Episode 145: London’s Feasting: History of Puddings, Pies & Markets

Host: Hazel Baker

Hazel is an active Londoner, a keen theatre-goer and qualified  CIGA London tour guide.

She has won awards for tour guiding and is proud to be involved with some great organisations. She is a freeman of the Worshipful Company of Marketors and am an honorary member of The Leaders Council.

Channel 5’s Walking Wartime Britain(Episode 3) and Yesterday Channel’s The Architecture the Railways Built (Series 3, Episode 7). Het Rampjaar 1672, Afl. 2: Vijand Engeland and Arte.fr Invitation au Voyage, À Chelsea, une femme qui trompe énormément.

Related Podcast Episodes:

Other Christmassy podcast episodes you may enjoy include: 

Episode 34: London’s Old Shops – Food and Drink

Episode 35: A Tudor Christmas

Episode 74: Christmas in Post War London

Episode 75: The Christmas Cracker – A Victorian Invention

Episode 98. Christmas Puddings Through History

Episode 99. Royal Christmas Speech – a modern tradition

Episode 100. Christmas Word

[INTRO MUSIC FADES]

HAZEL: Hello, and welcome back to the London History Podcast. I’m your host, Hazel Baker from Londonguidedwalks.co.uk, and today we’re embarking on a delicious journey through nearly a thousand years of London’s feasting traditions. From the grand medieval banquets in Guildhall’s Great Hall to the bustling Christmas markets of Smithfield and Leadenhall. We’ll explore how food has shaped our city’s social fabric, reflected its wealth and power, and created traditions that endure to this day.

So pour yourself a cup of tea (or perhaps a glass of mulled wine if you’re feeling festive) and join me as we feast our way through London’s tasty culinary history.

Let’s begin our story in the year 1411, in the City of London, where master mason John Croxton is overseeing the construction of one of England’s most important civic banqueting spaces: the Great Hall of the Guildhall.​

Picture this magnificent structure rising from the medieval streets—153 feet long, around 50 feet high, with walls five feet thick. This wasn’t simply a building; it was a statement. The merchant guilds of London were declaring their wealth, their power, and their intention to rival even the great halls of royalty.​

And what better way to display that power than through the most elaborate feasts medieval England had ever seen?

These weren’t your typical dinner parties, listeners. The grandest feasts at Guildhall could take months of planning. They featured multiple courses—typically three to four, though royal banquets might extend to six or more, each separated by entertainment. Can you imagine? Between each course, guests might be treated to musicians, acrobats, or even elaborate theatrical performances.​​

But let’s talk about the food itself. Every banquet began with pottage—a hearty soup or stew that was far more sophisticated than it might sound. Made from boiled vegetables, leftover meat, herbs, and pulses like beans and lentils, it was thickened with ingredients such as cabbage, leeks, onions, and garlic. This wasn’t peasant food—this was the medieval equivalent of a carefully crafted starter course.​

Then came the spectacle. Picture whole joints of meat, gleaming with expensive sauces. Rabbit, beef, pork, mutton, deer, and wild boar graced these tables. But the truly impressive displays featured wild birds: duck, chicken, pigeons, geese, pheasants, and partridges. For the most adventurous feasts, diners might encounter heron, crane, and even peacock—often presented whole with their feathers reattached for dramatic effect.​​

[PAUSE FOR EFFECT]

And here’s something that might surprise you: these banquets weren’t just about showing off. They were about power, politics, and diplomacy. The use of expensive spices like saffron, ginger, cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg didn’t just make the food taste better—it demonstrated the host’s international trade connections. Those imported dried fruits—figs, dates, and raisins—told guests that this was an institution with reach across continents.​

Even the presentation was political. Meat was often served in pies that were literally gilded in gold or silver. Imagine the candlelight catching those gleaming surfaces as servants carried them into the hall. Every detail was calculated to inspire awe, respect, and perhaps just a touch of intimidation.​

Act Two: The Evolution of Christmas Pudding

HAZEL:
Now, let us fast-forward through the centuries to explore the remarkable evolution of one of Britain’s most beloved Christmas traditions: the Christmas pudding. But to understand where it all began, we must travel back to the medieval kitchens of London and the humble origins of something called frumenty.

