Question Description
Directions: Kindly read the passage carefully and answer the questions given beside.In 1986, I left my native South Korea and came to Britain to study economics as a graduate student at the University of Cambridge. Things were difficult. My spoken English was poor. Racism and cultural prejudices were rampant. And the weather was rubbish. But the most difficult thing was the food. Before coming to Britain, I had not realised how bad food can be. Meat was overcooked and under-seasoned. It was difficult to eat, unless accompanied by gravy, which could be very good but also very bad. English mustard, which I fell in love with, became a vital weapon in my struggle to eat dinners. Vegetables were boiled long beyond the point of death to become textureless, and there was only salt around to make them edible. Some British friends would argue valiantly that their food was under-seasoned (err… tasteless?) because the ingredients were so good that you oughtn’t ruin them with fussy things like sauces, which those devious French used because they needed to hide bad meat and old vegetables. Any shred of plausibility of that argument quickly vanished when I visited France at the end of my first year in Cambridge and first tasted real French food.British food culture of the 1980s was – in a word – conservative; deeply so. The British ate nothing unfamiliar. Food considered foreign was viewed with near-religious scepticism and visceral aversion. Other than completely Anglicised – and generally dire-quality – Chinese, Indian and Italian, you could not get any other national cuisine, unless you travelled to Soho or another sophisticated district in London. British food conservatism was for me epitomised by the now defunct but then-rampant chain, Pizzaland. Realising that pizza could be traumatically ‘foreign’, the menu lured customers with an option to have their pizza served with a baked potato – the culinary equivalent of a security blanket for British people.As with all discussions of foreignness, of course, this attitude gets pretty absurd when you scrutinise it. The UK’s beloved Christmas dinner consists of turkey (North America), potatoes (Peru or Chile), carrots (Afghanistan) and Brussels sprouts (from, yep, Belgium). But never mind that. Brits then simply didn’t ‘do foreign’.What a contrast to the British food scene of today – diverse, sophisticated and even experimental. London especially offers everything – cheap yet excellent Turkish doner kebab, eaten at 1am from a van on the street; eye-wateringly expensive Japanese kaiseki dinner; vibrant Spanish tapas bars where you can mix and match things according to your mood and budget; whatever. Flavours span from vibrant, in-your-face Korean levels, to understated but heart-warming Polish. You get to choose between the complexity of Peruvian dishes – with Iberian, Asian and Inca roots – and the simple succulence of Argentinian steak. Most supermarkets and food stores sell ingredients for Italian, Mexican, French, Chinese, Caribbean, Jewish, Greek, Indian, Thai, North African, Japanese, Turkish, Polish and perhaps even Korean cuisines. If you want a more specialist condiment or ingredient, it can likely be found. This in a country where, in the late 1970s, according to an American friend who was then an exchange student, the only place you could score olive oil in Oxford was a pharmacy (for softening ear wax, if you’re wondering).My theory is that the British people had a collective epiphany sometime in the mid- to late-1990s that their own food sucks, having experienced different – and mostly more exciting – cuisines during their foreign holidays and, more importantly, through the increasingly diverse immigrant communities. Once they did that, they were free to embrace all the cuisines in the world. There is no reason to insist on Indian over Thai, or favour Turkish over Mexican. Everything tasty is fine. The British freedom to consider equally all the choices available has led to it developing perhaps one of the most sophisticated food cultures anywhere.Q. What transformation in British food culture does the author attribute to the mid- to late-1990s?a)A preference for Indian cuisine over Thai cuisineb)An embrace of diverse cuisines from around the worldc)An increase in the popularity of British foodd)A decline in the availability of specialist condimentsCorrect answer is option 'B'. Can you explain this answer? for CLAT 2025 is part of CLAT preparation. The Question and answers have been prepared according to the CLAT exam syllabus. Information about Directions: Kindly read the passage carefully and answer the questions given beside.In 1986, I left my native South Korea and came to Britain to study economics as a graduate student at the University of Cambridge. Things were difficult. My spoken English was poor. Racism and cultural prejudices were rampant. And the weather was rubbish. But the most difficult thing was the food. Before coming to Britain, I had not realised how bad food can be. Meat was overcooked and under-seasoned. It