Adventures of a Bouillon Cube: c. 1750

Who plays the English tastemaker?  The cook?  Or the customer always right?  This question has reared its head several times as I've been mining old newspapers for references to sauces and condiments.  Unlike the main ingredient, such as a chine of beef or a leg of mutton, the garnishing powerfully illustrates the individual's will in the construction of a national "taste."  Late 18th century advertisers believed that the application of a sauce could transform British cuisine into French, Italian, American or even Indian food.  As much as plumb pudding and roast beef were considered hallmarks of English cuisine, it appears that the possibility of choice, variety, and convenience of good eating were also crucial parts of that story.

Meet Elizabeth Dubois.  I haven't been able to find much biographical information about her as of yet; it seems like she might have been married to someone in the book trade.  I have only heard of her through her advertisements printed in the 1740s and 1750s as a seller of delicious and practical "Portable Soups" all over London.

She starts running the ads in the London Evening Post for what appears to be solid cubes of bouillon in 1744.  "This useful Commodity never spoils if kept dry," she claims, "and is dissolved in a few Minutes in boiling Water; and for Gravy Sauce is much cheaper and better than any usually made on the Spot."  Apparently, the single-serving sized cubes were the brainchildren of her uncle, the reputed cook to the late Duke of Argyll, invented while the Duke was engaged with wars overseas.  But she points out that they are perfect for other occasions ranging from long hunts "when the chace proves long" (you could chew it like a protein bar) to prolonged naval engagements abroad (when the diet of salted meats rendered good English gravy particularly difficult to obtain.)

As advertised in the London Daily Advertiser, 1747

A new (portable) means of preserving the flavors of herbs and fresh meat?  And it happened to be cheaper by the dozen (with a nifty tin box thrown in)?  Indeed, Dubois's advertising scheme had a sophisticated plan of attack.

A 21st century incarnation of Mrs Dubois's invention

But Mrs Dubois was constantly revising her advertising scheme.  In late 1749, she starts offering a special soup made of "shell and other types of fish, which is very palatable" for her customers who keep Lent.  Clearly, she saw these folk as an important untapped market.

Before long, she begins to expand her enterprise, selling her products in taverns and coffee shops all over London: from Billingsgate to Westminster, from her own place in Long-Acre all the way to Bath.

As her market expanded beyond the parish,
she vigilantly protected her ideas from theft

Bath, you say?!  The fact that her bouillon cubes made it all the way to this famous spa-town over one hundred miles away suggests that she believed that these portable soups would appeal to a fashionable health conscious crowd.  Wonder if Elizabeth Montagu, given her love of spa water and other health fads, ever got into these.

Service becomes more and more personalized.  After a few years, Du Bois begins to encourage customers to experiment with mixing her four flavors –– veal, chicken, mutton and "gravy" –– to their own personal liking.  She suggests adding salt to taste.  But still unsatisfied, she decides to take custom-orders beginning in October, 1752.  An ad in the London Evening Post proclaims:

"Having been often asked, why I did not make some solid Soups of Venison, this is to inform such who may be inclined to send their own Meats, of what kind soever, with Directions as to what Spice or Herb are approved, may have their Commands punctually obeyed by their laudable Servant Elizabeth Du Bois, at tte Golden Head ... near Long-Acre; where her strong Gravy Soup, Mutton Broth, Veal Broth, and Chicken Broth, may be had in the utmost Perfection..." 

Who knows whether her venture succeeded?  I never hear of her after 1756.  Regardless, Elizabeth Dubois's marketing ploys suggest that conceptions of eating "on the go" changed drastically around mid-century.  No longer would bread and hard cheese monopolize the market on portable foods.  Moreover, Du Bois wasn't just selling five different types of bouillon cubes.  Her use of culinary expertise –– selling something you couldn't get at home –– and her regard for customer choice imply that she was also selling an idea of English convenience to bring to the the most far flung corners of the earth.

Spring Soop

In my last post, I mentioned a peculiar breed of 18th century cookery books that catered to primarily to vegetable lovers.  Or did they?  For I fear, goodly reader, that many of these self-professed Pythagoreans delighted in vegetables more so out of necessity rather than out of hatred of beef-stake pyes and harricos of mutton.  Nope, meat didn't come cheap in those days.  But what were these cookery books all about?  Who read them?  What kinds of knowledge did they impart?

We know that they were remarkably savvy when it came to marketing themselves to target demographics.