Frumenty—or furmenty, as it was sometimes spelled—was a medieval dish made from hulled wheat boiled in milk or broth, sometimes sweetened and spiced with ingredients such as sugar and cinnamon in richer households. Imagine a warm, thick porridge, enriched with flavours that were, at the time, highly prized. Londoners enjoyed versions of this dish in both modest homes and grand houses alike, with variations reflecting status and wealth.

By the later Middle Ages and into the early modern period, frumenty had evolved into plum pottage, often served at Christmas and sometimes known as Christmas porridge. But here’s a crucial point: when historical recipes mention “plums,” they did not mean the purple fruit we know today. “Plum” was simply a generic term for dried fruits such as raisins, currants, or prunes.

Plum pottage was a curious mixture of sweet and savoury ingredients. Recipes from the period included beef or mutton broth combined with breadcrumbs, dried fruits, wine or ale, and honey or sugar, thickened with flour or grains and bound with suet. Later English cookbooks describe Christmas pottages that began with rich meat stock and built up layers of fruit and spice, creating something substantial and almost meat-like, far removed from the sweet, steamed pudding we know today.

By the 16th century and beyond, the dish had begun to firm up, evolving into what became known as figgy pudding—the very pudding celebrated in carols. Instead of a loose pottage simmering in an open cauldron, the mixture was boiled or steamed in a cloth or basin, creating a dense, rich texture. Over time, the combination of sweet fruits and spices began to dominate, while meat gradually receded into the background.

London played a key role in this evolution. The city’s merchants imported the finest ingredients: raisins and currants from the Mediterranean and Iberia, figs from warmer climates, citrus peel and later citrus fruits from overseas, and spices from Asia and beyond. Each pudding was, in a sense, a miniature map of the world, its flavours charting trade routes and imperial reach.

But it was in the 18th century that the Christmas pudding became a truly festive symbol. Sweetness dominated, and brandy or other spirits were added for flavour—and for preservation. Many London families would prepare their puddings on Stir-up Sunday, the last Sunday before Advent, inspired by the “Stir up, we beseech thee…” collect at the start of the service. Each family member would take a turn stirring the mixture, often from east to west in honour of the Magi’s journey, and make a wish. The act of stirring became ceremonial, almost ritualistic, linking kitchen work to spiritual reflection.

The Victorian period, of course, cemented the pudding’s place in Christmas tradition. Charles Dickens, in A Christmas Carol, painted an unforgettable picture of the Christmas pudding: a dark, glossy, rounded shape brought in blazing with burning brandy and crowned with a sprig of holly. He captured not just the visual spectacle but also the sense of occasion, the care, and the domestic pride inherent in the making of a Christmas pudding.

Victorian Londoners also added an element of chance and fortune. Silver coins and tiny charms hidden in the pudding were said to bring luck—or other fates—to whoever found them. Drawing on older customs of concealing tokens in festive dishes, the pudding was no longer merely food; it had become entertainment, ritual, and a statement of both wealth and creativity.

Consider the aroma of a Victorian London kitchen in December: the sharp tang of warm brandy, the heady fragrance of nutmeg, cinnamon, and clove mingling with raisins, currants, and suet, steam rising from the boiling basin, and children watching anxiously as the family took turns to stir the mixture and make a wish. The act of creating a pudding became a sensory and social experience, bringing households together in anticipation of the feast to come.

[REFLECTIVE PAUSE]

And it is here, in these kitchens and dining rooms, that the pudding became emblematic of London itself: a city where commerce, global trade, and domestic ritual combined to create traditions that would endure for centuries.

HAZEL:
While we have explored Christmas pudding, we must now turn to another classic festive treat: the mince pie. And, dear listeners, if you could travel back to medieval and early modern London and see the original Christmas pies, you would barely recognise them.