was difficult to eat, unless accompanied by gravy, which could be very good but also very bad. English mustard, which I fell in love with, became a vital weapon in my struggle to eat dinners. Vegetables were boiled long beyond the point of death to become textureless, and there was only salt around to make them edible. Some British friends would argue valiantly that their food was under-seasoned (err… tasteless?) because the ingredients were so good that you oughtn’t ruin them with fussy things like sauces, which those devious French used because they needed to hide bad meat and old vegetables. Any shred of plausibility of that argument quickly vanished when I visited France at the end of my first year in Cambridge and first tasted real French food.British food culture of the 1980s was – in a word – conservative; deeply so. The British ate nothing unfamiliar. Food considered foreign was viewed with near-religious scepticism and visceral aversion. Other than completely Anglicised – and generally dire-quality – Chinese, Indian and Italian, you could not get any other national cuisine, unless you travelled to Soho or another sophisticated district in London. British food conservatism was for me epitomised by the now defunct but then-rampant chain, Pizzaland. Realising that pizza could be traumatically ‘foreign’, the menu lured customers with an option to have their pizza served with a baked potato – the culinary equivalent of a security blanket for British people.As with all discussions of foreignness, of course, this attitude gets pretty absurd when you scrutinise it. The UK’s beloved Christmas dinner consists of turkey (North America), potatoes (Peru or Chile), carrots (Afghanistan) and Brussels sprouts (from, yep, Belgium). But never mind that. Brits then simply didn’t ‘do foreign’.What a contrast to the British food scene of today – diverse, sophisticated and even experimental. London especially offers everything – cheap yet excellent Turkish doner kebab, eaten at 1am from a van on the street; eye-wateringly expensive Japanese kaiseki dinner; vibrant Spanish tapas bars where you can mix and match things according to your mood and budget; whatever. Flavours span from vibrant, in-your-face Korean levels, to understated but heart-warming Polish. You get to choose between the complexity of Peruvian dishes – with Iberian, Asian and Inca roots – and the simple succulence of Argentinian steak. Most supermarkets and food stores sell ingredients for Italian, Mexican, French, Chinese, Caribbean, Jewish, Greek, Indian, Thai, North African, Japanese, Turkish, Polish and perhaps even Korean cuisines. If you want a more specialist condiment or ingredient, it can likely be found. This in a country where, in the late 1970s, according to an American friend who was then an exchange student, the only place you could score olive oil in Oxford was a pharmacy (for softening ear wax, if you’re wondering).My theory is that the British people had a collective epiphany sometime in the mid- to late-1990s that their own food sucks, having experienced different – and mostly more exciting – cuisines during their foreign holidays and, more importantly, through the increasingly diverse immigrant communities. Once they did that, they were free to embrace all the cuisines in the world. There is no reason to insist on Indian over Thai, or favour Turkish over Mexican. Everything tasty is fine. The British freedom to consider equally all the choices available has led to it developing perhaps one of the most sophisticated food cultures anywhere.Q. What transformation in British food culture does the author attribute to the mid- to late-1990s?a)A preference for Indian cuisine over Thai cuisineb)An embrace of diverse cuisines from around the worldc)An increase in the popularity of British foodd)A decline in the availability of specialist condimentsCorrect answer is option 'B'. Can you explain this answer? covers all topics & solutions for CLAT 2025 Exam. Find important definitions, questions, meanings, examples, exercises and tests below for Directions: Kindly read the passage carefully and answer the questions given beside.In 1986, I left my native South Korea and came to Britain to study economics as a graduate student at the University of Cambridge. Things were difficult. My spoken English was poor. Racism and cultural prejudices were rampant. And the weather was rubbish. But the most difficult thing was the food. Before coming to Britain, I had not realised how bad food can be. Meat was overcooked and under-seasoned. It was difficult to eat, unless accompanied by gravy, which could be very good but also very bad. English mustard, which I fell in love with, became a vital weapon in my struggle to eat dinners. Vegetables were boiled long beyond the point of death to become textureless, and there was only salt around to make them edible. Some British friends would argue valiantly that their food was under-seasoned (err… tasteless?) because the ingredients were so good that you oughtn’t ruin them with fussy things like