"This little Treatise of Kitchen-Gardening is chiefly design'd for the Instruction and Benefit of Country People," opens the vegetable friendly Adam's Luxury and Eve's Cookery (1744) "who most of them have a little Garden spot belonging to their House, and at the same time let it lie useless, for want of knowing how properly to manage it..."

You've guessed it, reader.  The cookery book to the left isn't exactly in the same league as the botanical virtuoso Philip Miller's The Gardener's Dictionary ––  which I've discussed in previous posts.  No "Aegyptian Lettuces" or fancy cantaloupes discussed in this text.  To the contrary, this is much closer  to an early modern "Gardening for Dummies."  The section on "Melon," for example, pooh poohs the idea of enumerating all sorts of this fruit, as "there being annually new Sorts brought from abroad, a great many of which prove good for little."  Hmmmph.  Good old utility trumped exotic tastes.

While the first portion of the book explains how to cultivate a host of different vegetables and herbs at home, the remainder devotes itself to simple recipes that one could whip up in a minimal amount of time.  Flipping through the (electronic) pages yesterday evening, my appetite was piqued by recipe below:

Asparagus, you say?  Once considered a socially exclusive treat, the Enlightenment actually witnessed great strides in the democratization of this particular vegetable.  In 1727, Stephen Switzer, one of the most well-known horticulturists of the era, gushed over the considerable improvements made in the art of Salleting, pointing out that "the raising of the asparagus and artichoke, especially the first, has been the most advanced of any one vegetable the garden produces." He reveled in the fact that Britons could now enjoy them as late as Christmas, and that they were "near as green and as good as that which comes by nature."

It often comes up in cookery books as "Sparrow-Grass" too

Switzer's enthusiasm was infectious.  By the time I had finished the preface of his The Practical Kitchen Gardener, he was proclaiming visions of "asparagus piercing the ground in a thousand places," exclaiming:

"these! these! are the innocent and natural dainties, where they present themselves and grow for the nourishment and the delicious entertainment of mankind."

Time to start that asparagus soup.  I'll be the first to admit, however, that I didn't follow the above recipe to the letter.  I liked the idea of cooking a bunch of different green vegetables together (this is common in many 18th century soups) but I didn't include the beets, for I feared they would muddy the bright green color of the soup.  I also skipped the flour, since I wasn't really worried about the thickness.  I also threw in some leeks and shallots, and topped it off with creme fraiche and toasted pine-nuts.

It was good with a beer, too

My noble Readers should be informed that I greatly enjoyed this modest meal, and found it relatively healthful as well as pleasing to the palate.  Who says that the flavors of 18th century Britain can't occasionally be inspired by a 21st century San Francisco sensibility?

The Best Vegetable of the Salad Kind

When it comes to history of the early modern salad, F.R.S. John Evelyn usually gets most of the attention.  Famous for his vegetable friendly cookery book, Acetaria: A Discourse of Sallets (1699) he helped define the salad as "certain Esculent Plants and Herbs, improv'd by Culture, Industry, and Art of the Gard'ner ... to be eaten Raw or Green, Blanch'd or Candied..."

John Evelyn, author of Acetaria, 1699

Don't get me wrong; Acetaria is a fine piece of work.  He even teaches you how to make salad dressing: "the Yolks of fresh and new-laid Eggs, boil'd moderately hard, to be mingl'd and mash'd with the Mustard, Oyl, and Vinegar."  Little different, Reader, from the dressings I throw together today.  And in case you are unsure just how to plate the salad at your next dinner party, Evelyn has you covered.  "That the Saladiere, (Sallet-Dishes) be of Porcelane, or of the Holland-Delft-Ware; neither too deep nor shallow..."

But Evelyn was hardly the only intellectual to pay attention to the vegetable kingdom.

I noticed a gentleman by the name of Philip Miller who began to attend dinners of the Thursday's Club in the Spring of 1752.  He dined with the club frequently, attending two to three dinners a month on average.  But he was always noted down as a "visitor."  Of whom?  I wondered.  Where did he come from?

Apparently, Miller was anxious to please.  For three consecutive weeks during the summer of 1753, Mr. Miller entertained the club with Aegyptian lettuces.  What did this mean?

Apparently Miller had some serious botanical connections.  He had been appointed chief gardener to the Chelsea Physic Garden since 1722.  This garden, founded in 1673, was designed for the purpose of growing new medicinal herbs and plants.  In fact, written into the garden's lease was the requirement that the garden provide 50 seedling samples to the Royal Society each year, until the total of 1000 had been provided.  Miller excelled at this task.

