BY DAVID CAMPBELL
My first encounter with the hallowed tradition of afternoon tea was in 1992, in the quaint seaside town of Littlehampton, West Sussex. Janet and I, then wide-eyed Americans in London for work, had been graciously summoned by our dear friend Peter Farmer—the illustrious set and costume designer—for a weekend steeped in English refinement.
Peter, ever the arbiter of propriety, informed us we would be taking tea with his father, Kenneth, the retired patriarch of Farmer’s Hat Manufacturers of Luton. Upon learning of this solemn occasion, I was promptly dispatched back upstairs to adorn myself with a tie—one wears a tie to tea, I was sternly reminded, as if preparing for an audience with the Queen herself.
Kenneth Farmer’s cottage was a tableau of timeless elegance. The table, set with military precision, bore teacups perched upon saucers, each flanked by a spoon, a dainty plate, and a knife. A tiered display of cucumber and egg mayonnaise sandwiches—crusts meticulously excised—stood beside a battalion of scones, clotted cream, and strawberry jam. With the solemnity of a high priest, Mr. Farmer warmed the teapot, explaining how his hat factory had once halted operations daily so the entire workforce could observe this sacred ritual.
One teaspoon of leaves per person, plus one for the pot. Hot water. A reverent steep. As he poured through a strainer—milk first, then two sugar lumps—he decreed that a proper tea must consist of sandwiches followed by cake or scones. We watched, enthralled, as the Farmers demonstrated the approved sandwich consumption method: halved, eaten in two dignified bites. The scones, bisected and quartered, became vessels for jam and cream—though here, I would later learn, lay the seeds of a great national divide.
Over the years, I have been privileged to take tea across continents—from the gilded drawing rooms of London’s most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs (where, after centuries of resistance, women were finally admitted, much to the chagrin of men who had grown accustomed to unmolested anchovy toast) to the cozy parlours of Scottish castles. Yet no experience rivalled the quiet perfection of that first afternoon in Littlehampton.
Now, the eternal question remains: cream first, then jam—or jam first, then cream? Janet and I stand on opposing sides of this delicious schism. Naturally, my method is the correct one. But then again, as any Englishman will tell you with a withering glance, Americans have been wrong about tea since 1773.
David Campbell is an American who spends a lot of time in Littlehampton, West Sussex.