sauces, which those devious French used because they needed to hide bad meat and old vegetables. Any shred of plausibility of that argument quickly vanished when I visited France at the end of my first year in Cambridge and first tasted real French food.British food culture of the 1980s was – in a word – conservative; deeply so. The British ate nothing unfamiliar. Food considered foreign was viewed with near-religious scepticism and visceral aversion. Other than completely Anglicised – and generally dire-quality – Chinese, Indian and Italian, you could not get any other national cuisine, unless you travelled to Soho or another sophisticated district in London. British food conservatism was for me epitomised by the now defunct but then-rampant chain, Pizzaland. Realising that pizza could be traumatically ‘foreign’, the menu lured customers with an option to have their pizza served with a baked potato – the culinary equivalent of a security blanket for British people.As with all discussions of foreignness, of course, this attitude gets pretty absurd when you scrutinise it. The UK’s beloved Christmas dinner consists of turkey (North America), potatoes (Peru or Chile), carrots (Afghanistan) and Brussels sprouts (from, yep, Belgium). But never mind that. Brits then simply didn’t ‘do foreign’.What a contrast to the British food scene of today – diverse, sophisticated and even experimental. London especially offers everything – cheap yet excellent Turkish doner kebab, eaten at 1am from a van on the street; eye-wateringly expensive Japanese kaiseki dinner; vibrant Spanish tapas bars where you can mix and match things according to your mood and budget; whatever. Flavours span from vibrant, in-your-face Korean levels, to understated but heart-warming Polish. You get to choose between the complexity of Peruvian dishes – with Iberian, Asian and Inca roots – and the simple succulence of Argentinian steak. Most supermarkets and food stores sell ingredients for Italian, Mexican, French, Chinese, Caribbean, Jewish, Greek, Indian, Thai, North African, Japanese, Turkish, Polish and perhaps even Korean cuisines. If you want a more specialist condiment or ingredient, it can likely be found. This in a country where, in the late 1970s, according to an American friend who was then an exchange student, the only place you could score olive oil in Oxford was a pharmacy (for softening ear wax, if you’re wondering).My theory is that the British people had a collective epiphany sometime in the mid- to late-1990s that their own food sucks, having experienced different – and mostly more exciting – cuisines during their foreign holidays and, more importantly, through the increasingly diverse immigrant communities. Once they did that, they were free to embrace all the cuisines in the world. There is no reason to insist on Indian over Thai, or favour Turkish over Mexican. Everything tasty is fine. The British freedom to consider equally all the choices available has led to it developing perhaps one of the most sophisticated food cultures anywhere.Q. What transformation in British food culture does the author attribute to the mid- to late-1990s?a)A preference for Indian cuisine over Thai cuisineb)An embrace of diverse cuisines from around the worldc)An increase in the popularity of British foodd)A decline in the availability of specialist condimentsCorrect answer is option 'B'. Can you explain this answer?.

Solutions for Directions: Kindly read the passage carefully and answer the questions given beside.In 1986, I left my native South Korea and came to Britain to study economics as a graduate student at the University of Cambridge. Things were difficult. My spoken English was poor. Racism and cultural prejudices were rampant. And the weather was rubbish. But the most difficult thing was the food. Before coming to Britain, I had not realised how bad food can be. Meat was overcooked and under-seasoned. It was difficult to eat, unless accompanied by gravy, which could be very good but also very bad. English mustard, which I fell in love with, became a vital weapon in my struggle to eat dinners. Vegetables were boiled long beyond the point of death to become textureless, and there was only salt around to make them edible. Some British friends would argue valiantly that their food was under-seasoned (err… tasteless?) because the ingredients were so good that you oughtn’t ruin them with fussy things like sauces, which those devious French used because they needed to hide bad meat and old vegetables. Any shred of plausibility of that argument quickly vanished when I visited France at the end of my first year in Cambridge and first tasted real French food.British food culture of the 1980s was – in a word – conservative; deeply so. The British ate nothing unfamiliar. Food considered foreign was viewed with near-religious scepticism and visceral aversion. Other than completely Anglicised – and generally dire-quality – Chinese, Indian and Italian, you could not get any other national cuisine, unless you travelled to Soho or another