Philip Miller also authored the widely-read The Gardener's Dictionary, which classified 14 different kinds of lettuce, ranging from the "common garden" varieties to progressively more exotic and esteemed "Silesia" "Aleppo" and "Black Cos."  Lettuces were valued in those days for their delicate qualities; coarser varieties, Miller attested, were only appropriate for "stewing rather than salleting."

I enjoyed flipping through this manual, as it provides a nice glimpse into the tastes of contemporary Londoners as set apart from the rest of the kingdom.  "The most valuable of all the Sorts of Lettuces in England are the Versailles, the Silesia, and Cos," Miller claims, "tho' some People are very fond of the Royal and Imperial Lettuces; but they seldom sell so well in the London Markets as the other, nor are so generally esteem'd.

Guess Miller's expertise worked in his favor; he was elected a full-time member in July of 1753.  The minute book noted, however, that Miller hadn't exactly been a stranger all this time:

"Mr Phillip Miller having been an Antient Member of this Society but being out of Town when the regulation of the Society was made in 1749 and having Applyed as a Candidate ever since June 1752 it was unanimously Agreed that the present Vacancy should be supplyed." 

Oh the suspense!  Miller is voted in, and another guy is kicked out.  

I don't know about you, Reader, but for me, there's a touch of melancholy to this story.  Once content to go out and share a meal with his friends and colleagues, Miller must have been slightly taken aback to return from "out of town, " only to be coldly greeted as a "visitor," and then be pushed to the margins of the coterie for an entire year.  Sounds pretty harsh.

What provoked the need for these men to institutionalize their weekly meals, to demarcate for them a specific time and place?  And how did the formation of clubs affect friendships, acquaintance networks, the unspoken protocols of social life?  For Philip Miller was not unlike an English Rip van Winkle.  Time passes in his absence, and he eventually wakes up groggy and slightly baffled, forced to face the consequences of falling too long asleep.

Crawfish Soop and Leveret Pye: Eating Local in 1750

While special occasions –– holidays, weddings and such –– are lovingly recorded and preserved for posterity in letters and printed ephemera, the quotidian rhythms of our lives can be much harder to discern.  Such is the case when it comes to the study of English eating habits during the Enlightenment.  One need not delve too deeply into the archives in order to find accounts of men regaling themselves with beef-steak and arrack punch.  But did people eat like this on a day to day basis?  Ehh.  It's a lot harder to tell.

Stowe in the 18th Century: Where the Magic Happened

Thankfully, I recently managed to get my hands on a day to day "Household Menu Book" detailing nearly a year of dinners and suppers served to an aristocratic family in Buckinghamshire.  The meals served ostensibly date from around 1750, and I found myself eagerly flipping through the pages, hoping that they would betray some sense of how dining in the country differed from the fare served in taverns and inns found in London.

Given its access to roads, ports, and people with overseas connections, I had always imagined 18th century London to be, much as it is now, some sort of mecca for foodies: a place where one could eat things that were simply unimaginable in other parts of the kingdom.  Indeed, it was not until 1766 when James Woodforde, the gourmandizing country parson out in Somerset, recorded his first experience with pineapple: "the first I ever saw or tasted."  I will be the first to admit, good readers, that 18th century caricatures such as Squire Western, Fielding's loveable country bumpkin, not to mention the standard 21st century hypocrisies, had unduly influenced my conceptions of rural dining, even among elites, which I (rather unjustly) deemed to consist of large joints of meat, little dressing, and a few boiled vegetables, washed down with consecutive bottles of Rhenish, Claret, Madeira and Port. (Ever heard of the notorious "four bottle man"?)  But the Stowe family's records demonstrates that the story was more complicated than that.

The most striking aspect of these menus is the number of French names affixed to dishes.  In addition to a host of fricassees and terrines, the Stowe family regularly dined on things like poupeton of pidgeon, chicken a la royalle, and, most hilariously, veal au bourgeois.  Such dishes were still relatively unfamiliar even in the 1750s; indeed, new culinary fashions presented such a problem for aspiring parvenus that someone deemed it necessary to publish a pamphlet entitled "An Explanation and a Translation of a Modern Bill of Fare" so that diners would not be afraid to touch what was placed on the dinner table.

Particularly Trendy Dishes needed to
be explained to the general public

But when one compares these "sample" bills of fare presented in the pamphlet to the real deal, it becomes evident that these French trends were absorbed in a very partial manner.  You never get an unabashed Francophone feast with the Stowe family, even when they entertain guests.  More common are melanges of the common and the exotic; good old "Scotch Collops" and "Beans and Bacon" are served alongside "chicken a la tartarre."

