In the account of his travels in Italy the observant Seigneur de
Montaigne mentions the Jesuits of Vicenza, who had a liqueur-shop in
their monastery, as well as the monks of Verona, who were excellent
distillers of _eau de naffe_, a liqueur made with the flower of citron.
The famous _Bénédictine_, however, a rival of _Chartreuse_, though
at present made by the monks of Fécamp in Normandy, and therefore
possessing the stamp of monachism, was not of spiritual inspiration.
Like the _eau de vie des Carmes_, _Liqueur des Evèques_, _Eau
Archiépiscopale_, _Liqueur des Chartreux_, _Plaisir des Dames_, and
_Huile des Jeunes Mariés_, it was worldly in its inception. Its history
is interesting. In 1803 M. Le Grand, an enterprising wine-merchant of
Fécamp, set about its manufacture, advertising it to the amount of
eight hundred thousand francs,--his entire fortune,--the claim being
made that the secret of its fabrication was consigned by a Benedictine
brother to a manuscript in 1510 and opportunely discovered by the
vender. The venture proved successful, as indeed the virtues of the
liqueur merited, its annual sale now exceeding a million bottles. At
first the clergy protested loudly against the bald appropriation of
the name of an abbey, and Cardinal Bonnechose[36] petitioned Napoleon
III to put an end to the scandal, the restored order eventually taking
up the manufacture of the cordial and signing it with the name of the
inventor, whose final _Benedicite_ was recently pronounced. The present
Archbishop of Rouen came to bless the most recent constructions of the
abbey, among which is a superb _Salle des Abbés_, and, at the banquet
following the ceremonial, during the dessert he compared the inventor
of the liqueur to several of the heroes of Christianity. Benedictine
(_ad majorem Dei gloriam_) is the only important liqueur thus far which
has escaped analysis, although imitations of this and all others that
have proved successful are freely placed upon the market.
Curaçoa, it is said, was discovered by a French _chanoine_, and the
aroma of the wild cherry imprisoned in Maraschino by an Italian
_frate_. A German _Pfarrer_, it is averred, first dissolved gold in the
_eau de vie de Dantzig_, and through a Spanish _sacerdote_ is said to
have come _Santa Cruz_, the rum of the Holy Cross. In the quest for the
elixir of life the monastery became the great alembic of liqueurs, the
study of essences, spirits, and distillations varying with the labour
of illuminating missals and the routine of religious devotions. During
the thirteenth century Arnaud de Villeneuve formulated the question of
the elixir of life in these terms, which became a dogma for all his
monastic successors: "This is the secret, viz., to find substances so
homogeneous to our nature that they can increase it without inflaming
it, continue it without diminishing it, ... as our life continually
loses somewhat, until at last all is lost." The outcome of the
patient labours of these religious alchemists was numerous elixirs
and liqueurs, of which the secret composition was transmitted from
generation to generation in convents and monasteries. These liqueurs
were in their origin simply a pharmaceutic product; it is only
within a comparatively short time that they have been converted into
after-dinner _douceurs_.
Every useful art, however, must find perfection of expression sooner or
later, notably an art which is a necessity and which likewise appeals
to the lawful gratification of the senses. And if cookery was fostered
by the cloisters of Europe, and reached its zenith during the early
part of the past century in Paris, it is equally true that at no time
in the history of the world has it attained such general excellence as
at present.
But let the religious orders and the priesthood be credited with their
full share in its advancement. They are no exception to the generality
of mankind in being blessed with appetites, but they are sufficiently
intelligent to recognise that in a well-appointed cuisine there exist
both a prophylactic to ennui and the best of pharmacopœias. Let
the spit turn merrily, therefore, and the carp fatten in their ponds;
let the flower of the vine and the pressings of the grape distil for
them their fragrance; let them repeat their paternosters and chant in
concert their penitential psalms:
"1. One herring and one herring make two herrings,
Two herrings and one herring make three herrings.