sophisticated district in London. British food conservatism was for me epitomised by the now defunct but then-rampant chain, Pizzaland. Realising that pizza could be traumatically ‘foreign’, the menu lured customers with an option to have their pizza served with a baked potato – the culinary equivalent of a security blanket for British people.As with all discussions of foreignness, of course, this attitude gets pretty absurd when you scrutinise it. The UK’s beloved Christmas dinner consists of turkey (North America), potatoes (Peru or Chile), carrots (Afghanistan) and Brussels sprouts (from, yep, Belgium). But never mind that. Brits then simply didn’t ‘do foreign’.What a contrast to the British food scene of today – diverse, sophisticated and even experimental. London especially offers everything – cheap yet excellent Turkish doner kebab, eaten at 1am from a van on the street; eye-wateringly expensive Japanese kaiseki dinner; vibrant Spanish tapas bars where you can mix and match things according to your mood and budget; whatever. Flavours span from vibrant, in-your-face Korean levels, to understated but heart-warming Polish. You get to choose between the complexity of Peruvian dishes – with Iberian, Asian and Inca roots – and the simple succulence of Argentinian steak. Most supermarkets and food stores sell ingredients for Italian, Mexican, French, Chinese, Caribbean, Jewish, Greek, Indian, Thai, North African, Japanese, Turkish, Polish and perhaps even Korean cuisines. If you want a more specialist condiment or ingredient, it can likely be found. This in a country where, in the late 1970s, according to an American friend who was then an exchange student, the only place you could score olive oil in Oxford was a pharmacy (for softening ear wax, if you’re wondering).My theory is that the British people had a collective epiphany sometime in the mid- to late-1990s that their own food sucks, having experienced different – and mostly more exciting – cuisines during their foreign holidays and, more importantly, through the increasingly diverse immigrant communities. Once they did that, they were free to embrace all the cuisines in the world. There is no reason to insist on Indian over Thai, or favour Turkish over Mexican. Everything tasty is fine. The British freedom to consider equally all the choices available has led to it developing perhaps one of the most sophisticated food cultures anywhere.Q. What transformation in British food culture does the author attribute to the mid- to late-1990s?a)A preference for Indian cuisine over Thai cuisineb)An embrace of diverse cuisines from around the worldc)An increase in the popularity of British foodd)A decline in the availability of specialist condimentsCorrect answer is option 'B'. Can you explain this answer? in English & in Hindi are available as part of our courses for CLAT. Download more important topics, notes, lectures and mock test series for CLAT Exam by signing up for free.

Here you can find the meaning of Directions: Kindly read the passage carefully and answer the questions given beside.In 1986, I left my native South Korea and came to Britain to study economics as a graduate student at the University of Cambridge. Things were difficult. My spoken English was poor. Racism and cultural prejudices were rampant. And the weather was rubbish. But the most difficult thing was the food. Before coming to Britain, I had not realised how bad food can be. Meat was overcooked and under-seasoned. It was difficult to eat, unless accompanied by gravy, which could be very good but also very bad. English mustard, which I fell in love with, became a vital weapon in my struggle to eat dinners. Vegetables were boiled long beyond the point of death to become textureless, and there was only salt around to make them edible. Some British friends would argue valiantly that their food was under-seasoned (err… tasteless?) because the ingredients were so good that you oughtn’t ruin them with fussy things like sauces, which those devious French used because they needed to hide bad meat and old vegetables. Any shred of plausibility of that argument quickly vanished when I visited France at the end of my first year in Cambridge and first tasted real French food.British food culture of the 1980s was – in a word – conservative; deeply so. The British ate nothing unfamiliar. Food considered foreign was viewed with near-religious scepticism and visceral aversion. Other than completely Anglicised – and generally dire-quality – Chinese, Indian and Italian, you could not get any other national cuisine, unless you travelled to Soho or another sophisticated district in London. British food conservatism was for me epitomised by the now defunct but then-rampant chain, Pizzaland. Realising that pizza could be traumatically ‘foreign’, the menu lured customers with an option to have their pizza served with a baked potato – the culinary equivalent of a security blanket for British people.As with all discussions of foreignness, of course, this attitude gets pretty absurd when you scrutinise