There are individuals to whom nature has denied a refinement of organs,
or a continuity of attention, without which the most succulent dishes
pass unobserved. Physiology has already recognized the first of these
varieties, by showing us the tongue of these unhappy ones, badly
furnished with nerves for inhaling and appreciating flavors. These
excite in them but an obtuse sentiment; such persons are, with regard to
objects of taste, what the blind are with regard to light. The second
class are the absent-minded, chatterboxes, persons engrossed in business
or ambition, and others who seek to occupy themselves with two things at
once, and eat only to be filled. Such, for example, was Napoleon; he was
irregular in his meals, and ate fast and badly. But there again was to
be traced that absolute will which he carried into everything he did.
The moment appetite was felt, it was necessary that it should be
satisfied; and his establishment was so arranged that, in any place and
at any hour, chicken, cutlets, and coffee might be forthcoming at
a word.
There is a privileged class of persons who are summoned to the
enjoyments of taste by a physical and organic predisposition. I have
always believed in physiognomy and phrenology. Men have inborn
tendencies; and since there are some who come into the world seeing,
hearing, and walking badly, because they are short-sighted, deaf, or
crippled, why should there not be others who are specially predisposed
to experience a certain series of sensations? Moreover, even an
ordinary observer will constantly discover faces which bear the
unmistakable imprint of a ruling passion--such as superciliousness,
self-satisfaction, misanthropy, sensuality, and many others. Sometimes,
no doubt, we meet with a face that expresses nothing; but when the
physiognomy has a marked stamp it is almost always a true index. The
passions act upon the muscles, and frequently, although a man says
nothing, the various feelings by which he is moved can be read in his
face. By this tension, if in the slightest degree habitual, perceptible
traces are at last left, and the physiognomy thus assumes its permanent
and recognizable characteristics.
Those predisposed to epicurism are for the most part of middling height.
They are broad-faced, and have bright eyes, small forehead, short nose,
fleshy lips, and rounded chin. The women are plump, chubby, pretty
rather than beautiful, with a slight tendency to fullness of figure. It
is under such an exterior that we must look for agreeable guests. They
accept all that is offered them, eat without hurry, and taste with
discrimination. They never make any haste to get away from houses where
they have been well treated, but stay for the evening, because they know
all the games and other after-dinner amusements.
Those, on the contrary, to whom nature has denied an aptitude for the
enjoyments of taste, are long-faced, long-nosed, and long-eyed: whatever
their stature, they have something lanky about them. They have dark,
lanky hair, and are never in good condition. It was one of them who
invented trousers. The women whom nature has afflicted with the same
misfortune are angular, feel themselves bored at table, and live on
cards and scandal.
This theory of mine can be verified by each reader from his own personal
observation. I shall give an instance from my own personal experience:--
Sitting one day at a grand banquet, I had opposite me a very pretty
neighbor, whose face showed the predisposition I have described.
Leaning to the guest beside me, I said quietly that from her
physiognomy, the young lady on the other side of the table must be fond
of good eating. "You must be mad!" he answered; "she is but fifteen at
most, which is certainly not the age for such a thing. However, let
us watch."
At first, things were by no means in my favor, and I was somewhat afraid
of having compromised myself, for during the first two courses the young
lady quite astonished me by her discretion, and I suspected we had
stumbled upon an exception, remembering that there are some for every
rule. But at last the dessert came,--a dessert both magnificent and
abundant,--and my hopes were again revived. Nor did I hope in vain: not
only did she eat of all that was offered her, but she even got dishes
brought to her from the farthest parts of the table. In a word, she
tasted everything, and my neighbor at last expressed his astonishment
that the little stomach could hold so many things. Thus was my diagnosis
verified, and once again science triumphed.
Whilst I was writing the above, on a fine winter's evening, M. Cartier,
formerly the first violinist at the Opera, paid me a visit, and sat down
at the fireside. Being full of my subject, I said, after looking at him
attentively for some time, "How does it happen, my dear professor, that
you are no epicure, when you have all the features of one?" "I was one,"
he replied, "and among the foremost; but now I refrain." "On principle,
I suppose?" said I; but all the answer I had was a sigh, like one of Sir
Walter Scott's--that is to say, almost a groan.
As some are gourmands by predestination, so others become so by their
state in society or their calling. There are four classes which I should
signalize by way of eminence: the moneyed class, the doctors, men of
letters, and the devout.
