We who grew up after the Second World War in England, in particular, were pretty much starved of exotic foodstuff. Rationing was over, but there weren’t any supermarkets, and many of us lived hand-to-mouth.
My father loved to eat bread and dripping. Even today I find that stunning, in an artery-clogging kind of way. White bread smeared with the fat, or drippings, left over in the pan from the Sunday roast—pork or lamb or beef fat. Then he would liberally cover it with plenty of salt. My dad lived until the age of ninety. So it didn’t seem to do him much harm.