The Slow Death of Meaning in the Meat Aisle

There was a time when words meant things. “Aberdeen Angus” meant a specific Scottish animal. “Wagyu” meant a Japanese one, raised with the sort of care normally reserved for minor royalty.

Now they mean, more or less, “something that once had a relative of that persuasion”.

The modern supermarket has performed a neat act of linguistic dilution. Breed names have been turned into mood music. “Angus” is no longer a description, it is a hint. “Wagyu” is less a definition than a gentle nudge in the direction of luxury.

It is rather like being sold a Labrador that turns out to have one Labrador grandparent and a great deal else besides. Does it technically contain Labrador? Yes. Is it what any normal person would understand by “a Labrador”? Not unless one adopts a very generous view of genetics and a dim view of plain English.

The Wagyu version of this is particularly brazen. Proper Japanese Wagyu is tracked, graded, and documented to within an inch of its life. What turns up here under the same name is often a perfectly decent cross-bred animal, whose connection to Japan is faint enough to require imagination. Yet the label stands, serene and untroubled, inviting you to make the flattering assumption.

None of this is illegal. That would be crude. It is something more polished. The words are just accurate enough to pass muster, and just vague enough to do the real work.

And that is the trick. Not to lie, but to encourage the customer to do a small amount of self-deception. To read “Wagyu” and quietly supply the rest of the story. To see “Angus” and fill in the missing pedigree.

If it were honestly labelled “Wagyu-cross” or “Angus-cross”, the spell would break at once. Which is precisely why it isn’t.

We are not being sold bad beef. We are being sold good beef wearing a borrowed name, and trusting that nobody will look too closely at the family tree. It's a bit like a dual national.