The author was invited to dine with some friends one evening in summer
at a hotel in New York, and the invitation concluded with "Menu _à la_
Fletcher."
The dinner was to be served in the sitting-room of my host, and when I
arrived had not yet been ordered. "You must order the dinner for us,"
said my host, "and we will agree to your selection." "But I cannot
order for any one but myself," said I in reply. "The chief contention
I make for natural nutrition is that the appetite is the only true
indication of the bodily need, and you must interpret your own appetite
both as to estimated quantity required and the sort of food craved."
After some discussion I agreed to stand as go-between and take the
symptoms of appetite from each and give the order. The waiter was
standing by with pencil in hand and urged a number of expensive dishes
that were the specialties of the day. I asked him to "be quiet, please,
and let us make our own selection." I first placed the bill of fare
in the hands of the daughter of my host and asked her to name the
first thing that came into her mind in connection with the order. She
replied, "Baked potatoes and--" "Stop," said I; "baked potatoes it is;
now it is your turn to choose, R----. What comes first to your mind?"
"Green corn," was the answer. "Very well, waiter; one order of baked
potatoes, one order of green corn, and a lemon ice. Bring these and we
will order more if we require."
The waiter hesitated and was about to protest something when I stopped
him with the assurance that the order given was all that we would
specify at first, and that if the service was unusual and caused
trouble we would submit to an extra service charge to square accounts.
While the order was being filled there was considerable funmaking, but
I would give no explanations. The waiter returned shortly with the
order as given, and it was laid out to the accompaniment of a complete
dinner utensil service. I asked the young lady to please prepare one
of the potatoes in the way she liked best, and this was done by taking
the mealy heart out of the jacket and mixing it with butter, salt, and
pepper to taste. In the meantime the father had taken an ear of corn
and was prepared to enjoy it in response to his appetite the same as
he would if he were in the woods with a lumberman's appetite and only
corn to be had. The large glass of lemon ice was then placed between us
as a "centrepiece." "Aren't you going to take your ice now?" queried
the young lady. "Not now," replied I. "I must attend to your method
of taking your potato to see that you do it economic justice, and I
must see that your father does not waste any of that delicious corn.
Now, Mary, let me see how much good you can munch out of your first
mouthful. Do not swallow any of it until it is actually sucked up by
the Swallowing Impulse, and when that happens you will note that only a
portion of it is taken and the rest will naturally return to the front
of the mouth, if you do not restrain it, and will still be a delicious
liquid most agreeable to taste." This happened as suggested, and there
were three distinct swallowing acts before the last of the mouthful
had disappeared in response to the Swallowing Impulse. "My! but I
never realised that potato was so good," exclaimed the young lady; and
"Gracious! isn't this corn bully!" echoed the father. "Good!" added I.
"If that is true of the first mouthful, I think you will find it true
of the other mouthfuls until your appetite for potato and corn is
satisfied; and as long as your appetites hold good for them, you are
being nourished as your body-needs require." With the slow eating, the
appetite of each for the chosen food was soon quieted; one, we will
say for illustration of the principle, with a single potato and the
other with a single ear of corn. "I think I should relish a little of
your second potato if you are not going to take it," said the father,
addressing his daughter; and she replied, "Your corn seems nice,
father; may I have your second ear in exchange for my potato?" This was
agreeable to each, and each partook somewhat of the other's original
selection until the appetite of each was so completely satisfied that
neither could more than taste a little of my lemon ice as a final
delicacy; and as I did not want all of it, the one order sufficed for
us. I had breakfasted quite heartily at one o'clock in the afternoon,
after having written several thousand words of correspondence,
and really wanted but half the generous portion of ice that had
been brought. I had ordered it set into ice-water, after placing it
ceremonially as a centrepiece, and it had kept its icy consistency
waiting for what I thought was likely to happen.
Both my host and my hostess declared that they had never enjoyed
a summer evening meal more, and yet all that was ordered was not
consumed, while the cost, for the three, was less than a dollar for the
food alone.
The method employed to interpret appetite was a revelation to my
friends. They were accustomed to ordering several courses for each
person, although they thought they were "small eaters" and economic
feeders. Had they ordered for us three without my assistance, the
dinner would not have cost less than four or five dollars, and with a
plethora of food on the table all would have felt it necessary to eat
as much as possible, in order to get value received.
