The Physiology of Taste (63 page)

In the very first words we exchanged, she asked me if I loved music. What unexpected luck! She seemed to make it her great passion, and since I myself am a very fair musician, from that moment our two hearts beat as one.

We talked together until supper time, and were soon hand in glove. If she mentioned various works on composition, I knew them all; if she spoke of current operas, I knew them note for note; if she named any well-known composers, I usually knew them by sight. It seemed that she would never stop, for a long time had passed since she last met anyone who could discuss such things with her, which she seemed to revel in as a simple amateur, although I learned later that she had once been a singing teacher.

After supper she had her albums brought down; she sang, I sang, we sang together; never have I put more heart into anything, and never have I had more pleasure in so doing. Already M. Prot had mentioned several times that it was time to retire, but she paid no attention to him, and we were blaring like two trumpets the duet from
La Fausse Magie:

Remember that gladsome day?

when he finally gave a peremptory order to call a halt.

We were forced to stop, for fair; but just as we parted Madame Prot said to me: “Citizen, any man who cultivates the finer things of life, as you do, cannot be a traitor to his country. I know that you have some favor to ask of my husband: you shall be granted it; I myself promise you that.”

At these encouraging words I kissed her hand with all the
warmth of my heart; and sure enough, early the next morning I received my letter of safe-conduct, duly signed and magnificently sealed.

Thus was accomplished the reason for my trip. I returned home with my head high: thanks to Harmony, that charming child of Heaven, my ascension to her regions was postponed for a good number of years.
⁶⁴

My Lord, if what Cratinus says be right,
Those Verses cannot live, those lines delight,
Which Water drinkers Pen, in vain they Write.
For e’er since Bacchus did in wild design,
With Fauns and Satyrs half-mad Poets joyn,
The Muses every morning smelt of wine.
From Homer’s praise his love of Wine appears,
And Ennius never dar’d to write of Wars
Till heated well, let sober dotards choose
The plodding law, but never tempt a Muse,
This Law once made, the Poets streight begin,
They drunk all night, all day they stunk of Wine:

HORACE, EPISTLE 1
, 19.
⁶⁵

If I had had the time I would have made a thoughtful choice of gastronomical poems from the Greeks and Romans to our own day, and would have divided it into the proper historical periods, to demonstrate the inseparable alliance which has always existed between the arts of speaking well and eating well.

What I have not done, another will do after me.
*
We shall see then how the table has always given added tone to the poet’s lyre, and shall have additional proof of the influence of things physical upon those purely moral.

Until toward the middle of the eighteenth century, poetry of this kind more often than not had as its subject matter the praise
of Bacchus and his gifts, since to drink wine and drink it deep was the highest form of gustatory exaltation which could then be attained. However, to break the monotony and widen the boundaries a little, Venus was linked with the god, an association from which it is none too sure that the goddess profited.
⁶⁶

The discovery of the New World and the acquisitions which followed it started a whole new order of things.

Sugar, coffee, tea, chocolate, alcoholic liqueurs and all the mixtures which spring from them, have made a more composite picture of good living, in which wine plays the part of a more or less obligatory accessory, since tea can very easily replace it in the morning meal.
*

Thus a much vaster world has been presented to our modern poets: they can sing of the pleasures of the table without necessarily drowning themselves in the wine barrel, and already many charming odes have celebrated the new treasures which have been added to gastronomy.

Like many another I have glanced through these works, and have delighted in the perfume of their lightsome offerings. But, the while I admired the talented resources of the stanzas, and savored their music, I felt more satisfaction than most people in seeing all these writers bow as one to my favorite principle, for most of their delightful fantasies have been composed expressly for, during, and after dining.

I devoutly hope that skilful workers will exploit the part of my domain which I abandon to them, and I content myself at this point by offering to my readers a little collection of quotations which I have chosen according to my whims, accompanied by very short annotations, so that none need rack his brains to find the reason for my preferences.