it. The UK’s beloved Christmas dinner consists of turkey (North America), potatoes (Peru or Chile), carrots (Afghanistan) and Brussels sprouts (from, yep, Belgium). But never mind that. Brits then simply didn’t ‘do foreign’.What a contrast to the British food scene of today – diverse, sophisticated and even experimental. London especially offers everything – cheap yet excellent Turkish doner kebab, eaten at 1am from a van on the street; eye-wateringly expensive Japanese kaiseki dinner; vibrant Spanish tapas bars where you can mix and match things according to your mood and budget; whatever. Flavours span from vibrant, in-your-face Korean levels, to understated but heart-warming Polish. You get to choose between the complexity of Peruvian dishes – with Iberian, Asian and Inca roots – and the simple succulence of Argentinian steak. Most supermarkets and food stores sell ingredients for Italian, Mexican, French, Chinese, Caribbean, Jewish, Greek, Indian, Thai, North African, Japanese, Turkish, Polish and perhaps even Korean cuisines. If you want a more specialist condiment or ingredient, it can likely be found. This in a country where, in the late 1970s, according to an American friend who was then an exchange student, the only place you could score olive oil in Oxford was a pharmacy (for softening ear wax, if you’re wondering).My theory is that the British people had a collective epiphany sometime in the mid- to late-1990s that their own food sucks, having experienced different – and mostly more exciting – cuisines during their foreign holidays and, more importantly, through the increasingly diverse immigrant communities. Once they did that, they were free to embrace all the cuisines in the world. There is no reason to insist on Indian over Thai, or favour Turkish over Mexican. Everything tasty is fine. The British freedom to consider equally all the choices available has led to it developing perhaps one of the most sophisticated food cultures anywhere.Q. What transformation in British food culture does the author attribute to the mid- to late-1990s?a)A preference for Indian cuisine over Thai cuisineb)An embrace of diverse cuisines from around the worldc)An increase in the popularity of British foodd)A decline in the availability of specialist condimentsCorrect answer is option 'B'. Can you explain this answer? defined & explained in the simplest way possible. Besides giving the explanation of Directions: Kindly read the passage carefully and answer the questions given beside.In 1986, I left my native South Korea and came to Britain to study economics as a graduate student at the University of Cambridge. Things were difficult. My spoken English was poor. Racism and cultural prejudices were rampant. And the weather was rubbish. But the most difficult thing was the food. Before coming to Britain, I had not realised how bad food can be. Meat was overcooked and under-seasoned. It was difficult to eat, unless accompanied by gravy, which could be very good but also very bad. English mustard, which I fell in love with, became a vital weapon in my struggle to eat dinners. Vegetables were boiled long beyond the point of death to become textureless, and there was only salt around to make them edible. Some British friends would argue valiantly that their food was under-seasoned (err… tasteless?) because the ingredients were so good that you oughtn’t ruin them with fussy things like sauces, which those devious French used because they needed to hide bad meat and old vegetables. Any shred of plausibility of that argument quickly vanished when I visited France at the end of my first year in Cambridge and first tasted real French food.British food culture of the 1980s was – in a word – conservative; deeply so. The British ate nothing unfamiliar. Food considered foreign was viewed with near-religious scepticism and visceral aversion. Other than completely Anglicised – and generally dire-quality – Chinese, Indian and Italian, you could not get any other national cuisine, unless you travelled to Soho or another sophisticated district in London. British food conservatism was for me epitomised by the now defunct but then-rampant chain, Pizzaland. Realising that pizza could be traumatically ‘foreign’, the menu lured customers with an option to have their pizza served with a baked potato – the culinary equivalent of a security blanket for British people.As with all discussions of foreignness, of course, this attitude gets pretty absurd when you scrutinise it. The UK’s beloved Christmas dinner consists of turkey (North America), potatoes (Peru or Chile), carrots (Afghanistan) and Brussels sprouts (from, yep, Belgium). But never mind that. Brits then simply didn’t ‘do foreign’.What a contrast to the British food scene of today – diverse, sophisticated and even experimental. London especially offers everything – cheap yet excellent Turkish doner kebab, eaten at 1am from a van on the street; eye-wateringly expensive Japanese kaiseki dinner; vibrant Spanish tapas bars where you can mix and match things according to