The above, as related, was an actual happening, but it in no way
indicates what another _trio_ would have ordered in response to their
appetites. That is immaterial. The principle of consulting the leanings
of appetite is the thing of first importance, and giving appetite a
chance to naturally discriminate is the second natural requirement. Had
the weather been cooler, and had the appetite earned been like that of
a labouring man, more food and more variety might have been required to
satisfy appetite, and hence the needs of the body. In that case, after
plying the appetite to repletion on the first dish ordered, a second or
a third could easily have been added. With this principle of learning
the real demands of appetite, any number of combinations can be had
for variety. In summer, with light physical exercise, very little
proteid-bearing food is needed; but in winter, with vigorous exercise
or hard physical labour, the appetite will crave foods that have
proteid and fat whether one knows what proteid is or the difference
between carbohydrate elements and fat. Any empirical idea of the
possible elemental requirements is likely to lead to false suggestion
and do harm. It is difficult to stand by and let Nature do the ordering
if there is too much elemental intelligence, and that is where the
animals, when allowed free choice of food, get on better with their
nutrition than man himself, and man's only protection is to carefully
heed the delicate discrimination of appetite. This is not a difficult
thing to do, for appetite can be easily satisfied within a small range
of simple foods.
With any desired variety of sumptuous food to choose from, and no
restraint from any cause whatever, the author fed himself nine-tenths
of the time during the examination at Yale University, in cold
winter weather, on griddle cakes well buttered and accompanied with
an abundance of maple syrup. Occasionally more proteid would be
demanded,--say once a week, or once in five days,--and then baked beans
was the preferential choice.
I am now relating the experiences of a student of hygienic epicureanism
and am not considering money economy alone. Were mental or even
physical improvement in efficiency to be purchased at high prices, and
lack of efficiency could be had for nothing, the high-priced article
would be well worth its cost, no matter what it might be, for the
reason that total lack of efficiency is equivalent to death and any
proportionate lack is the next thing to death. Hence it is not a money
economic reform that is being advocated, and this must be borne in mind.
When I am in New York I very often take a room at the Waldorf-Astoria
because it has become, by common consent, the suburban and country
business and social clearing house of the whole United States; and
hence, coming from Europe periodically as I do, and always anxious to
meet old friends from San Francisco, New Orleans, Boston, Washington,
the great cities of the Middle West, or elsewhere, it is more easily
accomplished by camping at the Waldorf than in any other way. I cannot
be a profitable guest of this or any hotel kept on the European plan,
but I try to make up for this deficiency in other ways. Just across
Sixth Avenue from the Waldorf, on Thirty-Fourth Street, is one of the
most pretentious of the so-called "dairy lunches." In these places
good, appetising, wholesome food is served quickly and in _decently
small portions_. For this very reason alone, I _prefer_ the crowd and
the noise of the dairy lunch to the quiet and the luxury of the Waldorf
café or dining-room. One would not object to paying a larger price
at the more quiet place of service, but prodigality seems to be the
present great American sin. Were it a mere waste of money or even of
the food, it would not be worthy of great discussion; for when the fool
and his money are parted the laugh is on him with no grain of sympathy,
and there already being a great surplus of food in the land, there is
no fear of famine. But with this prodigality prevalent, so that to have
a decent variety one must have put before him enough for a family, the
temptation to grossly overeat is great and the abuse is criminal.
It is the hope of the author that some enterprising Boldt will
inaugurate an epicurean service and charge well enough for it to pay
for the trouble, or better yet, in proportion to the quantity wanted.
In this regard the poor do not suffer directly, but the example of the
rich is the perverter of the poor in many ways, and surely in this item
of dietetic abuse.
When it comes to quantities of food to be prescribed, the author avoids
giving even suggestions. This has been the trouble with the past
attempts at reform. Had Luigi Cornaro told us in his autobiography the
manner of taking his food with other particulars, instead of giving
alone a maximum weight to which he limited himself, he might have
saved the world three hundred years of uncertainty and confusion. His
twelve ounces of solid food and fourteen ounces of new wine (fresh
grape juice) means little. The solid food might have been almost water
free or might have contained 50 per cent of moisture. The new wine
contained a trifle of sugar and probably more than 95 per cent of water
and supplied moisture to the body instead of water. During the Yale
tests reported elsewhere, and more fully in the "A. B.-Z. of Our Own
Nutrition," the daily ration did not exceed the reported amount of
Cornaro, even with the most generous allowance for moisture.
I have steadily refused to prescribe by weight or quantity or to
suggest the best kinds of foods for any one, but there are so many
questions arising from the publicity already given by the Yale
experiment, that it will do no harm to give some outline.