It is also likely that many dishes eaten by the family were hunted on the the estate.  I didn't see any pineapples or cantaloupes –– things that would be imported from overseas –– but "crawfish," for example, pops up in everything from soups to ragouts, as well as a host of things I hadn't ran across on many London tables, such as leverets, woodcocks, sturgeon and the unabashedly local "new laid eggs."

We also might be seeing the beginnings of the veritable "Sunday Roast" enjoyed by many British families today.  Each Sunday the Stowe family unfailingly dined on:

a) Calves Head (either "hashed" or served "a la francaise"
b) At least two additional animals "Rost."  One must be a red meat (beef, venison, etc) and the other is a lighter one, such as turkeys or rabbits.
c) A "Soop"
d) Some kind of "Ragout"
No other day of the week exhibited the same degree of consistency of dishes served as Sundays did.

So if living in the country didn't cause one to lose out on variety, I realized that maybe the most indicative evidence of the family's "localism" resided not in the dishes themselves but rather in the cook's extremely creative orthography in describing them.  "Mucherooms" "Vinison" and "a Chaine of Porcke Boild" abound.  I pounded my head against the table trying to figure out what "laekes" could possibly mean.  ("Latkes?" asked my colleague quizzically.  "Ahh!"  I finally realized.  "Leeks!")  It seems likely that this cook wasn't reading a lot of contemporary cookery books.

Going over these bills of fare provides an important glimpse into both the tastes of the family that ate these meals and the economy of the estate.  Yet my over-earnest speculations and hypotheses, regrettably, only serve to underscore how much we do not know.  We need to know more about this cook; how he (or she) learned how to prepare these dishes and came to work for this family.  We need to know how long it took to prepare these crawfish soops and ox-cheek ragouts.  We need to know what kinds of foods were grown and hunted in Buckinghamshire, and what kind of status they afforded those who ate them.  We need to know who deemed it necessary to celebrate every Sunday with a Calves Head Hashed.

And lest this Blog's regrettable lack of resolution proves unsatisfying to my virtuous Readers, I can only hope to regale their Imaginations with the following Bill of Fare, which was served for dinner at Stowe on Friday, June 28, 1750.

First Course

Terrine

Tongue and Fowls Boil'd

Knuckle of Veal a la bourgeoise

Beans and Bacon

Pidgeon Pye

Remove:

Chine of Mutton

2nd Course:

3 Rabbits Roasted

3 Turkeys Roasted

Cherry Tart

Ragout of Sweetbreads

Sheep's Tongues and Rump

Pease

Fun with Spoon Victuals in 1736

The other day, I posted a Bill of Fare designed for the workhouse at St. Martin in the Fields.  And while this might end up telling us something important about the gastronomical life of an 18th century urban pauper, one thing remains unanswered.  How do we know how all these sundry puddings and porridges dishes tasted?

A Workhouse Plan
Notice separate dining halls for men and women

I couldn't find any recipes from the existing workhouse records of St. Martin of the Fields, but today, I dug up a couple receipts in the overseers' minutes from a neighboring workhouse.  And considering that many of these 18th century workhouses seemed to spy on each other on a semi-regular basis (hoping to devise new ways of keep their poor alive and working on the cheap) I think it's very likely that there was a lot of recipe poaching going on too.

The following were recorded in 1736. 

'Milk Porridge' (Breakfast 5 days a week): "That to every gallon of milk there be two gallons of water and and a proportionable quantity of salt and half a pint of oatmeal."

Pease Porridge (Dinner on Mondays) "That the every gallon of liquor there be put one pint and a half of pease and that a hock of bacon of about six pounds be boil’d in the whole quantity of porridge to give it a savory taste.”

Plumb Pudding- (Dinner on Saturdays) "That to make sixteen plumb puddings there be such 15 lb suet, 15 lb raisins and 18 quarts of milk, two bushels and one peck of flower, three quarters of a pound of rice and one pound of salt.  Each of the puddings to be divided for men and women into sixteen parts and for boys and girls into twenty four parts."

But which one to choose, my voracious readers?!  Regrettably, I haven't yet had the chance to whip up any of these historic "spoon victuals" for myself.  However, I've attempted to approximate the experience of an 18th century pauper during my lunch break by sampling as many soupy porridge-like dishes as I can (all found within five minutes of an archive, of course).