These were not the sweet, round pastries we know today. Early mince pies were substantial, often oblong pastries, said to be shaped like mangers and sometimes decorated with pastry figures of the Christ child. Many later writers claimed they contained thirteen ingredients, representing Jesus and his twelve disciples, making each pie a little edible Nativity story.

But there’s a twist. These early mince pies contained actual minced meat—commonly mutton, beef, or veal—combined with dried fruits, suet, and sugar or honey. The sweet-and-savoury combination was typical of medieval and Tudor cuisine, and it would certainly surprise modern palates. Early English recipes instruct cooks to mince meat finely, mix it with currants and raisins, sugar and spices, and bake it in a rich pastry case as a Christmas pie.

The pastry crusts, known as coffins, were often thick, sturdy containers designed to hold the rich filling. In wealthier households, diners sometimes focused on the meat-and-fruit mixture and left much of the crust, while leftovers might find their way to servants or the poor, turning this opulent dish into an unintended act of charity.

During the Tudor period, mince pies retained their religious associations but became ever more elaborate. Spices—cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg—were later explained as symbols of the gifts of the Wise Men, while the meat recalled the shepherds’ offerings. Some pies were presented in ornate, sometimes gilded pastry coffins for ceremonial occasions, transforming the humble pie into a showpiece of faith and festivity.

Londoners in the 16th and 17th centuries could purchase mince pies at bustling markets such as Leadenhall, Smithfield, and Cheapside, where bakers and pie-sellers did a roaring trade alongside butchers and grocers. Imagine the streets at Christmas: a mingled aroma of sweet and savoury pastry rising from the stalls, the smoke of roasting chestnuts, and the sharp scent of livestock and leather from the markets all around.

The transition from meat-heavy to mostly fruit-filled pies occurred gradually over the centuries. As sugar became cheaper in the 18th century, mince pies grew steadily sweeter. Meat shifted from lamb or veal to tongue or beef, and by the late Victorian period many recipes dropped meat altogether, leaving a rich mixture of dried fruits, spices, and suet. The familiar round shape replaced the older oblong “manger” pies, reflecting a gentle move away from explicit Nativity symbolism after the Reformation.

By the Victorian era, mince pies had become a festive indulgence rather than a sacred offering. They appeared on middle-class tables and at royal celebrations alike, and writers such as Charles Dickens helped to cement them in the public imagination as an essential part of the Christmas feast. The sweet aroma of spice-laden mincemeat, the sight of steaming pies cooling on windowsills, and the act of sharing them with family and neighbours became a hallmark of the London festive season.

Even today, when you bite into a mince pie in December, you are tasting centuries of culinary and cultural evolution—rooted in London’s early kitchens, shaped by trade and empire, and transformed by domestic ritual.

[PAUSE, REFLECTIVE MUSIC]

In many ways, the history of the mince pie mirrors the broader story of London itself: a city that embraces change, blends influences from across the world, and transforms everyday life into something extraordinary.

[TRANSITION MUSIC]

Act Four: The Great Markets – Smithfield’s Thousand-Year Story

HAZEL:
Now, let us step beyond the grand halls and into the bustling streets of London, where ordinary Londoners procured the ingredients for their festive feasts. Two markets stand out as pillars of the city’s culinary life: Smithfield and Leadenhall. Today, we’ll focus first on Smithfield, a market with close to a thousand years of history as a place of livestock and meat. 

The name Smithfield is thought to derive from the Saxon smeth feld, meaning “smooth field”, describing a flat, open area on the edge of the city, stretching towards the valley of the River Fleet. In the late 12th century, the writer William Fitzstephen described a smooth field outside the walls where, on certain days, fine horses were shown and sold, alongside pigs, cows, and oxen of impressive size. It was already a place of animals, spectacle, and trade.

Imagine medieval London when livestock arrived from the countryside. Cattle, pigs, and sheep were driven along dusty roads from regions such as the Midlands into the city, herded through the gates and into Smithfield, where they might be rested, sold, and slaughtered, or passed on to butchers serving Eastcheap and other markets. The noise and the smells—the clatter of hooves, the shouts of drovers and butchers, the bleating and bellowing of animals—must have been overwhelming. Victorian observers later described the ground as almost ankle‑deep in filth and mire, with the cries of cattle and the calls of traders merging into a deafening roar.

