Bovril is Good For You!

Maureen Songer (msong@teleport.com) writes:

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My mother believed that Bovril was "strengthening." Following any childhood illness, Bovril was prepared with hot water and given to the recuperating child along with toast. I dipped the toast in the Bovril. I liked Bovril. I found some in the supermarket recently, but somehow it didn't taste the same. I am going to try some spread on toast.

My Aunt diagnosed my cousin, Anne, as "delicate" and "anemic." I have no idea why. Anne was given a small wineglass of Wincarnis Wine three times daily. Wincarnis Wine was supposed to be a treatment for anemia. The bottle was kept in the pantry and my Aunt and cousin would go in there and shut the door while Anne downed the glass.

I was never exposed to Vegamite, which is just as well because it sounds disgusting.

I love the Bovril article and accompanying graphic. I have three old farts of cousins in Liverpool with whom I correspond on a regular basis. Next time I write to those guys I will send them a copy of the article and picture.

Do you have any pictures of the old "Guinness is Good for You" advertisements?

Michael Stewart Copp replies:

Well, it doesn't say on the picture that it's good for you, but we all know it is. Anyway, I'd never pass up the chance to take a gander at a Guinness, it fitting comfortably into the category of tarry brown liquids. Surely to God there must be a Guinness Shrine somewhere on this Information M1 (If there isn't one, there certainly should be. Perhaps as our next project...?)

...and Maureen responds:
'Tis a treasure you are, Michael. Not only did I find more Bovril pictures, but also a Guinness poster! My next letter to the aforementioned old farts will have that on my letterhead.

I am still working up to trying Bovril smeared on toast, but I don't drink Guinness. My cousins drink it as if it were an elixir. I do believe it is a drink only for men with hair on their chests--or maybe it puts hair on their chests. I don't need any of that.

My grandfather went to the corner pub every night just before closing time for a pint of Guinness. He always sat at the same table next to the frosted window. If I were walking down the street, I could see his silhouette, complete with bowler hat.

He didn't drink Guinness on Sundays. Then, he drank port and smoked his Sunday pipe (a calabash) which he called his "silent friend." Of course, he was an Irishman.

...to which Michael says:

Your grandfather had the right idea with the pipe. I occasionally partake in a puff with a nice briar myself. A fine cherry Cavendish blend, that's the ticket. Guinness is the bees knees as well, but the hair on the chest theory seems to have failed in my case. all the better, I say.

To go back to the Bovril Shrine click here.