The first thing that hits you is the smell. Bitter, acrid fumes billow through the air, creating a pungent fug that fills my nostrils and catches in the back of my throat. It’s reminiscent of stale beer and cigarette butts, with a whiff of mouldy cheese; what an old pub carpet might smell like after a particularly wild Saturday night.
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Then there’s the noise. Row upon row of hammering pistons are firing jets of steam into the air. All around are whistling, whirring metal contraptions, vibrating so violently that the whole floor seems to quake. A tangle of shuddering pipes covers almost every inch of wall.
‘It’s 90c inside there,’ a man wearing industrial headphones and a hard hat is shouting, tapping one of the machines. ‘We cool it down and the liquid can stay in there for days. Then it goes though the evaporator and ends up as a paste.’
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With a flourish, he gestures towards a huge stainless steel vat in the centre of the room, from which a trickle of brown gunge is oozing and pooling on the floor.
It’s hard to connect this nightmarish scene with the contented ritual that takes place in up to a quarter of British households each morning. For it’s in this noisy, smelly, chaotic factory in Burton-upon-Trent, Staffordshire, that Marmite, the iconic breakfast spread, is made.
Marmite, which celebrates its 113th birthday this year, has never been more popular. Twenty-seven jars are sold every minute, and this Sunday tens of thousands of us will be tucking into the latest addition to the brand’s range: the Marmite Easter Egg.
What started as a wartime staple has recently revamped its reputation — moving from nursery treat to trendy retro brand. Last year, Marmite saw an 11 per cent rise in popularity among the under-30s.
Top chefs swear by it in everything from curries to cupcakes, while coffee shop Starbucks has started putting Marmite in its paninis. And celebrities can’t get enough of the stuff.
Eddie Redmayne is said to adore it, actor Bill Nighy was recently stopped at Heathrow airport for trying to smuggle an extra-large jar in his hand luggage, and last week it was revealed as one of the dressing room demands of axed Top Gear presenter Jeremy Clarkson.
Whether you love it or loathe it — and I count myself firmly among the latter — it seems everyone has an opinion on Marmite. But very few of us actually know what it contains, or how it’s made. So the Mail took an exclusive tour of the world’s only Marmite factory in order to find out.
First things first: there are no bubbling cauldrons of the savoury spread, no plates piled high with hot, buttery toast for tasting purposes. Instead, it’s produced in a rather non-descript corrugated iron building in the centre of Burton, an ancient market town once known as ‘the beer capital of Britain’.
Until last year, the site boasted a vast red tower bearing the brand’s logo, but, after 60 years as a local landmark, it was torn down for safety reasons. All that remains is a large plastic cut-out of a Marmite jar, drably tacked over the entrance.
The distinctive salty odour surrounds the factory like a fog. St John Skelton, the factory’s quality specialist and master taster who has worked here for 41 years, is positively infused with it.
He’s like a savoury Willy Wonka, hopping from one foot to the other with excitement as he reels off some of Marmite’s statistics.
‘In seven weeks, we make enough here to spread over the world’s smallest country, Vatican City,’ he trills. ‘We produce 6,000 tons of Marmite — around 50 million jars — a year. Only 15 per cent of that goes overseas; the rest is eaten right here in the UK.’
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Marmite, which was invented by a German scientist called Justus von Liebig in the late 19th century, has been produced in Burton since 1902. The town’s beer heritage is important: the basic ingredient of the spread is yeast sludge, a waste product left over from brewing beer, and there were once 30 breweries in the surrounding area. Now, the raw materials come from across the UK.
It is named after a French casserole dish, pronounced ‘mar-meet’, having first been distributed in earthenware pots. To this day, the jar’s iconic red-and-yellow label depicts a Marmite dish.
And it is only since 2006, when the famous ‘love it or hate it’ advertising slogan was introduced, that our opinions of the spread have become so polarised. During World War I, Marmite wasn’t seen as an acquired taste at all — it was included in British soldiers’ ration packs. And during World War II it was supplied as a dietary supplement in prisoner-of-war camps.
It is also said to have a number of health benefits — from fighting anaemia to healing tissue after heart damage — and until the Sixties was given away free to new mothers by NHS baby clinics because of its high concentration of B vitamins and folic acid.
‘If people have been brought up on Marmite, they tend to be fond of it throughout their lives,’ explains St John. ‘I’ve always loved it. From when I was a baby, I liked savoury foods over sweets. At kids’ parties, while everyone else was eating jelly and blancmange, I preferred the Marmite sandwiches they made for the grown-ups.’
Is liking Marmite a requirement for getting a job here, I ask? ‘Oh no. There are some people who work for us who hate it. But they’re definitely in a minority’ — he grins — ‘and we do try to change their mind.’
St John, known by his colleagues as Mr Marmite, is about as big a fan as they come. He trained as a biochemist before taking his first job at the factory straight out of Warwick University, aged just 21, but has never lost his taste for the spread.
The best way to eat it, he insists, is between two slices of white bread, with a thin layer of butter and slices of cooked chicken. And his favourite thing about the product is its ‘astounding’ shelf life.
‘We put 18 months on the jar, because that’s how long it retains its vitamin content. But you could eat Marmite that was manufactured in 1945 and it would be safe. Its flavour would have changed, but it would still taste good.’