Smithfield became especially lively at Christmas. Accounts of the market speak of Christmas‑time displays of over‑fed cattle and flocks of birds destined for festive tables, trussed and decorated to catch the eye of passing customers. Crowds would gather to see the best beasts brought in for the season of abundance and celebration, turning the business of buying meat into a kind of winter pageant.

By the 18th century, Smithfield was not only a site of commerce but also of spectacle and logistics on a vast scale. Writers of the time recorded enormous numbers of poultry being driven towards London for the Christmas trade. One described hundreds of droves of birds, altogether well over a hundred thousand in a single season, trudging along the roads. Their feet were sometimes dipped in a mixture of tar and sand to protect them on the long journey—a small but telling detail of the ingenuity required to feed a growing metropolis.

The market underwent a dramatic transformation in the 19th century. The live‑cattle market was removed from Smithfield in the 1850s, and in its place a new dead‑meat market was built. Victorian architect Sir Horace Jones designed the iron‑and‑glass halls that still define the site, with the main meat market opened in 1868 and further buildings added in the 1870s. Beneath the market floor, railway tunnels allowed carcasses to be brought directly into the halls from the goods depots, a perfect marriage of engineering and commerce.

The Poultry Market, rebuilt after a devastating fire and reopened in the early 1960s, featured a remarkable concrete shell roof—at the time one of the largest clear‑spanning domed roofs of its kind in Europe. It was a bold, modern answer to a very old problem: how to shelter vast quantities of food while keeping the space bright, airy, and efficient.

Smithfield was always more than bricks and iron, though. It was a place where all levels of society intersected: merchants haggling over carcasses, apprentices fetching poultry for their masters, and Londoners of many classes crowding the stalls to choose their Christmas meat. Nineteenth‑century commentators noted that rich and poor alike jostled through the same alleys, sniffing, examining, and bargaining in scenes that were both chaotic and festive.

Christmas at Smithfield, like the great feasts we explored earlier, had its own elements of ceremony. Prime cattle and birds were displayed with particular care; the weighing, carving, and selection of the best cuts followed a practised choreography. It was London theatre at its most practical—commerce, celebration, and social life all playing out under the same iron roof.

The market, of course, had its characters. While the famous Old Tom the gander belongs to neighbouring Leadenhall, Smithfield had its own cast of butchers, drovers, and porters whose names surface in court records, newspaper stories, and trade tales—people whose skill in handling livestock, judging meat, and managing supply kept the city fed during its busiest season.

By walking through Smithfield today, even as its role changes, you can almost hear the echoes of centuries: the stamping of hooves on cobbles, the murmur of bargaining, the clink of scales, the smell of raw meat and roasting joints drifting from taverns, and the chatter of families preparing for Christmas. For hundreds of years, this market has been one of the beating hearts of London’s festive provisioning.

[TRANSITION MUSIC]

Act Five: Leadenhall Market – From Roman Forum to Christmas Geese

HAZEL:
While Smithfield focused on livestock, Leadenhall Market became London’s premier destination for prepared foods, poultry, and luxury provisions. Its history stretches back to Roman London, and when you walk through the covered Victorian market today, you are treading above what was once the Roman Forum and Basilica complex—the largest of its kind in Roman Britain and among the largest north of the Alps. This connection to two millennia of commerce gives Leadenhall a unique gravitas among London markets.​

The market takes its name from a medieval lead-roofed manor house that once occupied the site, but its commercial significance grew when Richard “Dick” Whittington, the legendary Lord Mayor, secured the lease in 1408 and handed the freehold to the City around 1411. By the mid-15th century, his successor Simon Eyre had funded a public granary, market buildings, school, and chapel, turning Leadenhall into the city’s go-to place for poultry, cheese, eggs, spices, and fine foods.​