The Runner Up: Unidentified Hungarian Goulash
(Consumed at Westminster City Archives, 4.00)

The Winner: Spinach Agnoshi
 (Consumed at LMA Archives, 4.50)

A Recipe for Disaster

Most kind, loyal and efficacious readers!  As this blog passes its third month in existence, and I sentimentally browse through previous posts, I must confess that, in the course of my research thus far, my thoughts and opinions have been skewed towards tastes of a more metropolitan nature.  But the time has come, I think, to carry this project beyond the environs of London alone.   And having had, on a few occasions, the opportunity to experience the mystique of Oxbridge dining myself, I started to believe that the tastes of 18th century collegiate life –– where rank determined, among other things, your place at the dinner table –– might be a worthy subject of study.  

A college dinner at Hertford (2009

But as I was examining some printed documents before descending into the quagmires of commons, letters, diaries and buttery books, I found a rather unorthodox "receipt."  I've attached it below.

“My next Receipt is to make an Head of an House.  But of these there are Two Sorts, the G-----r Kind and the Dobson Kind.  


To make up the Latter,

Recipe an Old Heavy Country Parson, extract all Remains of common Sense, and common Honesty, and then put in Gravity, Formality, Hypocrisy and Pretended Conscience, of each a Large Quantity."

And...

“To make One of the other Kind, instead of a Country Parson, take a Plotting, Intriguing, rakish, Drinking, Whoring, Fellow of a College. Distil him down to a Rigid Disciplinarian; then prepare him after the foregoing manner. But add to the Composition, of Pride, Ambition, Knavery, Envy, Malice, and Revenge, of each a Large Handful."

What have we here?  Turns out the author was Nicholas Amhurst, a polemical pamphleteer who, after being expelled from Oxford in the early 18th century, spent the rest of his life trying to smear his alma mater with a treasonous, Jacobite label.  (Most of the good stuff was published in Terae Filius: A Secret History of Oxford.)  But these little receipts reminded me of the puzzling Bill of Fare for King George II's Christmas dinner, which I posted about two months ago.  Why are so many pieces of 18th century satire styled in the language of the edible?  Are satirists using the genres of the "receipt" and the "bill of fare" simply because they were so current in the contemporary cultural imagination?  (Cookbook publications sky-rocketed throughout the 18th century.)  Or do these things, I wonder, tell us anything about how cookery was perceived itself?  

LMB Part 2: Who gets the Alamode Pyes??

Two posts ago, I addressed some of more peculiar dishes served at the 1727 Lord Mayor's Banquet.  But  it wasn't as if everyone there was eating the same thing.  Almost every table in Guildhall (there were twenty of them) had a separate bill of fare that had to be approved far in advance of the feast.
  

Official LMB Invitation
Note that late-comers to the Banquet
(after 3pm) won't be admitted

So I started to think about who was eating what.  What were specifically "royal foods"?  Much has been made by historians about ladies' affinities for sugar.  Do these assumptions hold up?  Finally, what about the King's entourage of servants –– the yeomen, the horse grenadiers, the musicians –– many of whom were entertained in nearby taverns.  What do these meals say about the specific tastes of different social ranks?
 
The following dishes were served only at the King's Table:
--Red Deer collar'd (other tables got venison, but not the animal in its entirety.)
--Lampreys
--Italian Collops
--Olio Pattys

But the aldermen seemed to get some dishes that the King didn't get.  
--Basilick Squabbs
--Indian Creame
--March Pan (Marzipan?)
--Royall Harts

And the servants, surprisingly, seem to be the only ones who get good old English "Sir Loynes of Beef" on the menu.

Why was this?  At first I thought that the aldermen (who are actually organizing the feast) might be more interested in more fashionable, exotic fare while the King's table would rely on the tried and true staples of centuries past.  But it's hard to tell.  French terms –– "blamange" "a la Spring" and "Alamode Pyes"–– pop up often at the more elite tables, although the dinners get less and less interesting as you move down the social scale.

Guildhall: Where the Magic Happened

Damn ... that's a lot of work for just two cooks and four confectioners working under them.  I mean, they had a team of about 50 servants to help out, but still!

So the reader can imagine my sigh of relief when I noticed that the party-planners gave the cooks a little token of appreciation just before the big day.  

ORDERED that the cooks have two bottles of canary, four bottles of white port, and six bottles of red port delivered them ...  for their refreshment.

Freemasonry and Celebrity Chefs

I've been spending time at the Freemasons Hall as of late, and ran across this newspaper clipping today.   It comes from Lloyds Evening Post, and was published on the 26th of February 1790.

