In the UK recently, I found myself in an adorable cafe with grilled cheddar and Marmite sandwiches on the menu, so I fully died and went to heaven. Marmite is like all of the things that are great about mushrooms and miso in one deep, dark place. I am not, by the way, of the "You can only appreciate Marmite if you were eating it from the womb" school of thought here. I grew up in Jersey City; I didn't even have a Cadbury bar till I was 20. But in the same love-at-first-bite manner in which I fell for stinky cheese and black olives, I was Team Marmite from the jump. If you've never tasted it, imagine if a bouillon cube was a spread. Imagine a soy sauce you could put on toast. You're getting close. People who won't shut up about anchovies, what, you think you're too good for this?
Originally developed as a resourceful use of leftover brewer's yeast, Marmite gained popularity with 20th century families for its high concentration of B12 and folic acid. So maybe it's because it's so strongly associated with English nursery food that the most people usually can muster for Marmite is a fond nostalgia. Or maybe it's because it looks like buckwheat honey or chocolate syrup, but tastes like the bottom of a pan you just burned something in, that lends to its unpleasant reputation. Or maybe it's just truly a tough taste sell. A few years ago, Marmite's U.K. manufacturer teamed up with a genetic testing service to try to discover if a preference for it comes down to an innate predisposition. But I think the bad reputation is at least in part because newcomers to Marmite don't quite know what to do with it. This stuff is powerful. As one Food 52 commenter has said, "One NEVER 'slathers' Marmite. One 'scrapes,' It's not Nutella!" This is key. Don't ask something that's more like tomato paste to behave like peanut butter.