"2. Three herrings and one herring make four herrings,
Four herrings and one herring make five herrings.
"3. Five herrings and one herring make six herrings."
. . . . . . . . . .
And so on up to a hundred herrings.
"From salted, red, or smoked herrings, _libera nos_, _Domine_;
From cold water as a beverage, _libera nos_, _Domine_.
_A- a- a- amen!_"
It is most unfortunate that La Reynière omitted to bequeath to
posterity a certain monastic recipe of marvellous merit used in
connection with wild fowl and all manner of game-birds, which is
thus described in the brilliant opening essay of the first year of
the "Almanach," the author's reference being to the wild duck, which
he advises to be cooked _à la broche_, as it thus preserves all its
_fumet_ without losing any of its other qualities:
"After it has been roasted and carved" [he proceeds to say]
"a sort of poignant _salmis_ may be prepared on the table,
the recipe for which we have been in possession of for a
long time, and which was given to us by the _procureur_ of a
Bernardin abbey--the sole riches that the Revolution could not
confiscate from him; this formula, however, we must reserve
for our most intimate friends. The recipe is not to be found
in any nutritive dispensary, and it becomes all the more
precious inasmuch as, not being applicable to the duck alone,
it may be utilized with all kinds of dark-fleshed feathered
game, and especially with partridges and woodcock--which
renders it inappreciable."
Far less can be said of the Protestant clergy on the score of cookery
or with respect to the improvement of the vine and the invention of
beverages. Nearly all clerical roads lead through Rome, it would
seem, in so far as relates to gastronomy. Moreover, in Protestant
countries--at least among the lesser lights of the church--it is rather
the rector who is fêted than who does the fêting, and who, even were
he inclined to asceticism, would scarcely be allowed to practise it by
his parishioners. In one of his essays, "The Country Sunday," Richard
Jefferies tells how the chapel pastor is entertained at table in
Wiltshire:
"There is no man so feasted as the chapel pastor. He dines
every Sunday, and at least once a week besides, at the house
of one of his stoutest upholders.... After dinner the cognac
bottle is produced, and the pastor fills his tumbler half
full of spirit, and but lightly dashes it with water. It is
cognac, and not brandy, for your chapel minister thinks it an
affront if anything more common than the best French liquor
is put before him: he likes it strong, and with it his long
clay pipe. Very frequently another minister, sometimes two or
three, come in at the same time, and take the same dinner,
and afterwards form a genial circle with cognac and tobacco,
when the room speedily becomes full of smoke and the bottle
of brandy soon disappears. In these family parties there is
not the least approach to over-conviviality; it is merely the
custom, no one thinks anything of a glass and a pipe; it is
perfectly innocent; it is not a local thing, but common and
understood. The consumption of brandy and tobacco and the good
things of dinner, tea, and supper (for the party generally sit
out the three meals) must in a month cost the host a good deal
of money, but all things are cheerfully borne for the good of
the church. Never were men feasted with such honest good-will
as these pastors; and if a budding Paul or Silas happens to
come along who has scarce yet passed his ordination, the
youthful divine may stay a week if he likes, and lick the
platter clean."
One also remembers the curates' dinner as described in "The Professor"
by that keen observer, Charlotte Brontë:
"The curates had good appetites, and though the beef was
tough, they ate a great deal of it. They swallowed, too,
a tolerable allowance of the 'flat beer,' while a dish of
Yorkshire pudding and two tureens of vegetables disappeared
like leaves before locusts. The cheese, too, received
distinguished marks of their attention; and a 'spice-cake,'
which followed by way of dessert, vanished like a vision and
was no more found."
Anthony Hayward, in "The Art of Dining," tells the story of the
phenomenal appetite of a chaplain during the Old Bailey sittings, when
it was the custom to serve two dinners (exact duplicates) a day, the
first at three o'clock, the second at five:
"The first course was rather miscellaneous, varying with the
season, though marrow-puddings always formed a part of it; the
second never varied and consisted exclusively of beefsteaks.
