The Kit-Cat Club: Inside the dining club that shaped Britain
No pie, no entry.
As I was recently flipping through obscure historical books (as one does), I stumbled upon The Secret History of the Clubs by Edward "Ned" Ward. Published in 1709, this lively and often hilarious account details the various gentlemen’s clubs of late 17th- and early 18th-century London. Ward offers a firsthand glimpse into a world where camaraderie, excess, and occasionally ridiculous traditions took center stage.
Among these brilliantly named clubs were The Farting Club, The Club of Ugly-Faces, and The Small Coal-Man’s Club, each as bizarre as they sound. Their antics, recorded in delightfully sharp prose, make for an entertaining (if slightly bewildering) read.
Take, for instance, the introduction to The Farting Club, which is pure literary gold:
“Of all the fanatical clubs that ever took pains to make themselves stink in the nostrils of the public, very few ridiculous communities ever came up to this windy society.”
After a good chortle, I continued reading and that’s when I came across a chapter on The Kit-Cat Club.
Unlike its more, shall we say, fragrance-forward counterparts, the Kit-Cat Club was something different: a gathering of poets, politicians, and publishers who, over the course of lavish dinners, quietly shaped Britain’s future.
And strangely enough, it all started with a man named Kit Cat and his rather excellent pies.
A Club Built on Pies
It’s a chilly London afternoon in the late 1690s.
Smoke curls from the chimneys of Gray’s Inn Lane, blending with the ever-present city smog. Inside the Cat and Fiddle Tavern, the air is thick with the scent of roasting meat and freshly baked pastry.
A group of men, poets, politicians, and publishers, are gathered in the private upstairs room, their tankards brimming with claret. The conversation crackles with wit, scandal, and ambition.
At the centre of the table sits a golden, glistening mutton pie. Plates are passed, knives carve through flaky pastry, and the club’s rituals begin. There will be toasts, there will be poetry, and most importantly, there will be plotting.
This is the Kit-Cat Club, where the Whig elite dined, drank, and quietly shaped the future of Britain. And, strangely enough, it all started with a man named Kit Cat and his rather excellent pies.
The Birth of British Clubbing (With Extra Butter)
Before the Kit-Cat Club, London’s gentlemen had their coffeehouses. Places where the literati and politicians rubbed shoulders, argued over pamphlets, and occasionally threw punches over poetry. But coffeehouses were public spaces, open to anyone who could afford a cup.
The Kit-Cat Club changed the game by introducing something new: exclusive, members-only clubbing.
Here, you weren’t just popping in for a drink. You were invited into an inner circle of influence.
To be a Kit-Cat was to be someone.
This was a who’s who of Whig power, packed with MPs, aristocrats, military men, and playwrights, all united by their commitment to the Protestant succession, their love of the arts, and their appetite for good food.
But let’s not get too serious, this was also a club dedicated to eating and drinking well. As Joseph Addison dryly put it in The Spectator (1711):
"The Kit-Cat Club is founded upon eating and drinking."
Which, quite frankly, is the best kind of foundation.
What’s in a Name? (Mutton, Mostly.)
The Kit-Cats weren’t named for their political allegiances, their literary prowess, or their wealth.
They were named after a pie.
Christopher “Kit” Cat (or Catling), the pastry cook who ran the Cat and Fiddle Tavern, was famous for his mutton pies, which were small, rich, and filled with tender meat, suet, and spiced gravy.
They became the club’s unofficial mascot, so much so that the name “Kit-Cat” stuck. It stuck not just for the club, but later for a specific portrait size and, much later, for a famous chocolate bar (though, the Nestlé version contains no mutton).
One contemporary wit, William Burnaby, quipped:
"A Kit-Cat is a supper for a Lord."
This wasn’t your average pub grub. These were pies with prestige.
Food, Politics, and Power
The Kit-Cat Club wasn’t just about stuffing one’s face (though they did that spectacularly well). It was about creating alliances, shaping political discourse, and promoting Whig ideals in an era of uncertainty.
Their gatherings blended the intellectual camaraderie of a literary salon with the strategic maneuvering of a parliamentary backroom.
Now, Kit probably didn’t set out to host one of the most influential dining clubs in British history. He likely just wanted to sell some bloody good pies. But somehow, his tavern became the meeting ground for a faction of ambitious Whigs, led by the bookseller and publisher Jacob Tonson.
Tonson was no ordinary bookseller. He was a literary kingmaker, the man behind Dryden, Addison, Steele, and Congreve, and he saw the potential in bringing together poets and playwrights with powerful Whig politicians.
If Kit Cat provided the pies, Jacob Tonson provided the power. As the club’s founder and unofficial secretary, Tonson was the glue that held the Kit-Cats together.
If you could control the press, the theatre, and the conversation, you could shape the national mood. And if you could do all of that over dinner? Even better.
By the early 1700s, the Kit-Cat Club had evolved into a full-fledged Whig propaganda machine:
They funded writers and journalists to produce material supporting their cause.
They used the theatre as a political tool, backing plays that promoted Whig values.
They made club membership a social credential, turning their meetings into an elite networking event before LinkedIn was a thing.
Who Got a Seat at the Table?
