The Physiology of Taste (33 page)

This decree of fate has been made even sterner in its execution by a mass of illnesses which are the result of our social customs, so that the keenest and deepest pleasure that anyone can imagine is unable either in its intensity or its duration to compensate for the atrocious suffering which accompanies such maladies as gout, toothache, acute rheumatism, or strangury, or is caused by the deliberate punitive tortures which are customary in certain countries.

It is the basic fear of this pain which makes man throw himself, without even realizing it, toward the opposite extreme, and give himself up completely to the small number of pleasures which Nature has permitted him.

It is for the same reason that he enlarges them, perfects them, complicates them, and finally worships them, as is shown by the fact that during the days of idolatry and for a long series of centuries all the pleasures were classified as secondary gods, presided over by their superior deities.

The austerity of our new sects has destroyed all those personages; Bacchus, Venus, Comus, and Diana are nothing more than poetic memories, but the fact remains, and no matter how strict our religion may be, we still enjoy ourselves at marriages, baptisms, and even funerals.

71: Meals, in the sense which we give to this word, began with the second age-period of the human race, that is at the moment when man ceased to nourish himself on fruit alone. The preparation and the distribution of food necessarily brought the whole family together, the fathers apportioning to their children the results of the hunt, and the grown children then doing the same to their aged parents.

These gatherings, limited at first to the nearest relatives, little by little were extended to include neighbors and friends.

Later, and when the human race had spread out, the tired traveler came to join in such primitive feasts, and to recount what went on in the far countries of the world. Thus was born hospitality, with its rights sacred to all peoples, for one of the strongest of human laws is that which commands respect for the life of any man with whom one has shared bread and salt.

It is during meals that languages must have been born and perfected, whether it was because they were a constantly recurring necessity or because the relaxation which accompanies and follows a feast leads naturally to confidence and loquacity.

72: Such must have been, by the nature of things, the elements of the pleasures of the table, which should be distinguished from the pleasure of eating, their necessary antecedent.

The pleasure of eating is the actual and direct sensation of satisfying a need.

The pleasures of the table are a reflective sensation which is
born from the various circumstances of place, time, things, and people who make up the surroundings of the meal.

The pleasure of eating is one we share with animals; it depends solely on hunger and on what is needed to satisfy it.

The pleasures of the table are known only to the human race; they depend on careful preparations for the serving of the meal, on the choice of place, and on the thoughtful assembling of the guests.

The pleasure of eating demands appetite, if not actual hunger; the pleasures of the table are most often independent of either one or the other.

These two states can always be observed at any of our celebrations.

During the first course, and at the beginning of the feast, everyone eats hungrily, without talking, without paying any attention to what may be going on about him, and no matter what his position or rank may be he ignores everything in order to devote himself to the great task at hand. But as these needs are satisfied, the intellect rouses itself, conversation begins, a new order of behavior asserts itself, and the man who was no more than an eater until then becomes a more or less pleasant companion, according to his natural ability.

73: The pleasures of the table do not presuppose ravishment nor ecstasy nor bliss, but they gain in duration what they lose in intensity, and are above all distinguished by their own merit of making all the others more intense for us or at least of consoling us for their loss.

The truth is that at the end of a well-savored meal both soul and body enjoy an especial well-being.

Physically, at the same time that a diner’s brain awakens, his face grows animated, his color heightens, his eyes shine, and a gentle warmth creeps over his whole body.

Morally, his spirit grows more perceptive, his imagination
flowers, and clever phrases fly to his lips: if La Fare and Saint-Aulaire
¹
go down to posterity as witty writers, it will be because they were first and foremost delightful dinner companions.

Best of all, every modification which complete sociability has introduced among us can be found assembled around the same table: love, friendship, business, speculation, power, importunity, patronage, ambition, intrigue; and this is why conviviality is a part of every thing alive, and why it bears fruits of every flavor.

74: It is as a direct result of these basic causes that all human industry has concentrated on adding to the duration and the intensity of the pleasures of the table.

Poets long ago began to complain that the throat, being too short, limited the length of the pleasure of tasting; others deplored the small capacity of the stomach; it came to the point where this organ was freed from the necessity of digesting the first course so that it could have the pleasure of holding a second one.

This was the supreme attempt to enlarge the pleasurable capacities of human taste; but if, in this case, it was impossible to break down the natural barriers, man could at least throw himself into the invention of accessories, which offered him more scope.

He ornamented his goblets and vases with flowers; he crowned his guests with them; he ate under the open sky, and in gardens and in woods and in the presence of all the wonders of Nature.

The charms of music and the sound of instruments were joined to the pleasures of the table. Thus it was that while the court of the Phaeacian king feasted, the minstrel Phemius sang of the warlike deeds of olden times.

Often dancers, wrestlers, and clowns of both sexes and in every kind of costume came to amuse the eyes of the diners without boring their palates; the most exquisite perfumes were sprayed into the air; it even happened that naked beauties acted as servant girls, so that every human sense joined in a complete pleasure.

I could cover several pages with the proof of my theory. Greek and Roman authors, and our own old writers, are there waiting
to be copied; but these researches have already been made, and my easy aping of them would bring me little merit: therefore I state as a fact what other men have already proved, which is a privilege I often claim, and which the reader should be grateful for.

75: We have assumed as our own, then, these various ways of increasing our delights, and to them we have added all that new discoveries have uncovered for us.

