‘I fucking hate Marmite,’ said Andy McLeod, a young ad man who at some point in the mid-1990s was tasked with remarketing the savoury spread that had been around since 1902. ‘Oh, I love it,’ said his creative partner. They both then just looked at each other.
You either love it or you hate it, Marmite – at least since 1996. At first, the yeast extract, made with the vitamin-rich by-products of beer-brewing at a factory in Burton on Trent, had been promoted as healthy, ‘the growing-up spread you never grow out of’. By the 1980s, it was ‘My mate, Marmite’, shouted by an army platoon, playing on its history as a supplement for British-based POWs during the second world war. For the past 30 years, though, it has become a byword for that which is polarising, divisive, able to provoke strong reactions. That which is unapologetically hated as much as it is loved.
So its sale to an American conglomerate leaves an especially – ahem – bitter taste. In a $45 billion deal with American spice-maker McCormick, Unilever is selling off its food brands – which also include Colman’s mustard, Pot Noodle, Knorr stock cubes, Hellmann’s mayonnaise and Bovril – to focus on health and personal care products. According to Unilever boss Fernando Fernández, Marmite will join McCormick stablemates French’s mustard and Schwartz herbs, a ‘global flavour powerhouse’.
But Marmite doesn’t make sense in America, the Land-of-the-Free-to-do-anything-you-want except dislike a fast-moving consumer good. There, a republic where convenience is the only king, if something – cereal, Pringles, loo paper – is not to your taste, they will alter it, change it, produce 40 varieties, ensuring at least one of them feels tailor-made for you. Not too long ago in Boston I was paralysed with indecision in the confectionery aisle of ‘pharmacy’ CVS – which sells more food than most small British supermarkets – when confronted with implausible M&M flavours like ‘caramel cold brew’, ‘lemon meringue pie’ and ‘peanut butter cinnamon roll’. I don’t even like M&Ms, but out there that’s not allowed.
Goodness knows what they risk doing to make Marmite, a product whose mythology rests on how off-putting it is, more palatable to the masses. Yes, there have been twists over the years – truffle, chilli, Guinness and even crunchy peanut butter – but none dare water it down from the beery, salty original. If you hate Marmite, no novelty edition is going to change your mind.
Marmite does not need to join a ‘global flavour powerhouse’ – it is one all on its own. It is the not-so-secret ingredient in a good gravy, a bolognese, a chilli con carne, it is the only thing that will do on toast when you tear through the empty kitchen after a night in the pub. Nigella’s Marmite spaghetti is a food of the gods (and a far too regular indulgence at my house), and I daydream often about the Marmite chicken I ate at a roadside Chinese restaurant in Kuala Lumpur three years ago.
If I’m being really honest, I’d say I quite like Marmite – ‘love’ might be pushing it, given there are people out there who have been eating Marmite and cheese sandwiches every lunchtime for the past 60 years. But I’ll defend it to the death – or at least when some tedious Australian expat wants to get into it about Vegemite – and its stubborn British resilience that allows it to be hated as much as loved, and bold enough never to compromise.
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