of the castle towers and live frogs jump out.

“Which part do we eat?” asks Acton.

“Eat! Why speak of eating?” This is a meal all for show, made for people whose bellies are full already. Unfortunately, ours are not.

17th-century gardener, diarist and polymath John Evelyn announces that he will make a salad. He opens his bag, pulls out a bottle full of vivid green olive oil, and adds salt, the juice of a lemon and a little vinegar, and then some guinea pepper, before beating all of it together and adding a selection of brilliant green leaves: burdock, cleavers, young nettle tops, Jack-by-the-hedge.

Acton brings out a golden pound cake for our pudding. The more ancient members of our party are baffled; they have never seen a cake leavened with chemicals rather than yeast. Burton pops a spoonful of the ice cream accompaniment into his mouth. There is silence for a second, and then he roars with the entirely new pain of brain freeze.

Fortunately, it’s now time for everyone to move on to dessert. As in country house dinners among the Victorians, we have moved to a separate room for this course, which was an opportunity for gardeners to show off new developments. A shining pile of apples has been assembled by 18th-century Gloucester vicar and botanist William Ashmead, including his very own Ashmead’s Kernel. He is a bit shadowy around the edges because, like Jacob and Thomas, facts about his life are hard to come by. Most of the guests are horrified by the idea of eating fruit raw. The dessert course with fresh fruit is a product of the 18th century; before then it was seen as close to poison. The situation is just about saved by the flasks of sweet wine set around the table. At least everybody can agree on those. I catch Burton adding sugar to his, and stirring it vigorously. Each to their own.

“English Food: A People’s History” (William Collins) is out now

Follow @FTMag on Twitter to find out about our latest stories first