The Æsthetics of Eating
I
THE Art of Good Living is a living art. Its body, that which all may see and many acquire, is called Gastronomy. Its soul, that which giveth life to the body, a gift from heaven, which no money can buy, is a form of the living spirit of charity; it is called Hospitality. Nutrition wins prizes at cattle shows and baby shows. Gastronomy wins smiles and double chins; also a measure of relaxation and contentment beyond the grasp of those who fail to take an intelligent interest in what they eat and drink.
Cats and dogs, horses and asses, and all animals depending upon us for their daily food are perfectly satisfied with the same fare day after day. So we think. They do not complain. But it may well be that they would ask for more variety could they but speak. Wild animals — that is, the denizens of forests and open spaces dubbed by us wild because they are free — show much more imagination in the choice of their food than do many highly civilized men and women.
In the matter of meat and poultry, it is true, we must be content with the limited choice which the butcher and poulterer have to offer; beef and veal, mutton and lamb and pork, fowls, ducks, turkeys, and geese, are all we can reasonably expect. Game, whether fur or feather, is getting scarcer every year, and many species have already ceased to exist outside the glass cases of Natural History Museums. Happily, fish has a better chance to protect itself from destruction, and there are ever so many varieties of fish for us to enjoy, did we but choose to visit the fish markets. And there is a still greater variety of vegetables for us to grow if we live in the country, or to buy in the shops of large cities — in both cases, if we are blessed with a little gastronomic imagination.
Gastronomy speaks the language of common sense when it asks all, whether they be rich or poor, to make the unescapable daily business of eating and drinking an amusing and profitable hobby rather than let it become a dull duty. There is neither pleasure nor profit, hence no justification, in dealing with our daily food as mere coal shoveled into the boiler. Our meals should mean both physical restoration and intellectual relaxation. It is not a matter of riches, but of the right attitude of mind, detached yet keen, of all who are capable of pursuing any branch of art or learning merely for the love and enjoyment of it. But unlike poetry, with poets upon a plane high above the heads of their admirers, Gastronomy bestows its choicest rewards upon the rank and file of its followers, upon you and me, upon men and women of taste who may have but little or no culinary talent. And the more numerous the people of taste, or the more fastidious their taste, the greater will be the professional skill of the cooks and the professional honesty of the vintners.
Gastronomy is sometimes associated in the minds of ill-informed people with excess, but excess is the hallmark of fast living, as sure a road to damnation as good living is to salvation. Nor must we confuse Gastronomy with high living. It is entirely opposed to it. High living is inseparable from extravagance, from rare and rich and costly foods and wines, from fatty hearts and enlarged livers. Gastronomy, on the contrary, teaches us to avoid not merely excess, quantitatively speaking, but hurried meals and unwise combinations.
When speaking of excess and moderation in the matter of both food and drink, there is a very important factor which is all too often overlooked. This is the time factor. Do not bolt your food and do not drink hastily. Gastronomy insists that sufficient time should be allowed for mastication and digestion, though it recognizes that both rules may be broken occasionally without real harm ensuing. But it does not admit any exception whatever to the most important rule of all, that of quality.
The quantity of food that we may eat and of wine that we may drink depends, naturally, upon age, sex, occupation, heredity, environment, and other factors. It is for each one of us, when we reach the age of reason, to find out our own limitations, to stop when we have had enough, and to part in the shortest time possible with whatever we have been foolish enough to eat and drink in excess of our requirements. But there is no distinction of age or sex when it comes to the question of quality, nor is there any valid excuse for breaches of the only rule without any exception: whatever you eat and drink must be sound, must be of good quality. Food may look beautiful and its taste may be very attractive, but that alone does not make it acceptable to Gastronomy. It must above all be absolutely sound and fresh.