This song is taken from
Travels of the Young Anacharsis
, which is reason enough for my choice.
⁶⁸

Let us drink, and let us praise Bacchus,

Bacchus who delights in our dances, who revels in our songs to him, who wipes out hatred and envy, and all our disappointments. He is the true father of entrancing Loves, and of seductive Graces.

So let us love, let us drink; let us praise Bacchus:

The future has not yet come; the present will soon be past; our one instant of existence is in the instant of our ecstasy.

So let us love, let us drink; let us praise Bacchus.

Made wiser by our madnesses, and richer by our pleasures, let us grind beneath our heels the world and its futile grandeurs; and in the sweet intoxication which such moments make flood through our souls,

Let us drink, and let us praise Bacchus.

The next poem is by Motin,
⁶⁹
who, it is said, was the first composer of drinking songs in France. It is part of the golden days of drunkenness, and has its own kind of vigor.

Tavern, I love thee more and more;
Mine every want dost thou supply;
I care not what’s without thy door,
Within, there’s none so rich as I:

Thy very dishclouts are to me

Finest of Holland napery.

When summer suns remorseless shine,
No bosky dell doth solace hold
So grateful or so fresh as thine;
And if I’d laugh at winter’s cold,

Thy meanest faggot likes me then

More than the forest of Vincenne.

Nothing in vain I ask of thee:
I wish, and tripes turn ortolans,
I no cardoons, but roses, see,
Nor hear no strife but clinking cans:

By inn and tavern! There’s no dearth

Of paradises upon earth.

Praise Bacchus for his gift of wine,
Yea, reeling praise its potent fumes;
Sure, ‘tis an essence all divine,
And whoso drinks not, yet assumes

By grace of God the manly rank,

Would be an angel if he drank.

Winking, the wine invites my kiss;
It drives the sadness out of me
And fills my very soul with bliss;
O ne’er were lovers fond as we:

I ravish, then am ravished,

I capture and am captive led.

Quart upon pint when I’ve sent down,
Gaily each stranger I salute;
With tingling ears and ne’er a frown
I forwards aim, and backwards shoot,

And cut, who’d never learned to dance,

The neatest caper in all France.

And ‘tis my wish, till I be dead,
With white wine, aye, and claret too,
To keep my belly tenanted,
So they but dwell in concord due;

For if they quarrel, I’ll not pause

But straightway cast ‘em out of doors.

The next is from Racan, one of our oldest poets; it is full of grace and philosophy, has served as a model for many other writers, and seems much younger than its birth date proves it to be.

Wherefore be yielding to dull care?
Let’s rather drain this nectar rare
At one long draught, then call for more;
It doth in excellence precede
E’en that which the young Ganymede
Into the cup of gods doth pour.

For lo, it makes an age to be
Less than a day, and, drinking, we
Grow young again for all our years;
And every cupful drives away
One sorry dream of yesterday,
One of tomorrow’s foolish fears.

Let’s drink, then, Maynard: fill the bowl,
While unperceived the ages roll
Bearing us on to our last day;
All praying’s vain; we may not choose,
While years, no more than rivers,
use To halt or linger by the way.

Soon shall mild Spring come o’er the scene,
And Winter’s white be turned to green:
The sea hath ebb and flow: what then?
Why, nothing; once our own brief youth
Doth yield to age, ‘tis simple truth
That time ne’er brings it back again.

The laws of death prevail no less
In proud imperial palaces
Than in the meanest reed-roof’d hut;
The fates apportion all our years;
The king’s, the swain’s, with the same shears
Each thread indifferently they cut.

They all things utterly efface,
And undo, in the briefest space,
Whate’er most painfully we’ve done;
Soon they’ll be hailing us to drink,
Beyond the black flood’s further brink,
The waters of oblivion.

The next poem was written by the professor, who has also set it to music. He has shrunk from the inconveniences of having it published, in spite of the pleasure it would give him to think of it on every piano rack, but by incredible good luck it can be sung, and
it will be sung
, to the air of the “
Vaudeville de Figaro!”