As the judges relieved each other, it was impracticable for
them to partake of both; but a little chaplain whose duty it
was to preside at the lower end of the table was never absent
from his post. This invaluable public servant persevered
from a sheer sense of duty till he had acquired the habit of
eating two dinners a day, and practised it for nearly ten
years without any perceptible injury to his health. We had
the pleasure of witnessing his performance at one of the five
o'clock dinners, and can assert with confidence that the
vigour of his attack on the beefsteaks was wholly unimpaired
by the effective execution a friend assured us he had done on
them two hours before."
The last communication from the Rev. Sydney Smith to Canon Barham,
better known as Thomas Ingoldsby, related to gastronomy, with the
ethics of which he was so conversant, the canon having just sent him a
pannier of pheasants.
"Many thanks, my dear sir, for your kind present of game," wrote the
appreciative recipient. "If there is a pure and elevated pleasure in
this world, it is that of roast pheasant and bread-sauce; barn-door
fowls for dissenters, but for the real churchman, the thirty-nine times
articled clerk, the pheasant! the pheasant!"
Why the witty rector of Combe-Florey declared that when he found
himself seated next to a bishop at a dinner-party he became so nervous
that he could do nothing but crumble his bread, and when his place
adjoined that of an archbishop he crumbled it with both hands, seems
inexplicable, unless it had been his mischance to encounter among his
superiors in office more accomplished epularians than himself. Besides
his celebrated poetical recipes for a salad, which are presented in a
following chapter, his less familiar "Receipt to Roast Mutton" may not
be omitted from references to ecclesiastic good cheer:
"Gently stir and blow the fire,
Lay the mutton down to roast,
Dress it quickly, I desire,
In the dripping put a toast,
That I hunger may remove--
Mutton is the meat I love.
"On the dresser see it lie;
Oh! the charming white and red;
Finer meat ne'er met the eye,
On the sweetest grass it fed:
Let the jack go swiftly round,
Let me have it nicely brown'd.
"On the table spread the cloth,
Let the knives be sharp and clean,
Pickles get and salad both,
Let them each be fresh and green.
With small beer, good ale, and wine,
O ye gods! how I shall dine!"
Canon Barham, no less than Sydney Smith, wielded a valiant spoon, and
to the unpunctual at dinner he has delivered one of his most forcible
sermons in "The Lay of St. Cuthbert":
"When asked out to dine by a Person of Quality,
Mind and observe the most strict punctuality!
For should you come late, and make dinner wait,
And the victuals get cold, you'll incur, sure as fate,
The Master's displeasure, the Mistress's hate.
And though both may, perhaps, be too well-bred to swear,--
They'll heartily wish you--I need not say _Where_."
Grace before meat is usually well expressed by the reverend clergy,
and perhaps the brief introductory thanksgiving of the late Canon
Shuttleworth is as happy as any: "For good life and good health; for
good company and good cheer, may the Giver of all good things make us
thankful." So far as orthodox graces are concerned, it were difficult
to improve upon the two fervent thanksgivings of Psalms XXXIV
and CXLV:
"The lions do lack, and suffer hunger: but they who seek the
Lord shall want no manner of thing that is good.
"The eyes of all wait upon thee, O Lord: and thou givest them
their meat in due season.
"Thou openest thine hand: and fillest all things living with
plenteousness."
So many Protestant denominations exist in America that the manner
of entertaining the ministry varies considerably. In no religious
sect does _fine champagne_ or any other form of cognac figure, as a
general rule, though the use of vinous beverages is less denounced
at present than formerly. The most genial hosts and guests among
Protestant divines are unquestionably the Episcopalians. But if
claret and alcoholic beverages are the exception on the tables of
many denominations, the pastor does not lack for substantial aliments
when entertained by his parishioners, who here, as in England, fairly
dispute for his possession.