One of the most fascinating Christmas stories associated with Leadenhall involves Old Tom, the gander. Arriving from Ostend around 1797, Old Tom survived when it was said that over two days some 34,000 geese were slaughtered for the market, quickly becoming a beloved character. He was fed at local inns, particularly The Lamb Tavern, and when he died in 1835 at the remarkable age of 38, he lay in state in the market and reportedly even received an obituary in The Times. In a city where Christmas provisioning was almost ritualistic, Old Tom became a symbol of festive cheer.​

The market’s logistics were remarkable. Contemporary accounts describe Norfolk turkeys and geese arriving in numbers unrivalled, often hundreds of miles from their origin. Birds’ feet were dipped in tar and sand to protect them during the slow march into the city, a journey that could take days. Writers such as Daniel Defoe described these droves moving slowly along the roads, sometimes no more than a mile an hour, allowing them to arrive in prime condition for Christmas sales. The scale and coordination required for London’s festive poultry trade was staggering, making Leadenhall a hive of activity and anticipation during December.bbc+3​

Victorian Leadenhall combined commerce with spectacle. Merchants displayed their best poultry and provisions under gaslight and, later, electric lighting, alongside festive greenery and decorative arches. One Victorian observer described the blaze of lights amid which the goods were exhibited, the aroma of roasting chestnuts and spiced wine, and the hum of eager buyers, calling the market a scene worthy of the season itself.ianvisits+2​

Leadenhall was not just about food. It was a place of social encounter. Traders, apprentices, buyers, and even visiting aristocrats mingled amid the hustle. Tales of arguments, deals struck, and the occasional festive brawl are recorded in newspapers of the time, reminding us that markets were as much theatre as they were commerce.​

And for Londoners, Christmas at Leadenhall was about abundance. Wealthy families might purchase turkeys, geese, or exotic game, while working-class households bought pies, mince fillings, and preserved meats. The market provided the ingredients for festive rituals that echoed through households: roasting the perfect bird, preparing puddings, and arranging the Christmas table.​

Walking through Leadenhall today, you can still feel this history. The cobbled floors, wrought-iron arches, and painted ceilings evoke centuries of commerce, celebration, and community. From Roman administrative centre to medieval market hub to Victorian spectacle, Leadenhall has continuously nourished Londoners—and not just in body, but in spirit.

Episode 102: Characters of Leadenhall Market

[TRANSITION MUSIC]

Here is a revised version of Act Six: Dickens and the Literary Feast with the fact-check tweaks integrated and the Dickens material paraphrased rather than quoted at length.

Act Six: Dickens and the Literary Feast

HAZEL:
No discussion of London’s Christmas feasting would be complete without Charles Dickens, who did more than almost any other writer to fix these traditions in our cultural imagination. His works provide vivid snapshots of festive life in Victorian London, bridging the gap between markets, kitchens, and the dining table.

In A Christmas Carol, Dickens uses feasting as a lens to examine society, contrasting wealth, poverty, generosity, and neglect. Think of Scrooge’s purchase of the Christmas turkey: the boy is sent rushing to a poulterer’s shop in a nearby street, plunging into the kind of bustling London food trade we have been exploring throughout this story. The excitement of choosing a bird, the careful budgeting behind every purchase, and the way a single special meal can transform a modest home into a place of joy are all powerfully drawn on the page.

When the Cratchits finally sit down to their dinner, Dickens lingers on the details. Bob is delighted with the bird, big enough to seem like a feast for many, and later the Christmas pudding arrives: small but perfect, dark and round, flaming with brandy and crowned with a sprig of holly. Without needing to be lavish, this meal feels momentous. Dickens shows that Christmas feasts are not mere indulgence; they are expressions of family, community, and a kind of moral economy where generosity has real emotional weight.

Other Dickensian works provide complementary insights. In The Pickwick Papers and elsewhere, scenes in inns, streets, and markets capture the chaos, noise, and excitement of buying provisions for festive dinners. He emphasises the sensory experience of Christmas in London: the smell of roasting meats drifting from cookshops, the shimmer of puddings brought in under candlelight, the press of families and servants navigating crowded streets with baskets and parcels.

