All About Coffee by William H. Ukers (best new books to read .TXT) 📕
CHAPTER II
HISTORY OF COFFEE PROPAGATION
A brief account of the cultivation of the coffee plant in the Old World, and of its introduction into the New--A romantic coffee adventure Page 5
CHAPTER III
EARLY HISTORY OF COFFEE DRINKING
Coffee in the Near East in the early centuries--Stories of its origin--Discovery by physicians and adoption by the Church--Its spread through Arabia, Persia, and Turkey--Persecutions and Intolerances--Early coffee manners and customs Page 11
CHAPTER IV
INTRODUCTION OF COFFEE INTO WESTERN EUROPE
When the three great temperance beverages, cocoa, tea, and coffee, came to Europe--Coffee first mentioned by Rauwolf in 1582--Early days of coffee in Italy--How Pope Clement VIII baptized it and made it a truly Christian beverage--The first Europe
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James Lane Allen, in The Kentucky Warbler, tells a tale of the Blue Grass country and of a young hero who wanders after a bird's note to find romance and the key to his own locked nature. Here is an incident from his first forest adventure:
There was one tree he curiously looked around for, positive that he should not be blind to it if fortunate enough to set his eyes on one—the coffee tree. That is, he felt sure he'd recognize it if it yielded coffee ready to drink, of which never in his life had they given him enough. Not once throughout his long troubled experience as to being fed had he been allowed as much coffee as he craved. Once, when younger, he had heard some one say that the only tree in all the American forests that bore the name of Kentucky was the Kentucky coffee tree, and he had instantly conceived a desire to pay a visit in secret to that corner of the woods. To take his cup and a few lumps of sugar and sit under the boughs and catch the coffee as it dripped down.... No one to hold him back ... as much as he wanted at last.... The Kentucky coffee tree—his favorite in Nature!
John Kendrick Bangs relates, in Coffee and Repartee[355], some amusing skirmishes indulged in at the boarding-house table, between the Idiot and the guests, where coffee served the purpose of enlivening the tilt:
"Can't I give you another cup of coffee?" asked the landlady of the School Master.
"You may," returned the School Master, pained at the lady's grammar, but too courteous to call attention to it save by the emphasis with which he spoke the word "may".
Said the Idiot: "You may fill my cup too, Mrs. Smithers."
"The coffee is all gone," returned the landlady, with a snap.
"Then, Mary," said the Idiot, gracefully turning to the maid, "you may give me a glass of ice water. It is quite as warm, after all, as the coffee and not quite so weak."
One other little skit remains at the expense of Mrs. Smithers' coffee. At the breakfast table, where the air, as usual, is charged with repartee, Mr. Whitechoker, the minister, says to his landlady:
"Mrs. Smithers, I'll have a dash of hot water in my coffee, this morning." Then with a glance toward the Idiot, he added, "I think it looks like rain."
"Referring to the coffee, Mr. Whitechoker?" queried the Idiot....
"Ah,—I don't quite follow you," replied the Minister with some annoyance.
"You said something looked like rain, and I asked you if the thing referred to was the coffee, for I was disposed to agree with you," said the Idiot.
"I am sure," put in Mrs. Smithers, "that a gentleman of Mr. Whitechoker's refinement would not make any such insinuation, sir. He is not the man to quarrel with what is set before him."
"I must ask your pardon, Madam," returned the Idiot politely. "I hope I am not the man to quarrel with my food, either. Indeed, I make it a rule to avoid unpleasantness of all sorts, particularly with the weak, under which category I find your coffee."
Coffee Quips and Anecdotes
Coffee literature is full of quips and anecdotes. Probably the most famous coffee quip is that of Mme. de Sévigné, who, as already told in chapter XI, was wrongfully credited with saying, "Racine and coffee will pass." It was Voltaire in his preface to Irene who thus accused the amiable letter-writer; and she, being dead, could not deny it.
That Mme. de Sévigné was at one time a coffee drinker is apparent from this quotation from one of her letters: "The cavalier believes that coffee gives him warmth, and I at the same time, foolish as you know me, do not take it any longer."
La Roque called the beverage "the King of Perfumes", whose charm was enriched when vanilla was added.
Emile Souvestre (1806–1854) said: "Coffee keeps, so to say, the balance between bodily and spiritual nourishment."
Isid Bourdon said: "The discovery of coffee has enlarged the realm of illusion and given more promise to hope."
An old Bourbon proverb says: "To an old man a cup of coffee is like the door post of an old house—it sustains and strengthens him."
Jardin says that in the Antilles, instead of orange blossoms, the brides carry a spray of coffee blossoms; and when a woman remains unmarried, they say she has lost her coffee branch. "We say in France, that she has coiffé Sainte-Catherine."
Fontenelle and Voltaire have both been quoted as authors of the famous reply to the remark that coffee was a slow poison: "I think it must be, for I've been drinking it for eighty-five years and am not dead yet."
In Meidinger's German Grammar the "slow-poison" bon mot is attributed to Fontenelle.
It seems reasonable to give Fontenelle credit for this bon mot. Voltaire died at eighty-four. Fontenelle lived to be nearly a hundred years. Of his cheerfulness at an advanced age an anecdote is related. In conversation, one day, a lady a few years younger than Fontenelle playfully remarked, "Monsieur, you and I stay here so long, methinks Death has forgotten us." "Hush! Speak in a whisper, madame," replied Fontenelle, "tant mieux! (so much the better!) don't remind him of us."