There is also what is known as the important factor of suitability, the science of combining happily flavors and savors, liquids and solids. Instinct, here, is not always dependable as a guide, but it is a help. If one, even without being told, no more thinks of playing a funeral march at a wedding than of wearing tennis shoes with full evening dress, it is simply because one knows instinctively that it would be wrong. Yet lapses from good taste in the matter of dress cause no injury whatever to either kidneys or liver, or any of the other organs upon which our bodily health and sweetness of disposition depend to such a considerable extent. But sardines and cocoa, roast beef and strong tea, ice cream and claret, or any such unsuitable combinations, are lapses from good taste which are paid for in headaches, biliousness, sleepiness during the day and insomnia at night, and all manner of other ills which make our lives, and the lives of those with whom we live, miserable instead of joyful.
II
Without denying that every one of us is entitled to his or her taste, and while admitting willingly that there are a great many more exceptions than rules in the matter of the harmony that should exist between savors and flavors as between solids and liquids, there are certain basic rides which one should know, even if only to have the wicked satisfaction of breaking them willfully, and not merely through sheer ignorance.
A meal should be constructed somewhat like a book — that is, with a foreword or introduction to begin with, then the story, the really important part, and lastly the epilogue or conclusion to bring it to a happy end. Translated into the language of Gastronomy, this means that we should begin our meals with hors d’œuvres or soup, by way of preface; then pass on to the meal proper, the most important part — short or long, as the case may be, but the part of the meal from which we are to derive the nourishment which we need; lastly, we finish with cheese or dessert, a pleasant and useful part of the meal, one that is intended to help us assimilate, or inwardly digest, the story.
Hors d’œuvres, in their modern form, have reached us from China by way of Russia. The Chinese are far too highly civilized to press their point of view upon their friends; they place before them all they have prepared for their refection and entertainment, be it fish, fruit, meat, or vegetables, all daintily arranged in small dishes which are promptly refilled as soon as necessary. Guests help themselves to whatever pleases their eye, just as they choose. The Russians have improved upon the Chinese way to this extent, that they have made a Chinese puzzle of all sorts of small canapés; all manner of appetizing mouthfuls or tidbits serve as an introduction to the real meal that is to follow. The danger is that the variety and excellence of the Russian hors d’œuvres may become too much of a temptation for the weak and hungry, leading them to indulge in a manner that will ruin their appetite for the meal proper.
Hors d’œuvres should never be substantial. They should be vinegary and spicy. They are intended to stimulate the flow of gastric juices necessary to deal adequately with the ‘story’ that is to come. They should also include a fair allowance of olive oil or butter, in order that the walls of the stomach may receive an oily cover that will protect them from too rapid penetration by the volatile ethers of the alcohol in wines and spirits. Nordic peoples swallow a tot or two of vodka or aqua vitæ with their hors d’œuvres; Latin peoples drink a sharp, young white wine with theirs, a wine that will clean the palate and leave it expectant and appreciative, ready to receive the better wine coming with the meal proper. American people favor cocktails — and they also patronize grapefruit, melon, and all kinds of fruit, sweet or sweetened, which are not allowed as hors d’œuvres by orthodox Gastronomy.
Soups have the same mission as hors d’œuvres, but a different method of approaching it. They stimulate the salivary glands and the flow of gastric juices by their heat and seasonings, and they afford to the walls of the stomach the same oily protection through the cream and butter or fat in them. That is why cold soups are as much a heresy as iced melon, and this is also why it is quite wrong to serve at the same meal hors d’œuvres first and soup after. The classical method is hors d’œuvres for lunch and no soup; soup for dinner and no hors d’œuvres. With soup, which cannot be too hot, iced wine is both a gastronomical heresy and a real danger to internal peace. The wine served with soup should be at the temperature of the room and of fairly high alcoholic content, such as a brown sherry or an old Madeira.
After the preface of our hors d’œuvres or the introduction of our soup comes the story of our meal. It may be one of those short stories complete in one chapter or course — just one large grilled sole, for instance, with half a bottle of Chablis, or else a fair-sized broiled steak, with half a bottle of claret. Each is a complete meal in itself, and better than fiction. There are combinations of foods and wines beyond count, but what matters is to remember that harmony is made up of contrasts free from jarring notes, and that we should aim at well-balanced, harmonious meals.