your mood and budget; whatever. Flavours span from vibrant, in-your-face Korean levels, to understated but heart-warming Polish. You get to choose between the complexity of Peruvian dishes – with Iberian, Asian and Inca roots – and the simple succulence of Argentinian steak. Most supermarkets and food stores sell ingredients for Italian, Mexican, French, Chinese, Caribbean, Jewish, Greek, Indian, Thai, North African, Japanese, Turkish, Polish and perhaps even Korean cuisines. If you want a more specialist condiment or ingredient, it can likely be found. This in a country where, in the late 1970s, according to an American friend who was then an exchange student, the only place you could score olive oil in Oxford was a pharmacy (for softening ear wax, if you’re wondering).My theory is that the British people had a collective epiphany sometime in the mid- to late-1990s that their own food sucks, having experienced different – and mostly more exciting – cuisines during their foreign holidays and, more importantly, through the increasingly diverse immigrant communities. Once they did that, they were free to embrace all the cuisines in the world. There is no reason to insist on Indian over Thai, or favour Turkish over Mexican. Everything tasty is fine. The British freedom to consider equally all the choices available has led to it developing perhaps one of the most sophisticated food cultures anywhere.Q. What transformation in British food culture does the author attribute to the mid- to late-1990s?a)A preference for Indian cuisine over Thai cuisineb)An embrace of diverse cuisines from around the worldc)An increase in the popularity of British foodd)A decline in the availability of specialist condimentsCorrect answer is option 'B'. Can you explain this answer?, a detailed solution for Directions: Kindly read the passage carefully and answer the questions given beside.In 1986, I left my native South Korea and came to Britain to study economics as a graduate student at the University of Cambridge. Things were difficult. My spoken English was poor. Racism and cultural prejudices were rampant. And the weather was rubbish. But the most difficult thing was the food. Before coming to Britain, I had not realised how bad food can be. Meat was overcooked and under-seasoned. It was difficult to eat, unless accompanied by gravy, which could be very good but also very bad. English mustard, which I fell in love with, became a vital weapon in my struggle to eat dinners. Vegetables were boiled long beyond the point of death to become textureless, and there was only salt around to make them edible. Some British friends would argue valiantly that their food was under-seasoned (err… tasteless?) because the ingredients were so good that you oughtn’t ruin them with fussy things like sauces, which those devious French used because they needed to hide bad meat and old vegetables. Any shred of plausibility of that argument quickly vanished when I visited France at the end of my first year in Cambridge and first tasted real French food.British food culture of the 1980s was – in a word – conservative; deeply so. The British ate nothing unfamiliar. Food considered foreign was viewed with near-religious scepticism and visceral aversion. Other than completely Anglicised – and generally dire-quality – Chinese, Indian and Italian, you could not get any other national cuisine, unless you travelled to Soho or another sophisticated district in London. British food conservatism was for me epitomised by the now defunct but then-rampant chain, Pizzaland. Realising that pizza could be traumatically ‘foreign’, the menu lured customers with an option to have their pizza served with a baked potato – the culinary equivalent of a security blanket for British people.As with all discussions of foreignness, of course, this attitude gets pretty absurd when you scrutinise it. The UK’s beloved Christmas dinner consists of turkey (North America), potatoes (Peru or Chile), carrots (Afghanistan) and Brussels sprouts (from, yep, Belgium). But never mind that. Brits then simply didn’t ‘do foreign’.What a contrast to the British food scene of today – diverse, sophisticated and even experimental. London especially offers everything – cheap yet excellent Turkish doner kebab, eaten at 1am from a van on the street; eye-wateringly expensive Japanese kaiseki dinner; vibrant Spanish tapas bars where you can mix and match things according to your mood and budget; whatever. Flavours span from vibrant, in-your-face Korean levels, to understated but heart-warming Polish. You get to choose between the complexity of Peruvian dishes – with Iberian, Asian and Inca roots – and the simple succulence of Argentinian steak. Most supermarkets and food stores sell ingredients for Italian, Mexican, French, Chinese, Caribbean, Jewish, Greek, Indian, Thai, North African, Japanese, Turkish, Polish and perhaps even Korean cuisines. If you want a more specialist condiment or ingredient, it can likely be found. This in a country where, in the late 1970s, according to an American