Flaubert, Hugo, Baudelaire, Paul de Kock, Théophile Gautier, Alfred de Musset, Zola, Coppée, George Sand, Guy de Maupassant, and Sarah Bernhardt, all have been credited with many clever or witty sallies about coffee.
Prince Talleyrand (1754–1839), the French diplomat and wit, has given us the cleverest summing up of the ideal cup of coffee. He said it should be "Noir comme le diable, chaud comme l'enfer, pur comme un ange, doux comme l'amour." Or in English, "black as the devil, hot as hell, pure as an angel, sweet as love."
This quip has been wrongfully attributed to Brillat-Savarin. Talleyrand said also:
A cup of coffee lightly tempered with good milk detracts nothing from your intellect; on the contrary, your stomach is freed by it, and no longer distresses your brain; it will not hamper your mind with troubles, but give freedom to its working. Suave molecules of Mocha stir up your blood, without causing excessive heat; the organ of thought receives from it a feeling of sympathy; work becomes easier, and you will sit down without distress to your principal repast, which will restore your body, and afford you a calm delicious night.
Among coffee drinkers a high place must be given to Prince Bismarck (1815–1898). He liked coffee unadulterated. While with the Prussian army in France, he one day entered a country inn and asked the host if he had any chicory in the house. He had. Bismarck said: "Well, bring it to me; all you have." The man obeyed, and handed Bismarck a canister full of chicory.
"Are you sure this is all you have?" demanded the chancellor.
"Yes, my lord, every grain."
"Then," said Bismarck, keeping the canister by him, "go now and make me a pot of coffee."
This same story has been related of François Paul Jules Grévy (1807–1891), president of France, 1879–1887. According to the French story, Grévy never took wine, even at dinner. He was, however, passionately fond of coffee. To be certain of having his favorite beverage of the best quality, he always, when he could, prepared it himself. Once he was invited, with a friend, M. Bethmont, to a hunting party by M. Menier, the celebrated manufacturer of chocolate, at Noisiel. It happened that M. Grévy and M. Bethmont lost themselves in the forest. Trying to find their way out, they stumbled upon a little wine house, and stopped for a rest. They asked for something to drink. M. Bethmont found his wine excellent; but, as usual, Grévy would not drink. He wanted coffee, but he was afraid of the decoction which would be brought him. He got a good cup, however, and this is how he managed it:
"Have you any chicory?" he said to the man.
"Yes, sir."
"Bring me some."
Soon the proprietor returned with a small can of chicory.
"Is that all you have?" asked Grévy.
"We have a little more."
"Bring me the rest."
When he came again, with another can of chicory, Grévy said:
"You have no more?"
"No, sir."
"Very well. Now go and make me a cup of coffee."
As already told, Louis XV had a great passion for coffee, which he made himself. Lenormand, the head gardener at Versailles, raised six pounds of coffee a year which was for the exclusive use of the king. The king's fondness for coffee and for Mme. Du Barry gave rise to a celebrated anecdote of Louveciennes which was accepted as true by many serious writers. It is told in this fashion by Mairobert in a pamphlet scandalizing Du Barry in 1776:
His Majesty loves to make his own coffee and to forsake the cares of the government. One day the coffee pot was on the fire and, his Majesty being occupied with something else, the coffee boiled over. "Oh France, take care! Your coffee f—— le camp!" cried the beautiful favorite.
Charles Vatel has denied this story.
It is related of Jean Jacques Rousseau that once when he was walking in the Tuileries he caught the aroma of roasting coffee. Turning to his companion, Bernardino de Saint-Pierre, he said, "Ah, that is a perfume in which I delight; when they roast coffee near my house, I hasten to open the door to take in all the aroma." And such was the passion for coffee of this philosopher of Geneva that when he died, "he just missed doing it with a cup of coffee in his hand".
Barthez, confidential physician of Napoleon the first, drank a great deal of it, freely, calling it "the intellectual drink."
Bonaparte, himself, said: "Strong coffee, and plenty, awakens me. It gives me a warmth, an unusual force, a pain that is not without pleasure. I would rather suffer than be senseless."
Edward R. Emerson[356] tells the following story of the Café Procope. One day while M. Saint-Foix was seated at his usual table in this café an officer of the king's body-guard entered, sat down, and ordered a cup of coffee, with milk and a roll, adding, "It will serve me for a dinner." At this, Saint-Foix remarked aloud that a cup of coffee, with milk and a roll, was a confoundedly poor dinner. The officer remonstrated. Saint-Foix reiterated his remark, adding that nothing he could say to the contrary would convince him that it was not a confoundedly poor dinner. Thereupon a challenge was given and accepted, and the whole company present adjourned as spectators to a duel which ended by Saint-Foix receiving a wound in the arm.
"That is all very well," said the wounded combatant; "but I call you to witness, gentlemen, that I am still profoundly convinced that a cup of coffee, with milk and a roll, is a confoundedly poor dinner."
At this moment the principals were arrested and carried before the Duke de Noailles, in whose presence Saint-Foix, without waiting to be questioned, said:
"Monseigneur, I had not the slightest intention of offending this gallant officer who, I doubt not, is an honorable man; but your excellency can never prevent my asserting that a cup of coffee, with milk and a roll, is a confoundedly poor dinner."
"Why, so it is," said the Duke.
"Then I am not in the wrong," persisted Saint-Foix; "and a cup of coffee"—at these words magistrates, delinquents, and auditory burst into a roar of laughter, and the antagonists
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