If we are to succeed, we must remember that whenever there is to be more than one course the one that comes first should help as much as possible the one that is to follow. Boiled cod with egg sauce, for instance, may be quite acceptable and even enjoyable, but it can never be exciting; it should be served first, with an inexpensive white wine of no real merit; it calms the appetite but leaves the palate unimpressed. Then comes the roast duckling or lamb, with a mature claret or Burgundy, which we can enjoy at leisure. Reverse the order and the harmony is broken, the meal unthinkable.
The closing pages of the book and last stage of the meal, cheese and dessert, add really nothing to the story, but they are its pleasing summing up. They are not intended so much to supply further nourishment as to help the digestion of the meal — that is to say, its prompt dispatch, just as the hors d’œuvres and soup helped at the time of their arrival. Cheese is a digestive, and dessert is chiefly useful on account of the leisure which it introduces at the time when the stomach needs peace and quiet.
One last rule, which no disciple of true Gastronomy should ever overlook, is simplicity. Our senses of taste and smell are exceedingly delicate, and they are far more easily shocked or hurt than our other senses; they take longer to recover. We hear very distinctly even when not listening with attention, just as the light of day or vivid colorings force themselves upon our sight without our looking for or at them. But, curiously enough, food and drink that force their smell and flavor upon us without our looking for them are almost invariably objectionable. The taste of good food is always discreet. Highly spiced sauces are injurious to the delicate taste buds of the palate, and their only excuse is to cover the objectionable taste or else the total absence of any flavor in the food with which they are used.
Gastronomy can never countenance, for instance, the use of red pepper and highly seasoned sauces with fresh oysters, any more than it will permit any oysters to be eaten if they are not absolutely fresh. The nutritive value of the fresh oyster is one thing and its gastronomical merit another; both are closely allied, of course, but there is no reason why the second should be destroyed completely by condiments which will hide the fresh marine sapidity of the oyster without in the least enhancing its nutritive value.
Most gastronomical heresies are due to a desire to introduce some novelty and make it fashionable. Fashion cannot play with our food and drink quite the same tricks that it plays with woman’s dress. A woman’s head will wear any hat, but her stomach will turn if she takes the same liberties with it. Gastronomy is, of course, greatly influenced by social and economic changes. With the ever-rising rate of speed of living and the ever-rising tide of taxation, there is neither time nor money nowadays, even if there were the disposition, to indulge in the type of gastronomy which gladdened the hearts and stretched the waistcoats of our fathers.
Gastronomy is in no way dependent upon riches, nor is it the privilege of any class. It is within the reach of all who are fortunate in the possession of a fair share of common sense, and of a little imagination, who are capable of appreciating that which is good; whether they be rich or poor, they will always find a way of making the best of whatever happens to be at hand to eat and drink — of making it look its best, taste its best, and do most good.
III
But enough said about the body of the Art of Good Living — Gastronomy. Let us now consider, ever so briefly, the nature of its soul, Hospitality,
Birds of prey and wild beasts hide their kill and seek to devour it in secret; they resent intruders. There are gluttons and hypochondriacs who hate company at meals, but, happily, they are the exception. Most civilized men look upon the chief meal of the day as an occasion for relaxation and conversation, and when they have reached that degree of civilization which has led them to the practice of the Art of Good Living they make as many of their meals as possible the occasion for the dispensation or receipt of hospitality.
Hospitality is one of the many forms of the spirit of charity, and it is one of its highest manifestations, one of the very few where honors are perfectly divided. In French, the word hôle is used for both host and guest, which is as it should be, since there is no differentiation between host and guest wherever there is true hospitality. The host, of course, provides wine and food, which money can buy, but the guests provide the pleasure of their company, which no money can buy. They bring to the table that which adds sparkle to the wine and flavor to the food, their wit and their news, an articulate appreciation of the good things provided for their delight, all of which makes the difference between a meal that is both enjoyable and memorable and one that is a dismal waste of money, time, and trouble.
