Photo by Ashley Fox-Smith
The other day I was minding my own business, spreading Vegemite on a toasted, buttered bagel for breakfast, when my wife whipped out her phone, took the following photo, and posted it on Facebook. Among our American friends, the consensus was a swift and consistent verdict: “What the hell’s wrong with you?” “Ugh.” “Gross.” “Appalling.” Some of the naysayers were people I had considered adventurous eaters. Sure, there were curious souls who wanted to know what, exactly, is in Vegemite; a friend who wondered whether eating Vegemite would improve his didgeridoo playing; and someone who posted a link to “51 Clever Things to Do with Vegemite” (“patch and seal holes in marine decking” was one). But for the most part the Facebook-o-sphere was near universal in its condemnation of Australia’s second-greatest invention (after the black box flight recorder) and not ready to accept the truth about the world’s finest breakfast spread. Coming from people happy to consume cracklins and hogshead cheese or polish off boiled crustaceans fished out of bayous by the pound, this antipathy to a humble, savory, admittedly brown, vegetable product seemed strange. There’s something about Vegemite that elicits a visceral reaction in the American gastronomic consciousness, and it’s not the one the stuff’s inventors were hoping for.
There’s a reason that Vegemite sandwiches show up in Men At Work songs—because just about every kid in the Land Down Under really does grow up on them. I went to school with children who literally had a Vegemite sandwich for lunch every single day of the week, and it’s not a habit that goes away with graduation, either. It occupies more or less the same strata in the Australian child’s diet as peanut butter and jelly sandwiches do in that of American kids. But it is an entirely different animal—or vegetable. A thick, dark-brown paste made of dormant brewer’s yeast, boiled-down vegetable stock, and an awful lot of salt, Vegemite was invented in 1922 by one Cyril P. Callister in Melbourne, Victoria (my hometown), when the food company he worked for tasked him with making something edible out of the tons of used yeast discarded by commercial breweries as a by-product of the beer-brewing process. Callister boiled down the yeast, mixed it with celery and onion extract, added all that salt, then, wanting to market the stuff as a nutritious health food high in B vitamins (it is), settled on the moniker “Vegemite” after holding a nationwide contest to come up with a healthy-sounding name.
I had to look all of that up because, despite having eaten Vegemite for most of my formative years, I’d never thought much about what might be in it, beyond a vague notion that it had something to do with beer. Most of the information above I found on a WikiHow page (which, interestingly, also featured a banner ad for general liability insurance). Knowing what’s in Vegemite does explain a lot about the way it tastes. Intensely salty and savory with high umami, the flavor has more in common with a strong cheese, like aged cheddar, than it does with beer. Come to think of it, perhaps the legendary Australian fondness for beer has something to do with the fact that the entire population comes pre-loaded with a taste for brewer’s yeast. It was always said to be good for a hangover.
Anyway, I love Vegemite, and the fact that mere mention of the stuff gives my Louisiana friends the shudders makes me sad. Every trip home to Australia I buy a big jar; and since it’s applied so sparingly and since I’m really not called upon to share it with anybody, one jar will last me for years. You can buy it on Amazon if you’re curious. If you are, I should note that for proper appreciation, a bagel is really not the first choice of bread product. Better to find a loaf of good ciabatta, sourdough or other totally non-sweet bread, toast a couple of thick slices, then slather them liberally with butter. Then, take a tiny amount of Vegemite on the knife blade and scrape the faintest whisper onto your toast—a chaste peck on the cheek to the butter’s slobbery French kiss. Paste it on like peanut butter and you’ll never go near the stuff again; but properly applied to good, crunchy toast, it’s the gift that keeps on giving. Having gotten a new jar in January, I have plenty to go around; so I’m considering hosting an “Introduction to Vegemite” morning at St. Francisville’s Birdman Coffee and Books soon, at which I’ll try to win hearts and minds with slices of hot, buttered sourdough toast, Vegemite properly applied. Anyone curious or reckless enough to try the stuff is welcome to come by on Sunday, July 5, and I’ll make them toast between 9 am and 11 am—or until my Vegemite jar runs out. For added atmosphere: Joe Roppolo has even threatened to come and play his didgeridoo since he’s sure that Vegemite can only improve his playing. I’m not sure how long it takes to acquire a taste for something completely different; but you only live once, and surely, twenty million Australians can’t all be wrong.
Bon appétit, and thanks for reading.
James Fox-Smith, publisher
—james@countryroadsmag.com
