The Physiology of Taste by Brillat Savarin (suggested reading .TXT) 📕

used to it

cannot do without it even through the night, and have to leave

their bed to appease it.

 

This thirst then becomes a real disease, and when he has reached

that point, it may safely be said that he has not two years to

live.

 

I travelled in Holland with a rich Dantzick merchant, who had for

fifty years kept the principal house for the sale of brandy.

 

“Monsieur,” said he “none in France are aware of the importance of

the trade in brandy, which for nearly a century my father and

myself have carried on. I have watched with attention the workmen

who yield to it as too many Germans do, and they generally die in

the same manner.”

 

“At first they take simply a glass in the morning, and for many

years this suffices. It is a common habit with all workmen, and

any one who did not indulge in it would be ridiculed by his

companions. Then they double the dose, that is to say, take a

glass at morning and night. Thus things continue about three

years, when they begin to drink three times a day, and will only

taste spirits in which highly scented herbs have been infused.

Having reached that point, one may be sure they have not more than

six months to live, for they go to the hospital and are seen no

more.”

 

CHEVALIERS AND ABBES.

 

I have already referred to these categories of gourmandise

destroyed by time.

 

As they disappeared thirty years since, few of the present

generation ever saw them.

 

About the end of the century they will probably reappear, but as

such a phenomenon demand the coincidence of many future

contingencies, I think few who live will ever witness this

palingenesia.

 

As a painter of manners I must give the last touch to my portrait,

and will borrow the following passage from an author, who, I know,

will refuse me nothing.

 

“The title of Chevalier was only correctly granted to persons who

had been decorated, or to the younger sons of noble houses. Many

of the Chevaliers of other families would take the title for

themselves, and if they had education and good manners, none

doubted the accolade.

 

“They were generally young, wore the sword vertically and kept a

stiff upper lip. They gamed and fought and were a portion of the

train of any fashionable beauty.”

 

At the commencement of the revolution many of the Chevaliers

joined the army of the emigres, enlisted or dispersed. The few who

survive can yet be recognized by their military air; almost all of

them, however, have the gout.

 

When any noble family had many children, one was dedicated to the

church; at first some benefice, barely sufficient to pay for the

expenses of education, was obtained, and ultimately he became

Prince, Abbe, or Bishop, as circumstances dictated.

 

This was the real Abbe; but many young men who disliked the perils

of the Chevalier, called themselves Abbes when they came to Paris.

 

Nothing was so convenient, for, with a slight change of dress,

they could appear as priests and the equals of anybody. There was

a great advantage in this for every house had its Abbe

 

They were generally small, round, well dressed and agreeable. They

were gourmands, active and pleasant. The few that remain have

became very devout and very fat.

 

None could be more comfortable than a rich prior or abbot. They

had no superiors and nothing to do. If there be a long peace, the

priors will turn up again, but unless there be a great change in

the ecclesiastical organization, the Abbes are lost for ever.

 

MISCELLANY.—WINE.

 

“Monsieur,” said an old marquise to me one day, “which do you like

best, Burgundy or Bordeaux?” “Madame,” said I, “I have such a

passion for examining into the matter, that I always postpone the

decision a week.”

 

STRAWBERRIES.

 

The Count de la Place recommends that strawberries should always

be dressed with orange juice.

 

JUDGMENT.

 

“He is not a man of mind,” said the Count de M–- “Why?” “Ah! he

does not eat pudding a la Richelieu, nor cutlets a la Soubise.”

 

RAISINS.

 

“Take a raisin—”

 

“No I thank you; I do not like wine in pills.”

 

A DAY WITH THE BERNARDINES.

 

It was about one A. M., on a fine summer night, and I set out

after having been serenaded by many who took an interest in us.

This was about 1782.

 

I then was the chief of a troop of amateur musicians All of whom

were young and healthy.

 

“Monsieur,” said the abbe of Saint Sulpice to me one day, and he

drew me into a window recess, “you would enjoy yourself very much

if you come some day to play for us at Saint Bernard’s. The Saints

would be delighted.”

 

I accepted the offer at once, for it seemed to promise us an

agreeable evening. I nodded assent, and all were amazed.

 

Annuit, et totum nutu tremefecit olympum.

 

Every precaution had previously been taken, for we had yet to go

four leagues, a distance sufficient to terrify the persons who had

ascended Mont Martre.

 

The monastery was in a valley, enclosed on the west side by a

mountain, and on the east by a hill that was not so high.

 

The eastern peak was crowned by a forest of immense pines. The

valley was one vast prairie, and the beech grows much like the

arrangements of an English garden.

 

We came about evenfall, and were received by the cellarer who had

a nose very rich-like an obelisk.

 

“Gentlemen,” said he, “our abbe will be glad when he hears you

have come. He is yet in bed; but come with me, and you will see

whether we have expected you or not.”

