Something smells fishy in the world of the iconic tarry spread. The makers say there’s nothing amiss but Felicity Cloake is determined to find out what’s going on at the bottom of the jar

I’ve never been one for conspiracy theories. Our honourable prime minister looks far too much like a shiny pink sausage for anyone to convince me he’s actually a shape-shifting reptilian. So when I tell you there’s been a cover-up at the very highest levels of the British Establishment, I hope you will take me seriously.

Marmite launch travel-size jars – a case of spreading the love (or hate) Read more

I’m talking, of course, about Marmite.

In the yeast-tinted memories of my distant youth, this national treasure is as dark and tarry as Winston Churchill’s lungs. The barest scraping across buttered toast was enough to blow my tender mind. This old-time Marmite demanded respect, as I found out during a game of truth or dare, when I ate an entire spoonful, only to be promptly and violently sick. I haven’t played truth or dare for a while, but if the occasion arose, I reckon could probably finish the entire catering-sized tub of the mild-mannered modern version, which not only tastes wrong, but looks it too; brownish and viscous instead of the traditional prince-of-darkness black.

Unilever, the maker of Marmite, denies there’s been any alteration of the recipe. A very carefully worded statement from one St John Skelton, the brand’s “quality specialist” informs me that “the major ingredient of Marmite yeast extract paste has remained rigidly unchanged” since it was first created – “yeast extract”. Well, duh.

But there’s more to Marmite than mere yeast; there are also “secret ingredients” – and here I scent victory. “Owing to changes in the availability of materials, and improvement of manufacturing methods,” Skelton informs me, “we have been forced to adapt these, but their character has been rigorously retained.” It’s not a confession but it’s a start.

Oh, dear ... PR Photograph: PR

In addition, he points out that, as their yeast comes from several breweries, and is a living organism, “there is inevitably some variation of properties within the supply. We strive to smooth fluctuations using a paste blending system but they can never be entirely eliminated.” Apparently, every batch must be approved by “a panel of screened individuals” before being let loose on the public, which makes me wonder what kind of perverts would have given the green light to the new, limited edition “Summer of Love” version, launched last month. “Made with 100% lager yeast for a lighter blend,” it is designed to appeal to “a whole new audience” (who, presumably, found even the meek flavour of the so-called original too much to cope with).

Still, the beloved name alone is enough to earn it a place in my Marmite library, which includes previous limited editions such as the 2008 Guinness yeast version (rich and fruity) and the following year’s Valentine’s tribute champagne-spiked variety (currently missing in action; if any of my former housemates have any information, I urge them to come forward).

I did not, however, manage to act swiftly enough to secure myself a jar of the extra-mature Marmite XO. When Unilever launched it in 2010, the factory manager, one Martin Beckford was quoted in the press as saying that a blander version would be “unthinkable … after all, if everyone liked it, it just wouldn’t be Marmite”. How quickly they forget, I think sadly, looking at the gaudy psychedelic flowers adorning the label of the “extra lovely” lighter variety.

You may take it I disapprove. But, as a service to the nation, I’ve taste-tested all the Marmite products currently available (which, thank God, excludes the aberration that was Marmite-flavoured chocolate), so you don’t have to.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Marmite cashews. Photograph: Alamy

Marmite rice cakes, 60p for 25g

I bought these before I started steering clear of vehicles that demand healthy wodges of butter. That said, they would of course be even nicer with a wodge of butter, and some more Marmite on top.

Marmite crisps, about £1.70 for 6 x 25g bags

Like most crisps, if I shut my eyes I’d be hard-pressed to identify the alleged flavour. They taste generically savoury – only the odd particularly well dusted example has the distinctive Marmite tang. Give me a Twiglet any day.

Marmite cashews, about £1.59 for 90g

I’ve got previous with these, having once eaten an entire packet on a rainy riverbank while pretending to watch the annual Oxford-Cambridge boat race. They’re utterly addictive; sweet and crunchy and wonderfully savoury.



Ilchester Marmite Cheddar Bites, £1.30 per pack of 5 x 100g

This could be too much umami even for me. Marmite and cheddar is the sandwich filling of choice in heaven, but these beige lumps are a little bit scary. Though I’m still going to eat them all, obviously.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Marmite rice cakes. Photograph: Alamy

Marmite, £2.50 for 250g

A poor shadow of its former self, but that said, still delicious. Intensely salty and as near perfection as can currently be purchased on this earth. (Unless anyone has a stash of vintage jars they’re looking to move on.)

Marmite Squeezy, £2.50 for 200g

This is apparently the same product, but with a higher water content. I do not want water on my toast. Bland.

Special Edition Summer of Love Marmite, £3.49 for 250g

Less aggressively salty than the proper stuff, with a more malty, beery flavour, this reminds me of the heresy that is Vegemite, and as such, I cannot recommend it unless you’re desperate, or Australian. Still better than anything else you can put on toast though.

Whatever the official Unilever line, nothing will convince me that malevolent forces haven’t been mucking about with the recipe for their own, no doubt sinister ends – and the British public deserves answers. I demand an official inquiry. Who’s with me? (And while we’re on the subject, which other famous brands aren’t what they used to be?)

• Felicity Cloake on how to make the perfect grilled cheese sandwich