At the same time, Dickens is acutely aware of social contrasts. For the Cratchits, every ingredient—potatoes, butter, suet—is a carefully weighed expense, a modest luxury stretched to create joy. For the wealthier households that appear elsewhere in his fiction, food and markets can be stages for display and abundance, echoing the grandeur of the Guildhall banquets and great Christmas tables of the elite. The same foods—turkeys, pies, puddings—carry different meanings depending on who eats them and how: symbols of status, charity, or hard‑won comfort.

Dickens’ literary influence did more than preserve festive customs; it helped to shape them. After A Christmas Carol was published in 1843, many readers aspired to their own “Cratchit‑style” celebrations: a roast bird, vegetables, mince pies, and a rich plum pudding shared around a family table. He did not invent turkeys, geese, or plum puddings at Christmas, but his storytelling powerfully reinforced the ideal of Christmas as a family‑centred, food‑centred festival in Victorian London.

Even today, the impact of Dickens is tangible. When we pass through Leadenhall or Smithfield in December, smell roasting chestnuts on a street corner, or stir a Christmas pudding for the big day, we are participating in traditions he both observed and helped to immortalise. He did not merely record London life; he curated it for posterity, weaving together markets, kitchens, and literature in ways that still shape how we experience the festive season.

 

[TRANSITION MUSIC]

Here is a tightened version of Act Seven: Victorian Markets and Modern Traditions with the fact‑check edits folded in and the “quotations” treated as paraphrased commentary rather than verbatim sources.

Act Seven: Victorian Markets and Modern Traditions

HAZEL:
By the Victorian era, London’s Christmas markets had become spectacular events, transforming from mere centres of commerce into vibrant festivals of light, colour, and community. These markets were both practical and theatrical, offering everything from fresh produce to luxury gifts, and creating a festive atmosphere that Londoners of all classes could enjoy.

Writers of the time described Christmas Eve markets as dazzling spectacles: stalls heaped with every kind of edible, a blaze of lamps and later gaslight, and evergreen decorations that made the whole scene feel worthy of the season. Markets like Leadenhall, Smithfield, and Covent Garden drew crowds of shoppers navigating aisles of poultry, game, spices, fruit, and baked goods. Street vendors added to the sensory experience with roasted chestnuts, sugared almonds, and hot spiced drinks, so that the combination of aromas, voices, and music turned shopping into celebration.

Victorian families approached Christmas feasting as a lavish affair. Tables groaned under the weight of roast meats, mince pies, and plum puddings, each dish prepared with careful attention to tradition and presentation. Roast goose remained a favourite, especially for working- and lower-middle-class households, while those with more means might serve beef, venison, or turkey, often accompanied by rich stuffings. Cookery writers of the period stressed that the Christmas dinner should delight the eye as well as the appetite, insisting that the season called for a sense of abundance and show.

The practice of wassailing—raising toasts to health and prosperity—further reinforced the communal and ceremonial nature of Christmas dining. Friends and neighbours gathered to sing, drink spiced ale or wine, and offer blessings, creating connections that could cut across social divides. Around the punch bowl or wassail cup, the Christmas table became a stage for fellowship as much as for food.

Markets also played a key role in maintaining seasonal traditions. Bakers, butchers, and grocers coordinated supplies so that London households could secure the precise ingredients needed for their festive dishes. Turkeys and geese were transported from regions such as Norfolk, sometimes walked remarkable distances; dried fruits and nuts arrived from across Europe and the Mediterranean; sugar and spices came through London’s docks from the Caribbean, India, and beyond. The Christmas feast depended on an intricate web of local and global supply.

Christmas in Victorian London was also about display and aspiration. Families not only consumed food but used it to communicate respectability, taste, and generosity. The aroma of roasting meats and spices, the sight of gleaming puddings, and the ritual of carving the Christmas bird became symbols of domestic pride and festive joy. Dickens and his contemporaries captured and popularised these scenes, helping to cement the image of the London Christmas table that still feels familiar today.