Inequality of condition implies inequality of wealth, but inequality of
wealth does not imply inequality of wants; and he who can afford every
day a dinner sufficient for a hundred persons is often satisfied by
eating the thigh of a chicken. Hence the necessity for the many devices
of art to reanimate that ghost of an appetite by dishes which maintain
it without injury, and caress without stifling it.
The causes which act upon doctors are very different, though not less
powerful. They become epicures in spite of themselves, and must be made
of bronze to resist the seductive power of circumstances. The "dear
doctor" is all the more kindly welcomed that health is the most precious
of boons; and thus they are always waited for with impatience and
received with eagerness. Some are kind to them from hope, others from
gratitude. They are fed like pet pigeons. They let things take their
course, and in six months the habit is confirmed, and they are gourmands
past redemption.
I ventured one day to express this opinion at a banquet in which, with
eight others, I took a part, with Dr. Corvisart at the head of the
table. It was about the year 1806.
"You!" cried I, with the inspired tone of a Puritan preacher; "you are
the last remnant of a body which formerly covered the whole of France.
Alas! its members are annihilated or widely scattered. No more
_fermiers-généraux_, no abbés nor knights nor white-coated friars. The
members of your profession constitute the whole gastronomic body.
Sustain with firmness that great responsibility, even if you must share
the fate of the three hundred Spartans at the Pass of Thermopylae."
At the same dinner I observed the following noteworthy fact. The doctor,
who, when in the mood, was a most agreeable companion, drank nothing but
iced champagne; and therefore in the earlier part of the dinner, whilst
others were engaged in eating, he kept talking loudly and telling
stories. But at dessert, on the contrary, and when the general
conversation began to be lively, he became serious, silent, and
sometimes low-spirited.
From this observation, confirmed by many others, I have deduced the
following theorem:--"Champagne, though at first exhilarating, ultimately
produces stupefying effects;" a result, moreover, which is a well-known
characteristic of the carbonic acid which it contains.
Whilst I have the university doctors under my grasp, I must, before I
die, reproach them with the extreme severity which they use towards
their patients. As soon as one has the misfortune to fall into their
hands, he must undergo a whole litany of prohibitions, and give up
everything that he is accustomed to think agreeable. I rise up to oppose
such interdictions, as being for the most part useless. I say useless,
because the patient never longs for what is hurtful. A doctor of
judgment will never lose sight of the instinctive tendency of our
inclinations, or forget that if painful sensations are naturally fraught
with danger, those which are pleasant have a healthy tendency. We have
seen a drop of wine, a cup of coffee, or a thimbleful of liqueur, call
up a smile to the most Hippocratic face.
Those severe prescribers must, moreover, know very well that their
prescriptions remain almost always without result. The patient tries to
evade the duty of taking them; those about him easily find a good excuse
for humoring him, and thus his death is neither hastened nor retarded.
In 1815 the medical allowance of a sick Russian would have made a
drayman drunk, and that of an Englishman was enough for a Limousin. Nor
was any diminution possible, for there were military inspectors
constantly going round our hospitals to examine the supply and the
consumption.
I am the more confident in announcing my opinion because it is based
upon numerous facts, and the most successful practitioners have used a
system closely resembling it.
Canon Rollet, who died some fifty years ago, was a hard drinker,
according to the custom of those days. He fell ill, and the doctor's
first words were a prohibition of wine in any form. On his very next
visit, however, our physician found beside the bed of his patient the
_corpus delicti_ itself, to wit, a table covered with a snow-white
cloth, a crystal cup, a handsome-looking bottle, and a napkin to wipe
the lips. At this sight he flew into a violent passion and spoke of
leaving the house, when the wretched canon cried to him in tones of
lamentation, "Ah, doctor, remember that in forbidding me to drink, you
have not forbidden me the pleasure of looking at the bottle!"
The physician who treated Montlusin of Pont de Veyle was still more
severe, for not only did he forbid the use of wine to his patient, but
also prescribed large doses of water. Shortly after the doctor's
departure, Madame Montlusin, anxious to give full effect to the medical
orders and assist in the recovery of her husband's health, offered him a
large glass of the finest and clearest water. The patient took it with
docility, and began to drink it with resignation; but stopping short at
the first mouthful, he handed back the glass to his wife. "Take it, my
dear," said he, "and keep it for another time; I have always heard it
said that we should not trifle with remedies."