The host who confers a favor upon his guest, and the guest who confers an honor upon his host, are equally hateful. Neither the one nor the other falls within the meaning of the French name, l’hôte, a name which indicates perfect equality and understanding between two persons entertaining each other, just as in English the word ‘lover,’ even when used in the singular, embraces two people opposite in sex, but equal in their admiration of and devotion to each other. In hospitality, as in love, there should be no bargaining: each giveth the best that he hath to give, without any sense of either inferiority or superiority.
Unfortunately, when we pass from mere theory to realities, we are bound to acknowledge that the Art of Good Living, in both body and soul, — that is, Gastronomy and Hospitality, — cannot be practised without cooking and cookery. Cookery is but printer’s ink — recipes in cookery books. Cooking is flesh and bones, to say nothing of the sauce, before us. Cookery and cooking are the theory and practice — that is, the whole art of giving our food its fullest measure of digestibility, as well as making it the most attractive to our senses of sight, smell, and taste.
Scientists may prove to us that there are a greater number of calories — that is, greater food value — in the husks than in the grain, or in the skin than in the meal of potatoes. But we can prove to ourselves that bran and potato peelings give us no pleasure to eat and do us no good. We need but a minimum of horse sense to appreciate the fact that there is nourishment in oats as we give them to our horse, but that we cannot deal with oats ourselves in the horse’s way. We must turn to cookery for a recipe for making porridge. Having gained this very important knowledge, if we dare not or cannot trust ourselves to put the theory of porridge making into practice, we must ask a cook to do it for us. However good and simple the recipe may be, our porridge may be either delicious and digestible or lumpy, burnt, and horrible; in the latter case it will give us no pleasure and do us no good — neither oats nor cookery being to blame, but the cooking.
Cookery is very much like music: neither good nor bad, but simple or otherwise, pleasing to some or not to others, its varieties are innumerable — hence its wonderful adaptability. There is cookery, as there is music, for Chinatown and Bayreuth; for weddings and funerals; for the highly sensitive and the obtuse; for young and old. Climate, tradition, environment, and many other factors which influence the music of various nations have a like influence upon their cookery. There are races noted for their more highly developed genius for music, and there are some with a greater genius for cookery. And cookery, like music, knows no frontiers: its message is not to the few within the political boundaries of one nation, but to the whole of the human race, wherever there is an ear capable of receiving gladly a harmony or a palate able to appreciate fine savors.
There are really no limits to the number of modes, styles, and variations in music or cookery. One may like a type of cookery or of music better than any other; or one might like one tune one day and another the next. It is entirely a matter of personal taste and of circumstances. To call plain song, for instance, better music than jazz is hardly right; it is better, certainly, in church, because better suited to the occasion, but not for a dance.
English cookery may be called the plain song of cookery: it has but few sauces, as plain song has but few notes, and it depends chiefly upon the excellence of the materials used, as plain song depends upon the training of the choir’s voices; both can be beautiful, but both are likely to become monotonous. American cookery is not so devotional: it is bolder; it strikes unexpectedly sharp notes, and it is full of contrasts; it is nearer jazz than plain song. It has more ‘pep’ and greater individuality than the plain song of English cookery, but it does not possess the dignity and wonderfid harmony of the grande cuisine, the classical cookery or French cookery.
What one can and does compare in cooking is the playing or singing of the tune. From little Audrey fresh from her music lesson to a Paderewski, for instance, there are ever so many ways of playing the same piece, on the same piano, and there are quite as many ways of preparing the same recipes on the same cooker. The skill and imagination of the artist are of the greatest importance: they make all the difference in our enjoyment of what we shall have to listen to or taste. The nationality of the cook makes no difference at all: a French cook can roast a piece of beef just as an American cook can turn out an omelette aux fines herbes. The only thing that matters is that he or she shall be, not mechanical, but blessed with a fair share of imagination and common sense.
French cookery is no more the cookery of France for French people alone than Wagner’s music is the music of Germany exclusively for Germans, or Puccini’s the music of Italy only for Italians. French cookery does not take the place of local cookery in various parts of the world. Local supplies and local customs always have the place of honor; but French cookery brings to every civilized land a welcome element of cultured traditionalism, a pattern of harmony, of balance and beauty, sometimes in the simplest form imaginable and sometimes in the most elaborate.