That the duck at least, among the toothsome contributions to the
table, is appreciated by the Protestant clergy no less than the laity
is apparent from the apostrophe to the canvasback of the Rev. Joseph
Barber, who has addressed the king of the _Anseres_ in these colourful
stanzas:
"A duck has been immortalized by Bryant,
A wild one, too;
Sweetly he hymned the creature, lithe and buoyant,
Cleaving the blue.
But whoso says the duck through ether flying,
Seen by the bard,
Equals the canvasback before me lying,
Tells a _canard_.
"Done to a turn, the flesh a dark carnation,
The gravy red;
Four slices from the breast--on such a ration
Gods might have fed.
Bryant, go to: to say that thy rare ghost-duck,
Traced 'gainst the sky,
Could e'er at all compare with this rare roast duck,
Is all my eye."[37]
As regards wine the case is vastly different in Europe, among both the
clergy and those who welcome them. When Urban X resolved to remove
the Papal See from Avignon to Rome grave discord resulted among his
cardinals, several of whom refused to accompany him. Petrarch, in
reply to a letter received from the Pope soon afterwards, wherein his
Holiness expressed his astonishment at their action, explained the
reason thus briefly: "Most holy Father," he wrote, "the princes of the
church esteem the wine of Provence, and know that the wines of France
are more rare than holy water at Rome."
The anecdote of the curé of a village in the Bordelais would indicate,
furthermore, that the cloth prefer their wine in a non-diluted state.
On the occasion of a wedding dinner at which the officiating pastor was
present, he would exclaim after every course, as he raised his glass:
"My children, with this you must drink some wine." The turn of dessert
arriving, he repeated his injunction for the tenth time, again setting
the example himself.
"Pardon, Monsieur le Curé," one of the guests interrupted, "but with
what do you not drink wine?"
"With water, my son!"
During the episcopate of Bishop Timon of Buffalo, a Roman Catholic
prelate of great ability but of small stature, complaint was
entered against a certain German priest of the diocese for his
over-conviviality and partiality for the foaming glass of Gambrinus,
the offender being a man of Falstaffian proportions. The priest was
accordingly summoned, and, after being severely reprimanded, was asked
by the bishop if he could bring forward any extenuating circumstances
with regard to his conduct.
"Your Reverence is a small man, and my detractors are men of small
calibre, who require but little beer," was the reply. "I am a large
man, as you are aware, with a large appetite, and what might suffice
for others were scant pittance for me: the vessel should be filled
according to its capacity."
That so distinguished a church dignitary as a bishop should dine well
goes without saying. How else might he be so urbane, so stately, and
so contented! And without wine how might he dispense such sunshine
or pronounce his blessings so sonorously! For a bishop, dean, or
archdeacon to be tendered scanty fare or be toasted with ice-water
were as incongruous as to deprive the beverage termed "bishop" of
its main ingredient. When Bishop Magee of Peterborough, afterwards
Archbishop of York, was "entertained" by another church dignitary he
was told on his arrival that he would find wine in his room. The dinner
which he afterwards sat down to was a wineless one. A few weeks later
the positions of host and guest were reversed, whereupon the bishop,
shaking hands heartily with his visitor, informed him that he would
find water in his room and wine upon the table.
"Scarcely any bishop," says Sydney Smith, "is sufficiently a man of the
world to deal with fanatics. The way is not to reason with them, but to
ask them to dinner. They are armed against logic and remonstrance, but
they are puzzled in a labyrinth of wines, disarmed by facilities and
concessions, introduced to a new world, and come away thinking more of
hot and cold and dry and sweet than of Newman, Keble, and Pusey."
A number of years ago, when long tables were in vogue at the great
hostelries at Saratoga, Bishop Onderdonk of New York was among the
guests. The bishop, in accordance with his station, was seated at the
head of the table, where the attentive head waiter had just placed his
bottle of hotel "Pontet-Canet." Among the other clerical guests was a
Connecticut divine and teetotaler who had come to test the restorative
virtues of Congress water, so delicious when drunk at the fountainhead
in the morning.
