The Curious Origins of Fortnum & Mason

If you want to understand Britishness in edible, giftable, tea-sippable form, you could do a lot worse than start with Fortnum & Mason. It’s where marmalade meets monarchy, where tins of caviar and bottles of gin sparkle like crown jewels, and where the humble Scotch egg was supposedly born — although best not bring that up north of the border unless you want trouble. It’s not just a shop; it’s more like stepping into a confectionary time capsule with a jazz band playing Handel in the background, a place where you could swear time has been preserved in jars alongside the gooseberry chutney.

The whole thing kicked off in 1707 with what can only be described as a royal candle side hustle. William Fortnum, a footman in Queen Anne’s household, noticed the monarchy had a habit of burning only half a candle before tossing it. Wasteful? Yes. Profitable? Absolutely. Fortnum saw the opportunity, flogged the leftovers, and before long, he and his landlord Hugh Mason turned that flicker of entrepreneurial spirit into a flickering empire of tea, preserves and treats for London’s elite. They went from waxy seconds to edible luxuries with alarming ease. The Georgian set loved it. And once you’ve impressed a few powdered wigs with a decent pot of Earl Grey, you’re basically set for life. That original knack for pairing elegance with the everyday still defines everything Fortnum’s does — somehow they make a packet of shortbread feel like a coronation.

The hampers deserve a moment. Actually, they deserve a fanfare, a spotlight, and possibly their own Netflix series narrated by Stephen Fry. Fortnum’s didn’t just assemble snacks in a basket. They composed symphonies of sustenance, tailored to the occasion. Whether you were off to the Henley Regatta, summiting an icy peak, heading into battle or just picnicking with someone inconveniently aristocratic, Fortnum’s had you covered. They packed for Florence Nightingale’s hospitals during the Crimean War, complete with beef tea and essence of turtle. During the Second World War, they sent foie gras and anchovy paste to officers on the front. And somehow they made it all feel like a treat, even if you were surrounded by mud and shellfire. Antarctic explorers had Fortnum’s biscuits in their kit. The implication? Even in a frozen wasteland, good manners and better cheese should prevail.

You’d be hard-pressed to find another brand that has fed both wounded soldiers and giggling debutantes with the same impeccable taste. Their hampers aren’t just baskets — they’re edible love letters to British eccentricity, filled with tins that click open like treasure chests and jars that practically whisper Regency gossip. From stilton to smoked salmon, marmalade to champagne, they capture an age-old British fantasy of order, abundance, and impeccable picnic planning.

The Scotch egg, of course, is their most notorious contribution to the food world. It’s a peculiar sort of edible paradox: rustic yet refined, ridiculous yet revered. They claim they invented it in 1738, allegedly to feed wealthy travellers on the go. Wrap a hard-boiled egg in sausage meat, crumb it, fry it until golden, and voilà — you’ve got a foodstuff that baffles Americans and delights Brits in equal measure. Whether Fortnum’s truly invented it or just made it fashionable is irrelevant now. They’ve owned the narrative. And served it with mustard. It’s available in their food hall now in various high-concept iterations: quail egg, venison sausage, something with truffle oil, naturally. They’ve transformed a pub classic into an object of fascination, capable of causing existential crisis in vegans and Michelin chefs alike.

Their ability to make even the mundane feel like a royal indulgence didn’t stop there. In 1886, Fortnum & Mason became the first shop in Britain to sell Heinz baked beans. Today they’re a staple in every student cupboard. Back then, they were considered daring. Imported beans in a tomato-based sauce? It was basically intercontinental haute cuisine. Fortnum’s sold them like fine wine. Apparently the Victorians liked their legumes with a side of colonial flair. One imagines someone in a corset nibbling a bean on toast with the same solemnity one reserves for caviar.