Of course the delicacy of our manners could not let us accept the Roman
vomitoria
; but we have done even better, and have arrived at the same end by a path recognized by our good taste.

Such attractive dishes have been invented that they manage to revivify our appetites again and again; they are at the same time so light that they flatter the palate without overloading the stomach. Seneca would have said of them:
Nubes esculentas
.

We have thus attained to such alimentary refinement that if the pressure of private business did not force us to get up from the table, or if the need for sleep did not arise in us, the length of our meals would be practically limitless, and there would be no set way for us to determine the time we might spend between the first sip of Madeira and the last glass of punch.
²

However, it must not be believed that all these adjuncts are indispensable to the enjoyment of the pleasures of the table. This pleasure can be savored almost to the full whenever the four following conditions are met with: food at least passable, good wine, agreeable companions, and enough time.
³

This is why I have often wished that I could have been one of the guests at the frugal meal that Horace planned for a neighbor whom he might have invited to dine with him or for a traveler forced by bad weather to take shelter under his roof: a fine fowl, a kid (without doubt fat and good), and for dessert raisins, figs, and nuts. And joining to all this some wine pressed during the consularship of Manlius
(nata mecum consule Manlio)
and the conversation of such a sweet singer as Horace, it seems to me that I would sup in the world’s best way.

It is in the same fashion that yesterday, or even tomorrow, three pairs of friends might feast together upon a boiled leg of mutton with kidneys from Pontoise, washed down with wine from Orléans and good clear Médoc, and that having finished the evening with discussions full of warmth and gaiety they would completely have forgotten that there were other more delicate dishes and more polished cooks.

On the other hand, no matter how studied a dinner plan nor how sumptuous its adjuncts, there can be no true pleasures of the table if the wine be bad, the guests assembled without discretion, the faces gloomy, and the meal consumed with haste.

But, the impatient reader may exclaim, how can one possibly assemble, in this year of grace 1825, a meal which will meet all the conditions necessary to attain the ultimate in the pleasures of the table?

I am about to answer that question. Draw near, Reader, and pay heed: it is Gasterea, the loveliest of the muses, who inspires me; I shall speak more clearly than an oracle, and my precepts will live throughout the centuries.

“Let the number of guests be no more than twelve, so that conversation may always remain general;

“Let them be so chosen that their professions will be varied, their tastes analogous, and that there be such points of contact that the odious formality of introductions will not be needed;

“Let the dining room be more than amply lighted, the linen of dazzling cleanliness, and the temperature maintained at from sixty to sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit;

“Let the gentlemen be witty without pretension, and the ladies charming without too much coquetry;
*

“Let the dishes be of exquisite quality, but limited in their number, and the wines of the first rank also, each according to its degree;

“Let the progression of the former be from the most substantial to the lightest, and of the latter from the simplest wines to the headiest;

“Let the tempo of eating be moderate, the dinner being the last affair of the day: the guests should behave like travelers who must arrive together at the same destination;

“Let the coffee be piping hot, and the liqueurs of the host’s especial choice;

“Let the drawing room which awaits the diners be large enough to hold a card table for those who cannot do without it, with enough space left for after-dinner conversations;

“Let the guests be disciplined by the restraints of polite society and animated by the hope that the evening will not pass without its rewarding pleasures;

“Let the tea be not too strong, the toast artfully buttered, and the punch made with care;

“Let the leavetakings not begin before eleven o’clock, but by midnight let every guest be home and abed.”

If anyone has attended a party combining all these virtues, he can boast that he has known perfection, and for each one of them which has been forgotten or ignored he will have experienced the less delight.

I have already said that the pleasures of the table, as I conceive of them, can go on for a rather long period of time; I am going to prove this now by giving a detailed and faithful account of the lengthiest meal I ever ate in my life; it is a little bonbon which I shall pop into my reader’s mouth as a reward for having read me thus far with such agreeable politeness. Here it is:

I used to have, at the end of the Rue du Bac, a family of cousins composed of the following: Doctor Dubois, seventy-eight years
old; the captain, seventy-six; their sister Jeannette, who was seventy-four. I went now and then to pay them a visit, and they always received me very graciously.

“By George!” the doctor said one day to me, standing on tiptoe to slap me on the shoulder. “For a long time now you’ve been boasting of your
fondues
(eggs scrambled with cheese), and you always manage to keep our mouths watering. It’s time to stop all this. The captain and I are coming soon to have breakfast with you, to see what it’s all about.” (It was, I believe, in 1801 that he thus teased me.)

“Gladly,” I replied. “You’ll taste it in all its glory, for I myself will make it. Your idea is completely delightful to me. So … tomorrow at ten sharp, military style!”
*

At the appointed hour I saw my guests arrive, freshly shaved, their hair carefully arranged and well-powdered: two little old men who were still spry and healthy.

They smiled with pleasure when they saw the table ready, spread with white linen, three places laid, and at each of them two dozen oysters and a gleaming golden lemon.

At both ends of the table rose up bottles of Sauterne, carefully wiped clean except for the corks, which indicated in no uncertain way that it was a long time that the wine had rested there.

Alas, in my life-span I have almost seen the last of those oyster breakfasts, so frequent and so gay in the old days, where the molluscs were swallowed by the thousands!
⁵
They have disappeared with the abbés, who never ate less than a gross apiece, and with the chevaliers, who went on eating them forever. I regret them, in a philosophical way: if time can change governments, how much more influence has it over our simple customs!