 

We followed him, and besought him to take us to the refectory.

 

Amid the display of the table arose a pate like a cathedral; on

one side was a quarter of cold veal, artichokes, etc., were also

on the eastern range.

 

There were various kinds of fruits, napkins, knives and plate; at

the foot of the table were many attentive servants.

 

At one corner of the refrectory was seen more than an hundred

bottles, kept cool by a natural fountain. We could snuff the aroma

of mocha, though in those venerable days none ever drank mocha so

early in the morning.

 

The reverend cellarer for a time laughed at our emotion, and then

spoke to us as follows:

 

“Gentlemen,” said he, “I would be pleased to keep you company, but

as yet I have not kept my mass. I ought to ask you to drink, but

the mountain air dispenses the necessity. Receive, then, what we

offer you. I must to matins.”

 

He went to matins.

 

We did our best to eat up the abbe’s dinner, but could not. People

from Sirius might, but it was too much for us.

 

After dinner we dispersed. I crept into a good bed until mass;

like the heroes of Rocroy, who slept until the battle began.

 

I was aroused by a great fat friar, who had nearly pulled my arm

out of its socket, and went to the church where I found all at

their posts.

 

We played a symphony at the offertory and sung a motet at the

elevation, concluding with four wind instruments.

 

We contrived, in spite of the jests usually expended on amateurs,

to get out of the difficulty very well.

 

We received with great benignity the praises heaped on us, and

having received the abbot’s thanks went to the table.

 

The dinner was such as people used to eat in the fifteenth

century. There were few superfluities, but the choice of dishes

was admirable. We had plain, honest, substantial stews, good

meats, and dishes of vegetables, which made one regret they were

not more general.

 

The dessert was the more remarkable, as it was composed of fruits

not produced at that altitude. The gardens of Machuras, of

Morflent and other places had contributed.

 

There was no want of liqueurs, but coffee needs a particular

reference.

 

It was clear, perfumed and strong, but was not served in what are

called tasses on the Seine, but in huge bowls, into which the

monks dipped their lips and smacked them with delight.

 

After dinner we went to vespers, and between the psalms executed

antiphones I prepared for the purpose. That style of music was

then fashionable. I cannot say if mine was good or bad.

 

Our DAY being over, my orchestra was enabled to look and walk

around. On my return the abbe said, “I am about to leave you, and

will suffer you to finish the night. I do not think my presence at

all importunate to the fathers; but I wish them to do as they

please.”

 

When the abbot had left, the monks drew more closely together, and

a thousand jokes were told, not the less funny because the world

knows nothing of them.

 

About nine a glorious supper was served, long in advance of the

dinner.

 

They laughed, sang, told stories, and one of the fathers recited

some very good verses he had himself composed.

 

At last a monk arose, and said, “Father Cellarer, what have you to

say?”

 

“True,” said the father, “I am not cellarer for nothing.”

 

He left, and soon returned with three servitors, the first of whom

brought some glorious fresh buttered toast. The others had a table

on which was a sweetened preparation of brandy and water—vulgo,

punch.

 

The new comers were received with acclamation; the company ate the

toasts, drank the toddy, and when the abbey clock struck twelve,

all went to their cells to enjoy a repose they had richly earned.

 

PROSPERITY EN ROUTE.

 

One day I rode a horse I called la Joie through the It was at the

worst era of the revolution, and I went to see Mr. Prot to obtain

a passport which, probably, might save me from prison or the

scaffold.

 

At about 11 P. M., I reached a little bourg or village called Mont

St. Vaudrey, and having first attended to my horse, was struck by

a spectacle no traveller ever saw without delight.

 

Before a fire was a spit covered with cock quails and the rails

that are always so fat. All the juice from the quails fell on an

immense rotie so built up that the huntsman’s hand was apparent.

Then came one of those leverets, the perfume of which Parisians

have no faith in though they fill the room.

 

“Ah ha!” said I; “Providence has not entirely deserted me. Let us

scent this perfume and die afterwards.”

 

Speaking to the landlord who, while I was making my examinations,

walked up and down the room, I said, “Mon cher, what can you give

us for dinner?”

 

“Nothing very good, Monsieur. You can have potatoes. The beans are

awful. I never had a worse dinner.”

 

The landlord seemed to suspect the cause of my disappointment. I

said, however, “for whom is all this game kept?”

 

“Alas, Monsieur,” said he, “it is not mine but belongs to some

lawyers and judges who have been here several days on a business

which concerns a very rich old lady. They finished yesterday, and

wish to celebrate the event by a revolt.”

 

“Monsieur,” said I, “be pleased to say that a gentleman asks the

favor of being permitted to dine with them, that he will pay his

portion of the expense, and also be much obliged to them.”

 

He