You can’t really walk past the place in December without being hypnotised. Their Christmas windows are legendary. Each year, the creative team goes full pantomime-meets-Liberty-print-explosion. Mechanical mice ice skate around piles of marzipan fruit. Singing puddings carol in harmony. It’s less of a shop window, more of a small operetta set behind glass. Londoners make pilgrimages just to see what festive fever dream they’ve come up with. It’s not uncommon to find tourists staring, mouths agape, debating whether that gingerbread polar bear just blinked. Spoiler: it probably did. Children press their faces against the windows like Dickensian waifs, and adults rediscover their long-lost sense of wonder, somewhere between the gold-foiled mince pies and the life-sized automaton elf knitting an angora scarf.

And tea. Always tea. The Diamond Jubilee Tea Salon, opened by Her Majesty The Queen in 2012, isn’t just a tearoom. It’s a chapel to the god of afternoon refreshments. There’s ritual involved. Napkins are folded with origami precision. Scones arrive warm, not hot. Jam versus cream order is a matter of personal ethics. Once seated, you half expect a chamber quartet to start playing. You’ll spot tourists trying to be quiet while being obviously thrilled, and regulars pretending not to notice the gold-rimmed plates. The tea menu reads like a novella, with entries that suggest you might experience visions if you steep it properly. And maybe you do. There are teapots with names, staff with encyclopaedic tea knowledge, and the very real chance of emerging mildly caffeinated and spiritually transformed.

Oh, and the bees. There are bees. Real ones. Buzzing about on the rooftop, going about their business like tiny royal couriers. Their honey is flavoured by whatever’s blooming in Green Park, St James’s or wherever else their tiny wings take them. The result is a honey with terroir. It doesn’t get more British than that: bees making local honey above a luxury department store while Big Ben ticks in the background. The jars are small, elegant, and cost roughly the same as a pub lunch. But who can resist honey produced by bees with a view of Buckingham Palace? One wonders if the bees know they’re working for royalty, and if that explains the taste notes of self-importance and lavender.

Fortnum & Mason doesn’t just sell to you. It casts a spell. Over the past 300-plus years, its hampers and hampers-with-delusions-of-grandeur have been sent to tsarinas, Arctic explorers, secret agents and politicians with too much time on their hands. Ian Fleming was a regular. You can picture Bond unwrapping a parcel of Fortnum’s stilton while planning to infiltrate a casino. There’s even a mechanical clock above the main doors where little effigies of Fortnum and Mason emerge every hour to bow politely. The ultimate retail TikTok moment. And frankly, more polite than most actual Londoners. That clock, like everything else, performs with gravitas. You could synchronise your day to it — tea, toast, diplomacy, invasion.

It’s a shop, yes. But it’s also theatre, nostalgia, and a culinary museum that smells faintly of marmalade and expensive soap. The ground floor is a maze of biscuits, preserves and tea canisters, all in that perfect shade of Fortnum duck egg blue. Downstairs, there’s a wine bar where you can sip something chilled while contemplating whether or not to buy a pineapple-shaped tea strainer. Upstairs, there’s more tea, more cake, and possibly a duchess or two, quietly judging your pastry choice. Every inch of the place whispers (never shouts) old money charm, with just enough modern sparkle to keep TikTok influencers quietly losing their minds. There are moments when you half expect to bump into Oscar Wilde or a time-travelling Nigella Lawson.

Despite all this grandeur, it doesn’t feel stiff. The staff have perfected the Fortnum’s tone: precise but not snooty, helpful without hovering. They’ll chat to you about honey vintages or recommend a biscuit tin based on your star sign. They know what they’re doing. They’re the sort of people who would politely correct your pronunciation of Darjeeling and make you feel grateful for the lesson. And that, frankly, is a talent. They manage to balance elegance and approachability like few places can — it’s like being waited on by a very kind butlers’ guild trained by Mary Poppins.

So when the aliens eventually descend and ask what this curious nation of drizzle and queueing is all about, don’t give them a history book. Give them a Fortnum & Mason hamper, point them to the tea salon, and let them draw their own conclusions. With a bit of luck, they’ll leave us alone, content with their gooseberry jam and Earl Grey. Maybe they’ll even take up the Scotch egg and start their own intergalactic branch. Now there’s a thought. And if they need staff uniforms, well, Fortnum’s has just the shade of blue.