The Kit-Cats were selective. This wasn’t some boozy free-for-all.
Membership was by invitation only, and while the club didn’t have official rules, a few key criteria emerged:
You had to be a Whig – No Tory sympathisers, no Jacobites, no fans of absolute monarchy. This was a club for constitutional government, parliamentary supremacy, and Protestant succession.
You had to appreciate literature – Playwrights and poets were welcomed alongside politicians. Being well-read and witty was as important as your title.
You had to eat the pies – A man unwilling to partake in a Kit-Cat mutton pie was, frankly, not to be trusted.
What Was on the Menu?
Food at the Kit-Cat Club wasn’t just about sustenance, it was symbolic. The dishes on their table reflected national pride, political identity, and a clear rejection of French extravagance. This was a club that ate English, drank French, and talked politics until the early hours.
Forget dainty amuse-bouches or elaborate sauces, Kit-Cat pies were robust, unapologetically English, and built to last a long drinking session.
What was in them?
The Kit-Cat pie was a small, individual mutton pie, rich with suet and a peppery gravy, encased in a golden shortcrust pastry. Unlike the larger raised pies of the time, these were neat, refined, and perfect for handling while engaged in animated political debate.
Mutton (slow-cooked until tender)
Suet (for richness)
Black pepper and nutmeg (for warmth and spice)
A thick, savoury gravy
A crisp, buttery shortcrust pastry
But of course, they weren’t only eating pies.
Beyond the Pie: What Else Was on the Table?
While the mutton pies were the club’s signature dish, the Kit-Cats were men of hearty appetites, and their dining habits reflected their status.
Main Dishes
Roast Beef
The ultimate patriotic dish in 18th-century Britain. It was seen as a symbol of English strength, a stark contrast to the delicate, butter-drenched French cuisine that Tories and Jacobites supposedly indulged in.
Codling Tarts
A sweet pastry made with codling apples, rosewater, and sugar. No fish involved, just early British apples, tart and fragrant.
Cheesecakes
A favourite of Kit Cat’s bakery. Likely a sweet, curd-based tart, quite different from the modern, dense New York variety.
Jellies and Sweetmeats
For snacking between courses, often flavoured with spices and citrus.
Syllabub
A boozy, frothy dessert made by whipping cream with wine, sugar, and lemon. Think of it as the 18th-century equivalent of a cocktail pudding.
The Kit-Cats Drank Like Kings
While they may have prided themselves on their no-nonsense English fare, when it came to drinks, they had no problem importing the good stuff from abroad.
What They Drank (And Lots of It)
Claret (French Bordeaux Red Wine) – The unofficial drink of the Kit-Cat Club. Despite their fierce opposition to Catholic France, Kit-Cats had no qualms about importing thousands of bottles of Bordeaux each year.
Sack (Sherry) – A sweet fortified wine, popular at the time and often consumed as an aperitif or with dessert.
Porter (Dark Beer) – While wine was the drink of choice, strong English ale was also served, particularly for long drinking sessions.
Punch – A mix of spirits, citrus, sugar, and spice, served in large communal bowls. More than one political scandal was probably born at the bottom of a Kit-Cat punch bowl.
Food as a Political Statement
For the Kit-Cats, food was never just food. The dishes they ate were a declaration of identity, a way to differentiate themselves from their Tory rivals.
Roast beef over French cuisine = English patriotism over foreign indulgence.
Claret over ale = Refinement over rowdy populism.
Mutton pies = Whig unity and tradition.
Even their toasts were political. Every Kit-Cat meeting included a ceremonial toast to an “absent lady”, written in short, complimentary verse and engraved onto their wine glasses.
These weren’t just random beauties, they were usually powerful Whig-supporting women, giving them symbolic presence in a club that otherwise excluded them completely.
Late-Night Feasting and Debauchery
Not every Kit-Cat meeting was high-minded debate and political strategy. Some descended into drunken revelry that would make even modern gentlemen’s clubs blush.
Meetings often went on until 3AM.
Wine flowed freely, and the more claret consumed, the looser the political tongues became.
There are reports of Kit-Cats becoming ‘corpulent’ from their indulgence, which isn’t surprising given their feasting schedule.
One contemporary observer, George Stepney, wrote in 1703 that the Kit-Cats had a habit of drinking themselves into a stupor before stumbling home in the early hours.
They ate like kings, drank like sailors, and debated like parliamentarians, often all at once
The First Exclusive Social Club
By 1703, the club had outgrown the Cat and Fiddle Tavern and moved to Barn Elms, an exclusive estate in Surrey, where Tonson set up a dedicated clubroom, the first of its kind.
This was a turning point. No longer just a bunch of men meeting in a tavern, the Kit-Cat Club had evolved into a fully-fledged private members’ club, setting the template for centuries of British clubbing culture.
White’s, Brooks’s, Boodle’s, Soho House, every posh gentlemen’s club that followed owes something to the Kit-Cats. They were the first to make club membership a social credential, a badge of power and influence.
And to think, it all started with a pie.
I love the political messaging in food-especially the politics of vegetarianism/veganism. Also, in the rural part of Idaho I grew up in, we had a strip club in between farms called the Kit Cat club. I’m sure it had a somewhat different vibe to this one 😂