In the domain of gastronomy the men of letters are near neighbors to the
doctors. A hundred years ago literary men were all hard drinkers. They
followed the fashion, and the memoirs of the period are quite edifying
on that subject. At the present day they are gastronomes, and it is a
step in the right direction. I by no means agree with the cynical
Geoffroy, who used to say that if our modern writings are weak, it is
because literary men now drink nothing stronger than lemonade. The
present age is rich in talents, and the very number of books probably
interferes with their proper appreciation; but posterity, being more
calm and judicial, will see amongst them much to admire, just as we
ourselves have done justice to the masterpieces of Racine and Molière,
which were received by their contemporaries with coldness.
Never has the social position of men of letters been more pleasant than
at present. They no longer live in wretched garrets; the fields of
literature are become more fertile, and even the study of the Muses has
become productive. Received on an equality in any rank of life, they no
longer wait for patronage; and to fill up their cup of happiness, good
living bestows upon them its dearest favors. Men of letters are invited
because of the good opinion men have of their talents; because their
conversation has, generally speaking, something piquant in it, and also
because now every dinner-party must as a matter of course have its
literary man.
Those gentlemen always arrive a little late, but are welcomed, because
expected. They are treated as favorites so that they may come again, and
regaled that they may shine; and as they find all this very natural, by
being accustomed to it they become, are, and remain gastronomes.
Finally, amongst the most faithful in the ranks of gastronomy we must
reckon many of the devout--i.e., those spoken of by Louis XIV. and
Molière, whose religion consists in outward show;--nothing to do with
those who are really pious and charitable.
Let us consider how this comes about. Of those who wish to secure their
salvation, the greater number try to find the most pleasant road. Men
who flee from society, sleep on the ground, and wear hair-cloth next the
skin, have always been, and must ever be, exceptions. Now there are
certain things unquestionably to be condemned, and on no account to be
indulged in--as balls, theatres, gambling, and other similar amusements;
and whilst they and all that practice them are to be hated, good living
presents itself insinuatingly in a thoroughly orthodox guise.
By right divine, man is king of nature, and all that the earth produces
was created for him. It is for him that the quail is fattened, for him
that Mocha possesses so agreeable an aroma, for him that sugar has such
wholesome properties. How then neglect to use, within reasonable limits,
the good things which Providence presents to us; especially if we
continue to regard them as things that perish with the using, especially
if they raise our thankfulness towards the Author of all!
Other equally strong reasons come to strengthen these. Can we be too
hospitable in receiving those who have charge of our souls, and keep us
in the way of safety? Should those meetings with so excellent an object
not be made pleasant, and therefore frequent?
Sometimes, also, the gifts of Comus arrive unsought--perhaps a souvenir
of college days, a present from an old friend, a peace-offering from a
penitent or a college chum recalling himself to one's memory. How refuse
to accept such offerings, or to make systematic use of them? It is
simply a necessity.
The monasteries were real magazines of charming dainties, which is one
reason why certain connoisseurs so bitterly regret them. Several of the
monastic orders, especially that of St. Bernard, made a profession of
good cheer. The limits of gastronomic art have been extended by the
cooks of the clergy, and when M. de Pressigni (afterwards Archbishop of
Besançon) returned from the Conclave at the election of Pius VI., he
said that the best dinner he had had in Rome was at the table of the
head of the Capuchins.
We cannot conclude this article better than by honorably mentioning two
classes of men whom we have seen in all their glory, and whom the
Revolution has eclipsed--the chevaliers and the abbés. How they enjoyed
good living, those dear old fellows! That could be told at a glance by
their nervous nostrils, their clear eyes, their moist lips and mobile
tongues. Each class had at the same time its own special manner of
eating: the chevalier having something military and dignified in his air
and attitude; while the abbé gathered himself together, as it were, to
be nearer his plate, with his right hand curved inward like the paw of a
cat drawing chestnuts from the fire, whilst in every feature was shown
enjoyment and an indefinable look of close attention.
So far from good living being hurtful to health, it has been
arithmetically proved by Dr. Villermé in an able paper read before the
Académie des Sciences, that other things being equal, the gourmands live
longer than ordinary men.