Welsh rarebit: it’s all about the beer

‘Many’s the long night I’ve dreamed of cheese–toasted, mostly’: such is the power, the appeal of cheese on toast that when Ben Gunn is found, having been marooned on the eponymous island for three years, his longing for cheese on toast is one of his first statements.

When I find myself considering the possibility of another round of Welsh rarebit, it’s reassuring to remember that not only has such a craving been immortalised in fiction from over a century ago, but that the thought of cheese on toast can sustain a shipwrecked man. It makes my Sunday evening hankering for Welsh rarebit seem quite reasonable.

Of course, Welsh rarebit is no simple cheese on toast. A proper Welsh rarebit, in my books, must be made by sizzling together butter and flour, and then slowly adding beer until a thick, gloopy sauce forms. Then handfuls of mature cheddar are added, and the whole thing is spiked with hot mustard and a good splash of Worcestershire sauce. That sauce is splodged onto bread and grilled until it is blistered and leopard-spotted. If you’ve only had cheese on toast before, Welsh rarebit is a revelation: smooth, strong, and deeply savoury.

In fact, savoury is precisely the correct word. Technically, Welsh rarebit sits in that niche edible genre of ‘savoury’ – a course peculiar to the British. It is a dish that comes after pudding, but is salty rather than sweet – designed as palate cleanser before port is served. I confess that, as much as I might like to present the idea that I not only habitually serve port in my home, but ensure that everyone’s palate is cleansed before the decanter comes out, this isn’t the place Welsh rarebit occupies in my home. Welsh rarebit is firmly a Sunday supper here. Eaten off knees, in front of an episode of Grand Designs, it is extraordinarily satisfying.