Joanna Rossiter
The trouble with boycotting Russian food
As the war in Ukraine worsens, the horrific scenes filling our screens have prompted a visceral reaction from the British public: 78 per cent now support Russian sanctions – up from 61 per cent in late February. Economic sanctions have undoubtedly hit the Kremlin’s spending power – and that’s to be encouraged. But what should we make of the broader cultural boycott of Russia that is rapidly gaining pace?
So far, Britain's boycotts have had a peculiarly culinary bent. While Putin continues his onslaught, British shoppers have been encouraged to shun vodka and caviar. Lockdown revived an intense interest in cooking amongst the house-bound middle classes. And, seemingly emboldened by their banana bread and sourdough starter kits, many seem set on using food to take on Putin.
Companies keen to capture the zeitgeist have been announcing indiscriminate boycotts of all sorts of Russian produce – from lager to fish – and consumers are following suit. Wetherspoons announced that it would no longer stock a Russian beer called Baltica, which is brewed in Putin’s hometown, and bars across the country are refusing to serve Russian Vodka, including Bundobust in Liverpool, Adventure Bar and the London Cocktail Club – a chain run by ex Dragon’s Den investor Sarah Willingham.
Last week, The Telegraph advised readers on the food and drink items they could forgo in order to ‘use their own personal spending power to make Putin pay.’ But how effective are these boycotts? Have businesses taken the time to work out whether their suppliers have genuine connections with the Kremlin? Or is it a knee-jerk attempt to be seen to make a stand on social media?
Sainsbury’s decision to rename the chicken Kiev might get it trending on Twitter but it’s hardly going to stop Putin in his tracks. Yet, as a bellwether of British attitudes towards Russia, it's very revealing. It's 2022's answer to 'Freedom Fries' – the headline grabbing attempt by a North Carolina restaurant to signal its disapproval of France's opposition to the invasion of Iraq. The widespread renaming of French Fries in the US coincided with a 2003 poll showing that sixty per cent of Americans held an unfavourable view of France. Could our own culinary grandstanding be a symptom of a similar national disdain, not just for Putin but for Russians? As consumers, we must be careful to adopt an anti-Putin, not anti-Russian, approach.
Restaurants in the capital who specialise in Russian cuisine are clearly concerned about diners voting with their feet. Zima, owned by one of Russia’s most celebrated chefs Alexei Zimin, has announced it is donating ten per cent of its revenue to Ukranian refugees while Mari Vanna in Knightsbridge said it would give 50 per cent of its takings towards Ukrainian aid. The divisive Soho restaurant Bob Bob Ricard – which A.A. Gill famously described as ‘Liberace’s bathroom dropped into a Texan diner’ – is hosting a fundraising dinner in support of Ukraine. Its owner Leonid Shutov said tellingly that ‘Russian aggression in Ukraine inevitably casts a shadow on any business that uses the word “Russian” to describe itself.’
The government has also been stoking consumer-led boycotts. DEFRA minister Victoria Prentis called for Britons to stop buying white fish imported from Russia and instead to be willing to pay premium prices for food produced domestically. A government-instigated sanction on the fishing industry may well be appropriate. But there’s a danger that customer-driven boycotts will instil a sense of Russophobia that can't easily be undone.
The boycotting of produce gives individuals a sense of control in a situation where many feel powerless to help. But, as the growth of cancel culture has shown, things can snowball quickly on social media. What starts with Smirnoff could end with Rachmaninoff and Chekov. Britain should use all the levers it can to contain Putin, but we must not jettison Russian culture along the way.