He’s seen some curious incarnations of Marmite in his time — from crisps to nuts, even a dubious Valentine’s Day-themed body paint — and knows fans who rave about stirring a teaspoon of it into hot milk, or spreading it on banana sandwiches. But one thing St John can’t abide is people putting Marmite in the fridge.
‘If a Marmite jar is contaminated with bacteria, leave it alone in the cupboard — because of its high salt content, the Marmite will kill the bacteria. Putting it in the fridge, on the other hand, preserves the bacteria. So not only does it taste better out of the fridge, it’s safer.’
Having kitted me out in a fetching hairnet, hat and high-visibility vest, he bounds across the yard where seven vast brewery tankers have arrived with some freshly slurried yeast, ready to start a new batch.
The yeast is pumped into large drums called coppers, where it is mixed with water and salt, and heated at 90c for ten hours. ‘At this stage, it’s a creamy, pale-brown colour,’ St John explains. ‘There are a couple of different types of yeast mixing in each one — this could be from bitter, lager or ale — so no two batches are the same.’
From here, the mixture is pumped into the main factory, where the hop residue (from the beer-making process) is removed, followed by a spin in a series of centrifuges to remove the solid, bitter cell walls of the yeast.
This is where it starts to acquire its dark brown colour. Any remaining water and alcohol are driven off in a large evaporator, through which it’s put twice, and then cooled to turn it into a paste. Three hundred enormous vats, holding a ton each, are used to store it.
The next stage of the process is a closely guarded secret. The special blend of ingredients added to the yeast extract — listed simply as ‘spice extracts’ on the jar — is as surrounded in mystery as the formulae for Coca-Cola and Kentucky Fried Chicken.
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St John is particularly cagey. ‘We try not to talk about that,’ he says, when I raise the subject. Does anyone in the building know the secret?
‘Um…’ he mutters. Does he know the secret? ‘Ummm…’ He glances furtively over his shoulder, and I can’t tell if he’s exaggerating or genuinely worried somebody might hear. ‘Well, I know how to make Marmite. Let’s say that. But it’s not as simple as it seems.’
The secret blend itself is somewhat underwhelming to look at. Labelled Marmite Premix 8897523, it’s stored as a concentrated liquid in a huge blue box. When the lid is lifted, there’s a waft of roasted vegetables (Marmite is thought to contain celery extract), herbs and tangy citrus.
At least, I think there is. St John insists there’s liquorice in there; I’m sure I can smell something spicy. But he shuts the lid just as quickly as it opened, before I can deduce anything more.
The yeast extract and premix are blended, then bottled, labelled and packed into trays at a rate of 250 jars a minute. Richard James, Marmite’s production leader for the past 11 years, stands guard to check the line is running smoothly.
‘I’m proud of what I do — it’s such a unique brand,’ he says, watching the jars whirr past. ‘I love going to parties and telling people I make Marmite.’
Much of this part is mechanised, so James has to step in only when one of the machines jams. The famous yellow lids are then clamped shut and the jars leave the factory on pallets of 3,000 — any time between four and ten days after the process began.
Over the years, Unilever — the company which owns Marmite, having taken over the brand in 2000 — has released a number of special editions, including Guinness-infused spread, a champagne blend and the patriotic Ma’amite in honour of the Queen’s Jubilee in 2012. The most recent version, Marmite XO (an extra-strong version that is fermented for 28 days), was produced with the help of a group of country-wide aficionados, nicknamed The Marmarati, who were recruited via social media for the purpose of tasting new blends.
This exclusive club, of which St John is the leader, now has around 350 members, all of whom gained entry by proving their devotion to the spread through measures such as Marmite tattoos and videos on YouTube.
‘It is a bit cult-like,’ he admits. ‘There was an earlier leader, and then we had a meeting at which it was revealed that his wife had been seen eating marmalade, not Marmite. So we had a trial and he was deposed. I won the election to replace him. It’s quite an accolade.’
He says this with such weighty reverence it’s hard not to smirk. But then I realise he’s entirely serious. ‘You may laugh,’ he sniffs, ‘but it’s a useful way of seeing people’s reactions to new flavours.’
By way of explanation, he invites me to take part in an official Marmite taste test. Twenty employees at the factory are qualified to taste the spread, and no batch leaves the premises without being tested. But it’s far from being an easy job.
First, tasters have to pass an exam to prove their skills — sorting flavoured water into flavours ranging from acidic to bitter, salty and sweet — and then there’s the tasting process itself, which involves adding Marmite to a cup of hot water and swilling it like Bovril. The exam is no problem, but sipping a mug of the hot, salty spread makes me retch.
St John shakes his head. Marmite, he says, is beloved by so many because it contains flavour enhancers that the body produces naturally during digestion.
‘When you taste Marmite, it’s affecting the way you taste the world,’ he declares, dramatically. ‘Everything else you eat after that will taste different. It turns on a deep feeling within us, in the same category of love at first sight.’
When he’s not looking, I spit my mouthful of Marmite into the bin. The sticky, salty spread is simply not something I’ll ever like, let alone love. Just don’t tell the Marmarati — or I’ll be toast.
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