"Ah!" said the cynical dominie to a ministerial vis-à-vis, as he
frowned over his Oolong and the portly prelate beamed over his
Bordeaux, "he wants to prove his apostolic descent by showing that if
he drink of any deadly thing it shall not hurt him."
Later, when his Right Reverence was informed of the remark, he
observed, quoting Ecclesiasticus as his would-be detractor had quoted
St. Mark, "'Wine measurably drunk and in season bringeth gladness of
the heart and cheerfulness of the mind,' and as a churchman it were
heretical for me to take exception to so orthodox a precept."
The minister whose knowledge of gastronomy is far exceeded by his
zeal in "reforming," notably in an attempted extermination of all
joyous fluids, is far more prevalent in the United States than abroad.
While no one will object to his denunciation of "King Rum" or the
"Wine-cup,"--though rum is but little used as a beverage, and wine
is supposed to be consumed in glasses at the dinner-table,--one must
nevertheless deplore the inconsistency which would annihilate all
alcoholic fluids and permit the grossest heterodoxness of diet to pass
unscathed. Not undeserved, perchance, are the lines addressed to this
class of the clergy by a Western versifier:
"He preached 'gainst whisky, rum, and gin,
All use of liquor he'd decry;
He said that drinking was a sin--
But eat the toughest kind of pie.
"He said there was no greater vice
Than that which made of man a sot--
But took not water without ice,
And gorged himself on biscuit hot.
"He flouted the advice of Paul
To drink wine for the stomach's sake--
But give him dumpling in a ball,
And any quantity he'd take.
"Tobacco in each form he spurned,
Its soothing virtues he denied;
For him no soft Havana burned--
But he would eat a beefsteak fried.
"Jaundiced he lived, and died of spleen,
And some kept green his memory then--
Called him 'reformer,' who had been
The most intemperate of men."
On more catholic lines is the gastronomic experience of a distinguished
Baptist doctor of divinity of western New York, who, though always
temperate, still believes in the sentiment of the grace that was
once uttered by an English Episcopal clergyman: "God hath given us all
things richly to enjoy; let us enjoy them." The learned divine in his
younger days was one of a party of four who were concluding a long
sojourn abroad, and ere leaving Paris he was desirous of testing the
much-vaunted cuisine of the "Trois Frères Provençeaux." His suggestion
that the appetising odours which greeted the passer-by from without be
verified from within having met with immediate approval, the _officier
de bouche_ of the famous restaurant was interviewed and a dinner
arranged for the following evening.
[Illustration: LA CONTENANCE DE LA TABLE
Facsimile of title-page, early part of sixteenth century
"Enfant tu ne dois charger
Tant de la première viande
Se plusieurs en as en commande
Que d'austres ne puisses menger."
]
"What will be the price of a nice dinner," inquired the ecclesiast,--"a
dinner that will leave us no cause for regret? We do not care for the
menu in advance, as we prefer a surprise; but we wish a perfect dinner,
neither too little nor too much."
The reply was promptly forthcoming, and here we transcribe a leaf from
the ecclesiast's note-book:
"'Pour vingt francs un dîner ordinaire.
"'Pour quarante francs un très joli dîner!
"'Pour cent francs un grand dîner!!'--the voice of the
restaurateur rising with the advancing prices."
These interesting notes then follow:
"Tuesday, June 3, 1860. Present:----,----,----,----. Dinner at
7 P.M. Dress suits. _Voiture de remise._ _Portier_
with red waistcoat. Cabinet in entresol hung with pink silk
tapestry. Three _garçons_, fine china, silver and table
appointments. A bouquet of roses. Perfect service.
