The 18th-century "Macaroni" subculture and their giant wigs

Long before influencers, 18th-century London had the "Macaronis." These rich kids went on an Italian gap year and came back acting like they’d invented luxury—mostly by eating pasta and wearing hair that defied gravity.

Their wigs were so tall they had to lift their tiny hats with sword tips. It was a massive "I’m more cultured than you" flex, involving flamboyant silk and French slang.

Even "Yankee Doodle" was a diss track about them. Calling a feather "macaroni" was just mocking a guy for trying way too hard to look expensive.

Wait, why was eating pasta considered such a fancy, high-status flex?

To a 1700s Londoner, macaroni was as exotic as Martian food. While everyone else was stuck with heavy bread and boiled beef, these 'influencers' were flaunting a rare import that required a massive inheritance and a trip across Europe just to taste.

It was the ultimate logistical power move. Eating it was like posting a $500 gold-leaf steak on Instagram today. You weren't just eating carbs; you were bragging that you had the connections to ship 'fancy flour' across a continent while everyone else ate porridge.

Did they actually enjoy the taste, or was it just for the clout?

Honestly, it was 90% clout. Most English kitchens back then were used to boiling everything into a grey mush, so a delicate al dente pasta was probably a confusing shock to their taste buds.

They usually smothered it in butter and parmesan—another pricey import—just to make it palatable for their 'unrefined' British guests. It wasn't about the culinary experience; it was about the spectacle of the 'exotic.'

Think of it like buying a tiny designer bag that can't even fit a phone. You aren't carrying it because it’s useful; you’re carrying it to signal that you’ve got enough money to be completely impractical.

How on earth did they get fresh Parmesan all the way to London back then?

It wasn't a quick delivery. Parmesan was the ultimate 'travel cheese' because it’s essentially a delicious rock. Its low moisture meant it could survive a months-long trek across the Alps or a salty sea voyage without spoiling.

It was so precious that during the Great Fire of London, people buried their cheese like treasure. The famous diarist Samuel Pepys literally dug a hole in his garden specifically to save his Parmesan from the flames.

By the time it hit a plate, that cheese was a durable, edible trophy. It proved you had the logistics to import the best of Italy while everyone else was stuck with local cheddar.

Was a wheel of cheese really worth more than his actual house?

Not quite the whole house, but definitely more than the furniture! In the 1660s, a wheel of authentic Parmesan cost more than a clerk's yearly salary. It was the 'Birkin bag' of the dairy world.

Pepys wasn't just saving a snack; he was saving an investment. If his house burned, that cheese was a portable savings account he could eat—or sell to a desperate aristocrat.

He even buried his wine in the same hole. It was a 17th-century panic room for his most 'flex-worthy' groceries while the city turned to ash.