By the late 19th century, many of the great markets had been rebuilt or improved. Covered iron-and-glass arcades, gas lighting, and increasingly decorative shop fronts elevated the shopping experience, blending commerce with spectacle. Commentators noted that even those who bought nothing could leave these markets enchanted by the sights, smells, and sounds—Christmas in miniature, a little pageant of London abundance and cheer.

The Victorian market tradition laid the groundwork for modern London Christmas markets, where historic streets and squares host seasonal stalls, mulled wine vendors, and festive music. What began as a necessity—providing meat, poultry, and produce—evolved into a cultural celebration that still draws Londoners and visitors alike each December.

[TRANSITION MUSIC]

Here is an updated version of your final act with the suggested precision tweaks incorporated and your narrative voice preserved.

Act Eight: The Lord Mayor’s Banquet – A Living Medieval Tradition

HAZEL:
While we’ve been talking about historical traditions, I want to end by discussing something remarkable: a medieval feasting tradition that continues to this day. The Lord Mayor’s Banquet is widely regarded as the City of London’s longest-running civic banquet, first held at Guildhall in 1502 and continued annually ever since.

Every November, the Great Hall of the Guildhall—the same hall where those medieval merchant princes held their elaborate feasts—hosts the Lord Mayor’s Banquet to mark the start of the new Lord Mayor’s year. This magnificent event has hosted monarchs and foreign dignitaries and includes the Prime Minister’s keynote foreign policy speech, keeping alive that historic link between City ceremony and national politics.

The atmosphere during these modern banquets still evokes the hall’s medieval heritage. Guests dine beneath Gothic stained-glass windows bearing the names and arms of past Lord Mayors, while statues of the mythical giants Gog and Magog look down from their lofty perches. The hall can accommodate up to around 700 guests for banquets, maintaining its role as one of London’s premier civic entertaining spaces.

Samuel Pepys dined at Guildhall, recording Lord Mayor’s feasts in his diary, and Charles II attended great civic banquets there as the restored monarchy re‑engaged with the City. The tradition of magnificent state banquets reached a late‑Victorian high point with events such as Queen Victoria’s 1900 celebration at Guildhall welcoming soldiers home from the Boer War. Yet the custom continues today, adapted for modern times but still defined by that essential connection between food, power, and hospitality that has shaped these occasions for more than 500 years.

[REFLECTIVE MUSIC]

Conclusion: The Enduring Legacy

HAZEL:
As we reach the end of our journey through London’s feasting traditions, I’m struck by how these stories connect past and present in the most intimate way possible—through the universal experience of sharing food.

The transformation of dishes like Christmas pudding and mince pies—from medieval pottages and meat pies to Victorian sweets and today’s familiar desserts—reflects broader changes in British society, trade, and empire. The great markets of Smithfield and Leadenhall evolved from medieval livestock trading grounds into sophisticated food distribution hubs, while still retaining their essential character as centres of London’s food culture.

Perhaps most remarkably, these traditions show how food serves not merely as sustenance but as a powerful expression of community, celebration, and continuity. From medieval merchant princes dining in Guildhall’s Great Hall to Victorian families gathered around their Christmas puddings, London’s feasting customs have continued to nourish both body and soul.

When you next walk through Leadenhall Market—which you absolutely should do, especially in December when it’s dressed for Christmas—remember Old Tom the goose and the flocks that once filled that space. When you stir your Christmas pudding on Stir-up Sunday, think of those medieval and early modern cooks creating the first plum pottages. When you bite into a mince pie, consider its journey from an oblong, symbol-laden meat pie to the sweet rounds we know today.

The story of feasting in London reveals how culinary traditions adapt while preserving their essential spirit. Whether it’s the continued use of Guildhall for great civic banquets, the Victorian iron-and-glass of Leadenhall still sheltering food lovers, or families across London maintaining Christmas food traditions that began in medieval kitchens and markets, these connections to our past remain deliciously alive.

[CLOSING MUSIC BEGINS]

Thank you for joining me on this feast through London’s history.