Glory let’s no more pursue;
She doth sell her favors dear:
History forget we too

For a tale devoid of cheer:
Drink we like our fathers, who
Drank as much as they could hold:
Bring me wine, and wine that’s old! (Repeat.)

Go thy ways, Astronomy,
Stray without me in the skies:
Chemistry, I’ve done with thee,
I’d be ruin’d otherwise:
Come, Gastronomy, to me,
And I’ll fondly evermore
Gourmandise and thee adore! (Repeat.)

Young, I studied without cease,
Grey’s my pâté with studying:
All the wisdom that was Greece
Never taught me anything:
Still I toil, but toil in peace,
Learning idleness instead:
Where’s the school to equal bed? (Repeat.)

Physics once were all my care;
‘Twas but wasted time, for why?
All the drugs that ever were
Only help a man to die.
Now by Cookery I swear,
Which doth make us whole again:
Cooks surpass all other men! (Repeat.)

These my labors are but rude,
But, when sinks the sun to rest,
Then, lest overmuch I brood,
Love comes stealing to my breast,
And, despite the carping prude,
Love’s a pretty game to play:
Come, let’s to it while we may! (Repeat.)

I witnessed the actual
birth
of the following verse, which is why I
plant
it here.
⁷¹
Truffles are our current idol, and perhaps this worship suggests some doubt as to our need for it.

By M. B … De V …,
Distinguished Amateur, and Well-Loved Pupil of the Professor
.

Sable truffle, hail to thee!
Thou dost victory assure
(For let’s not ungrateful be)
In the most delicious war;

Thee, I say,

To pave the way,

Providence hath surely sent
For love and bliss and all content:

Eat we truffles every day!

I shall close with a morsel of verse which really belongs in “Meditation 26.”

I should have liked to set it to music, but could never bring it off as I wished; someone else will do better with it, especially if he allows himself more leeway than I did. The accompaniment to it must be very strong, and must indicate in the second verse that the sick man is fast expiring.
⁷²

In all my senses life,
alas! grows faint, Dull is mine eye, my body hath no heat;
Louise must weep, her sorrow’s past restraint,
Softly her dear hand begs my heart to beat;
I’ve seen my friends come, I have seen them go,
One after one, breathing a last goodbye;
Doctor, farewell; enters the priest; and so

‘Tis time to die.

Fain would I pray, my brain is void of prayers;
Speak, but my thoughts will no more spoken be:
Insistent echoings assail mine ears;
Something, I know not what, seems fluttering free.
Now all is dark; my breast upheaves to fill
With what shall feebly issue in a sigh:
‘Twill wander o’er my lips, leaving them chill:

‘Tis time to die.

BY THE PROFESSOR

I sincerely believed that I was the first
in our time
to conceive of the idea of an Academy of Gastronomers; but I am very much afraid that I have been forestalled, as sometimes happens. How much so can be deduced from the following incident, which took place almost fifteen years ago.

President H … de P …, whose genial wit melted all the chill of old age,
⁷³
said in 1812 in a conversation with three of the most distinguished scholars of the present epoch (M. de Laplace, M. Chaptal, and M. Berthollet): “I consider the discovery of a new dish, which excites our appetite and prolongs our pleasure, much more important than the discovery of a star. We can always see plenty of the latter.

“I shall never feel that the sciences have been adequately represented,” the magistrate continued, “nor sufficiently honored, so long as I do not see a cook installed in the first ranks of the Institute.”

This dear old fellow was always filled with joy when he thought of the object of my labors; he planned to write an epigraph for me, and insisted that it was not alone the
Esprit des Lois
which opened the doors of the Academy to M. de Montesquieu. It is from him that I learned that Professor Berriat Saint-Prix had written a novel, and it is he, furthermore, who suggested to me the chapter in which I discussed the gastro-nomical activities of the
émigré
s. Therefore, since justice must always be done, I have composed the following quatrain, which contains both his history and his eulogy.