friend who was then an exchange student, the only place you could score olive oil in Oxford was a pharmacy (for softening ear wax, if you’re wondering).My theory is that the British people had a collective epiphany sometime in the mid- to late-1990s that their own food sucks, having experienced different – and mostly more exciting – cuisines during their foreign holidays and, more importantly, through the increasingly diverse immigrant communities. Once they did that, they were free to embrace all the cuisines in the world. There is no reason to insist on Indian over Thai, or favour Turkish over Mexican. Everything tasty is fine. The British freedom to consider equally all the choices available has led to it developing perhaps one of the most sophisticated food cultures anywhere.Q. What transformation in British food culture does the author attribute to the mid- to late-1990s?a)A preference for Indian cuisine over Thai cuisineb)An embrace of diverse cuisines from around the worldc)An increase in the popularity of British foodd)A decline in the availability of specialist condimentsCorrect answer is option 'B'. Can you explain this answer? has been provided alongside types of Directions: Kindly read the passage carefully and answer the questions given beside.In 1986, I left my native South Korea and came to Britain to study economics as a graduate student at the University of Cambridge. Things were difficult. My spoken English was poor. Racism and cultural prejudices were rampant. And the weather was rubbish. But the most difficult thing was the food. Before coming to Britain, I had not realised how bad food can be. Meat was overcooked and under-seasoned. It was difficult to eat, unless accompanied by gravy, which could be very good but also very bad. English mustard, which I fell in love with, became a vital weapon in my struggle to eat dinners. Vegetables were boiled long beyond the point of death to become textureless, and there was only salt around to make them edible. Some British friends would argue valiantly that their food was under-seasoned (err… tasteless?) because the ingredients were so good that you oughtn’t ruin them with fussy things like sauces, which those devious French used because they needed to hide bad meat and old vegetables. Any shred of plausibility of that argument quickly vanished when I visited France at the end of my first year in Cambridge and first tasted real French food.British food culture of the 1980s was – in a word – conservative; deeply so. The British ate nothing unfamiliar. Food considered foreign was viewed with near-religious scepticism and visceral aversion. Other than completely Anglicised – and generally dire-quality – Chinese, Indian and Italian, you could not get any other national cuisine, unless you travelled to Soho or another sophisticated district in London. British food conservatism was for me epitomised by the now defunct but then-rampant chain, Pizzaland. Realising that pizza could be traumatically ‘foreign’, the menu lured customers with an option to have their pizza served with a baked potato – the culinary equivalent of a security blanket for British people.As with all discussions of foreignness, of course, this attitude gets pretty absurd when you scrutinise it. The UK’s beloved Christmas dinner consists of turkey (North America), potatoes (Peru or Chile), carrots (Afghanistan) and Brussels sprouts (from, yep, Belgium). But never mind that. Brits then simply didn’t ‘do foreign’.What a contrast to the British food scene of today – diverse, sophisticated and even experimental. London especially offers everything – cheap yet excellent Turkish doner kebab, eaten at 1am from a van on the street; eye-wateringly expensive Japanese kaiseki dinner; vibrant Spanish tapas bars where you can mix and match things according to your mood and budget; whatever. Flavours span from vibrant, in-your-face Korean levels, to understated but heart-warming Polish. You get to choose between the complexity of Peruvian dishes – with Iberian, Asian and Inca roots – and the simple succulence of Argentinian steak. Most supermarkets and food stores sell ingredients for Italian, Mexican, French, Chinese, Caribbean, Jewish, Greek, Indian, Thai, North African, Japanese, Turkish, Polish and perhaps even Korean cuisines. If you want a more specialist condiment or ingredient, it can likely be found. This in a country where, in the late 1970s, according to an American friend who was then an exchange student, the only place you could score olive oil in Oxford was a pharmacy (for softening ear wax, if you’re wondering).My theory is that the British people had a collective epiphany sometime in the mid- to late-1990s that their own food sucks, having experienced different – and mostly more exciting – cuisines during their foreign holidays and, more importantly, through the increasingly diverse immigrant communities. Once they did that, they were free to embrace all the cuisines in the world. There is no reason to insist on Indian over Thai, or favour Turkish over Mexican. Everything