"Menu. Nine courses:--_Melon musqué d'Algiers._ _Potage à la
bisque_ (red soup with little red shrimps in centre of each
dish). _Vol-au-vent de saumon_.... _Salade_. Checkerboard
ice-cream (sixteen different colours and flavours). Great
strawberries. Coffee (_demi-tasse_), cognac, cigars. Four
wines: Sauterne, claret, and two champagnes."
Unfortunately, the menu itself has been lost, and the memory of our
clerical informant has retained only a portion of the carte, which we
have transcribed from the memoranda he has contributed. Was there a
_chapon à la Toulouse_ or _noix de veau à la Soubise_ for the _relevé_;
did lamb's _ears à la Tortuë_ or _carbonnades de mouton à la Macédoine_
form the entrée; did a _caneton de Rouen_, a _poularde truffée_, or a
_coq-vièrge_ do the honours of the roast; could _des truffes au vin de
Champagne_ or a _gelée au marasquin_ have figured as the entremets;
and, finally, what might have been the _grosse pièce_? Alas! these
questions, like many questions of theology, must remain unanswered. It
will be observed, notwithstanding, how the wall furnishings, the roses,
the red of the _bisque_, the ripe hues of the melon and the salmon,
the erubescence of the strawberries, and the very waistcoat of the
_avertisseur_ were happily combined; and also that as far back as 1860
the muskmelon had already been employed as an admirable prologue of the
dinner during warm weather. As for the checkerboard _crême glacée_,
with four flavours and four colours for each person, it is an addition
to the dessert that is almost worthy of a sermon.
The following supplementary notes conclude the interesting account of
the dinner:
"The solid part of the menu I have no record or memory of.
All I know is that we ate pretty much everything that was
in sight, and then had just enough and no more. The dinner
concluded with four toasts and four speeches, the only one I
recall being on the theme, 'The Four Homes'--not one of the
four speakers having at the time set up a home of his own.
"A thing of beauty is a joy forever. We went upon the Latin
maxim, _In medio tutissimus ibis_, and so we took the _très
joli dîner_, which, with _vins compris_, cost us forty francs
or eight dollars apiece. But the recollection of it has been
worth at least two dollars a year since then: and as it is
forty years ago last summer, and two times forty is eighty, I
now count that I then paid only ten per cent. of its value."
It is needless to add that the sermons and addresses of the ecclesiast
in question, which join to their fervour and scholarship an originality
all their own (were they not inspired by the dinner at the "Trois
Frères"?), are always listened to with marked attention by his large
and appreciative audiences. It also goes without saying that he
has distinguished himself in literature, and that his presence is
invariably in demand either at a dinner or a debate of theologians.
Of dishes invented by the Roman Catholic priesthood, the _omelette à
la purée de pintade_, devised by the Capuchin Chabot, is well known,
although "The Curé's Omelette" for which Savarin stands sponsor is
far more in evidence and is difficult to improve upon either for fat
or meagre days. Should the recipe be already familiar, it will well
bear repetition--one cannot dine too often with a broad-minded divine;
if unknown, the reader should become acquainted with it--it is one
of the most sprightly of the _Variétés_. The tunny prescribed is
not obligatory, and for this and the carp-roes the resources of the
American sea-coast will furnish abundant equivalents:
"Every one knows that for twenty years Madame R.[38] has
occupied the throne of beauty unchallenged. It is also well
known that she is extremely charitable, taking interest in
most of those schemes whose object is to console and assist
the wretched.
"Wishing to consult M. le Curé on something connected with
that subject, she called upon him at five o'clock one
afternoon, and was astonished to find him already at table.
She thought everybody in Paris dined at six, not knowing that
the ecclesiastics generally begin early because they take a
light collation in the evening.
"Madame R. was about to retire, but the curé begged her to
stay, either because the matter they were to talk about need
not prevent him dining, or because a pretty woman is never a
mar-feast for any man; or perhaps because he bethought himself
that somebody to talk to was all that was wanted to convert
his dining-room into a gastronomic Elysium.