Love him or hate him, there's no escaping the fact that Jamie Oliver is a global success, and no less so in Brazil, where you only have to switch on the TV or stroll past a bookshop to see the multimillionaire chef's face grinning out. He was all up in my Instagram feed, too, last month in Rio de Janeiro. Jamie watching the sunset over Copacabana beach, Jamie hugging local chefs, Jamie at the Maracanã; the sort of social media group hug that Brazilians love to "like".

But things turned ugly when, appearing on local TV show Saia Justa, he was asked to sample a tray of local foods, and made the PR gaffe of giving an honest reply. Frozen açaí-berry and sugar-cane juice were "delicious", while the popular confectionery brigadeiro, quindim and beijinho – emotive and historic treasures, the very essence of Brazilian childhood nostalgia – he dismissed as "all a load of old shit, fuckin' 'orrible". Viewers watched in abject horror. It was car-crash telly, the second blow to national pride in less than a fortnight.

I can't help but feel a teensy bit sorry for Jamie. He looked like anyone would after a night out in Rio on the caipirinhas and just a few hours' sleep. And as for Brazil's beloved brigadeiros – they're one thing that haven't grown on me in the years I've spent in São Paulo. The show's presenter, Barbara Gancia, tried to patch up the damage, posting on Facebook; "I had made him eat an entire tray of sweets made with condensed milk. It was 8.30 in the morning … After the edit, [his comment] ended up being shown out of context." But the backlash has been vitriolic, filling local newspapers columns, and driving disgruntled fans online to demand apologies, threaten to throw their Jamie cookbooks in the bin, and boycott the restaurant he plans to open in São Paulo this year.

The mud has been flung back by Brazilians in rebukes, posted on Jamie's social media channels, like "kidney pie is shit", "English breakfast is a full-fat crap", "fish and chips. Ha!" and "The English judging food – hilarious. It's the worst in the world." I doubt many Brits, least of all Jamie, will be much offended by these remarks. It's not like we've ever been a fiercely proud culinary nation, though that is undoubtedly changing, as the Great British this and the Great British that of prime-time television testify.

It's interesting, and often surprising, though, to learn what offends foreigners most about British food. And to consider what our equivalent of Brazil's brigadeiros might be, if any, that would have us rallying in defense of our culinary treasures. The Scots are clearly partial to Tunnock's teacakes, if the supersized bouncing biscuits of last week's Commonwealth Games opening ceremony are anything to go by. Their liberal use of the deep-fat fryer seems to be widely known, too.

As far as the full English goes, it's often its timing rather than contents that other countries find so baffling – beans before lunchtime?! Bovril is another breakfast shocker for the few Brazilians who've had a bite of my toast topped with the salty beef paste, which was manufactured for decades in neighbouring Argentina and Uruguay.

According to Andrew Webb, who went in search of Britain's regional specialities for his book Food Britannia, sweet puddings are easy fodder for ridicule. "Things like trifle look hilarious to outsiders that don't grow up with it. Other really sweet, gaudy puddings, like arctic roll, blancmange and spotted dick, to insult them is to insult our own childhood." Jamie doesn't side-step the social history of arctic roll in his recipe, describing the sponge-encased ice cream as having become "a bit naff and tacky", but saying it's now the "ultimate in retro desserts".

Food historian Dr Annie Gray remembers making fruitcake for friends in America, and no one eating it: "It turns out it's a cultural joke over there, given once and then regifted ad infinitum." She also remembers shocking her host family when living in France by revealing that the British ate jelly with ice cream. "They couldn't believe it," she says.

Jelly of the savoury variety is another ingredient that can turn the stomach of the uninitiated. "A pork pie, with its jelly and pastry casing, is one of our traditional ways of preserving meat," says Andrew Webb. "It has got a yuck factor, though, for anyone who doesn't grow up with it." As do jellied eels, though the East End favourite is alive and well in old-school establishments like L Manze, the eel, pie and mash shop in Walthamstow recently awarded a Grade II listing.

Of course, why we eat what we eat today is a long and complex topic, the very specific result of our history, economics, culture and climate. And many British classics aren't even solely ours; they're borrowed from elsewhere, or the inspiration for spin-offs like zuppa inglese, the Italian take on trifle, to name just one. What seems to be fairly universal, though, is that food is an emotional subject.