The Biscuit Hierarchy: A Personal (and Serious) Matter

I didn’t expect to have strong opinions about biscuits. Yet here I am, in my retirement years, fully committed to the belief that not all biscuits are created equal.

People throw the word "biscuit" around too freely these days. They lump them all together as if a soggy arrowroot and a dark chocolate digestive belong in the same sentence. They don’t.

Let me be clear: Bernard Michael Rochford has a biscuit hierarchy, and it is not open for debate—though I’ll hear your arguments, preferably over a cuppa.

At the top? The King of Biscuits, the milk chocolate digestive. Perfect crunch, smooth chocolate, ideal dunking capability. It’s the biscuit equivalent of a handshake from a reliable old friend. You know what you’re getting. Every time.

Close behind, the shortbread. But not the cheap ones shaped like teddy bears. I’m talking proper, Scottish, crumbly shortbread that dares you to eat more than two without needing a nap. A winter biscuit, if you ask me. Best consumed beside a window, with rain on the glass and classical music in the background—even if it’s just playing from your phone while you fold laundry.

Then there’s the ginger nut—a biscuit that demands respect. You don’t bite a ginger nut. You approach it. You pace yourself. It’ll survive any dunk you throw at it, but it may also chip a tooth if you’re feeling overconfident. That’s part of its charm.

Bernard Michael Rochford does not eat wafer biscuits. They crumble like dreams and offer very little payoff. If your biscuit collapses under the weight of its own optimism, it doesn’t belong on the plate. End of discussion.

The Monte Carlo deserves an honourable mention. That thick jam and cream combo sandwiched between two chewy clouds of goodness? It’s a biscuit that thinks it’s a dessert. And I respect that level of ambition.

Now, on the lower end of the spectrum, we have the plain arrowroot. No one has ever reached for an arrowroot by choice. It is the default biscuit of community halls and long-forgotten Tupperware containers. Its only function, in my view, is to remind you how good the other biscuits are.

People often ask, “Do you dunk, Bernard?” Of course I do. But only when appropriate. Dunking a Tim Tam is one thing. Dunking a biscuit with sprinkles on it? That’s a cry for help. There are rules. Tradition matters.

I once had a friend who referred to all biscuits as “cookies.” We don’t speak anymore.

So yes, I’ve developed opinions. And if that makes me a biscuit snob, so be it. At this point in life, I know what I like—and I like a solid, dependable biscuit that holds up to scrutiny and tea alike.

Now if you’ll excuse me, the kettle’s just boiled.

Bernard Michael Rochford
Retired Osteopath | Dunking Specialist | Defender of Digestives Everywhere