tasty is fine. The British freedom to consider equally all the choices available has led to it developing perhaps one of the most sophisticated food cultures anywhere.Q. What transformation in British food culture does the author attribute to the mid- to late-1990s?a)A preference for Indian cuisine over Thai cuisineb)An embrace of diverse cuisines from around the worldc)An increase in the popularity of British foodd)A decline in the availability of specialist condimentsCorrect answer is option 'B'. Can you explain this answer? theory, EduRev gives you an ample number of questions to practice Directions: Kindly read the passage carefully and answer the questions given beside.In 1986, I left my native South Korea and came to Britain to study economics as a graduate student at the University of Cambridge. Things were difficult. My spoken English was poor. Racism and cultural prejudices were rampant. And the weather was rubbish. But the most difficult thing was the food. Before coming to Britain, I had not realised how bad food can be. Meat was overcooked and under-seasoned. It was difficult to eat, unless accompanied by gravy, which could be very good but also very bad. English mustard, which I fell in love with, became a vital weapon in my struggle to eat dinners. Vegetables were boiled long beyond the point of death to become textureless, and there was only salt around to make them edible. Some British friends would argue valiantly that their food was under-seasoned (err… tasteless?) because the ingredients were so good that you oughtn’t ruin them with fussy things like sauces, which those devious French used because they needed to hide bad meat and old vegetables. Any shred of plausibility of that argument quickly vanished when I visited France at the end of my first year in Cambridge and first tasted real French food.British food culture of the 1980s was – in a word – conservative; deeply so. The British ate nothing unfamiliar. Food considered foreign was viewed with near-religious scepticism and visceral aversion. Other than completely Anglicised – and generally dire-quality – Chinese, Indian and Italian, you could not get any other national cuisine, unless you travelled to Soho or another sophisticated district in London. British food conservatism was for me epitomised by the now defunct but then-rampant chain, Pizzaland. Realising that pizza could be traumatically ‘foreign’, the menu lured customers with an option to have their pizza served with a baked potato – the culinary equivalent of a security blanket for British people.As with all discussions of foreignness, of course, this attitude gets pretty absurd when you scrutinise it. The UK’s beloved Christmas dinner consists of turkey (North America), potatoes (Peru or Chile), carrots (Afghanistan) and Brussels sprouts (from, yep, Belgium). But never mind that. Brits then simply didn’t ‘do foreign’.What a contrast to the British food scene of today – diverse, sophisticated and even experimental. London especially offers everything – cheap yet excellent Turkish doner kebab, eaten at 1am from a van on the street; eye-wateringly expensive Japanese kaiseki dinner; vibrant Spanish tapas bars where you can mix and match things according to your mood and budget; whatever. Flavours span from vibrant, in-your-face Korean levels, to understated but heart-warming Polish. You get to choose between the complexity of Peruvian dishes – with Iberian, Asian and Inca roots – and the simple succulence of Argentinian steak. Most supermarkets and food stores sell ingredients for Italian, Mexican, French, Chinese, Caribbean, Jewish, Greek, Indian, Thai, North African, Japanese, Turkish, Polish and perhaps even Korean cuisines. If you want a more specialist condiment or ingredient, it can likely be found. This in a country where, in the late 1970s, according to an American friend who was then an exchange student, the only place you could score olive oil in Oxford was a pharmacy (for softening ear wax, if you’re wondering).My theory is that the British people had a collective epiphany sometime in the mid- to late-1990s that their own food sucks, having experienced different – and mostly more exciting – cuisines during their foreign holidays and, more importantly, through the increasingly diverse immigrant communities. Once they did that, they were free to embrace all the cuisines in the world. There is no reason to insist on Indian over Thai, or favour Turkish over Mexican. Everything tasty is fine. The British freedom to consider equally all the choices available has led to it developing perhaps one of the most sophisticated food cultures anywhere.Q. What transformation in British food culture does the author attribute to the mid- to late-1990s?a)A preference for Indian cuisine over Thai cuisineb)An embrace of diverse cuisines from around the worldc)An increase in the popularity of British foodd)A decline in the availability of specialist condimentsCorrect answer is option 'B'. Can you explain this answer? tests, examples and also practice CLAT tests.