“MICHAEL RUHOLD, who lately kept the Tavern at Madrass, and JOHN MOLLARD, late a Partner and cook at the London Tavern, respectfully inform the Public, that they have taken the Free Masons Tavern, in Great Queen-Street, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, which has been rebuilt upon an enlarged Plan, and fitted up in the genteelest Style, that they have laid in a large Assortment of the choicest Wines, and propose to open their House on Thursday the 4^th of March, when they solicit the Favour of their Friends and the Public, assuring them that no Pains will be spared to merit their Encouragement. 

N.B.  The largest Companies may be commodiously entertained."

A 19th century illustration of Freemason's Tavern

Making a point of Mollard's previous employer was no accident.  The London Tavern was a pretty big deal in the latter half of the 18th century, and just like today, working at a prestigious eating establishment could give a cook some much needed celebrity caché.

The same was true when it came to cookbooks.  Ten years later, Mollard came out with The Art of Cookery made Easy and Refined, which, considering the fact that it ran into five editions by 1836, didn't do so badly with the public.

I was checking it out today, and was rather impressed with its scope.  There are recipes for all the English staples: pea soups, 'meat cakes with savory jelly,' and turtle, both real and "mock."  But there are also quite a few dishes that proclaim their international flare; French names are littered throughout the book, as well as things done "the German way" or "the Spanish way."  There are even three different recipes for curry.  But I didn't really know what to make of all of this.  Was there anything particularly "Masonic" about this cookery book?

Other than being associated with the Freemason's Tavern, the cookbook never mentions the so-called "Royal Art."  Perhaps that isn't wholly surprising.  Even though the tavern was attached to the grand lodge, you didn't have to be part of the Brethren in order to enjoy a meal there.  In fact, it was often rented out for private events that had nothing to do with Freemasonry at all.

One recipe, however, caught me eye: "Solomongundy."  Salmagundi, I knew, was a sort of meat-vegetable-condiment salad ... a handy way for 18th century cooks to use up all of their leftovers.  But "Solomongundy?"  It couldn't have anything to do with Solomon's Temple in Jerusalem, which was so important to Masonic legend?  Could it?

Alas, dear readers.  I poked around a little more and I found this alternate spelling wasn't so unusual after all.  Dead end.  The subject of Masonic dining in the 18th century is full of tantalizing clues –– references to "demolishing huge walls of venison pasty" and "leg of mutton masons" –– but getting an idea of how food functioned in rituals and social life was harder than I thought.

It being around tea-time, I went across the street to satiate my frustration in a more contemporary English treat, meat salads being harder to come by these days.

Yet another fabulous scone with cream and raspberry jam ... 

But if you feel inspired to whip one up ...  

John Mollard's "Solomongundy:"
“Chop small and separately lean of boiled ham, breast of dressed fowl, picked anchovies, parsley, omlets of eggs white and yellow (the same kind as for garnishing), shallots, a small quantity of pickle cucumbers, capers, and beet root. Then rub a saucer over with fresh butter, put it in the center of the dish, and make it secure from moving.  Place round it in partitions the different articles separately till the saucer is covered, and put on the rim of the dish some slices of lemon.”

The Calves-Head Conundrum Continues

History has shown us that all sorts of foods we eat –– frogs, fries, falafel –– can carry quite a bit of political weight, but with all this mudslinging of the Calves Head Club, I started wondering if its traitorous and blasphemous associations carried over into England’s eating and cooking habits at large. 

What were cookery books saying about calves heads?  Who was eating them?  One would think a monarchy-friendly cookery book such as Patrick Lamb’s Royal Cookery, or the Compleat Court Cook (1726) would eschew calves head concoctions.  Right?

Not so much.  I found not one but four calves head delicacies. 

--“Roasted:” Skull and mouth stuffed with oysters and marrow, then slow roasted on a spit.

--“Hashed:” Strong gravy and white wine jus, mixed with forc’d meat balls of veal. 

--“Dressed:” brains and tongue, seasoned with sweet herbs, lemon peel.  Garnished with barberries and horseradish.

-- “Patty of Calves Brains” (In case my intrepid readers feel up to trying this at home, I included the recipe below.) 

“Clean the Brains very well, and scald them: Then blanch some Asparagus-Tops in a Sauce-pan, with a little Butter and Parsly.  When they are cold, put them in the Patty with the Brains, the Yolks of five or six hard Eggs, and some of the forc’d Meat, for which you have the Directions in Letter F. When it is bak’d, squeeze in the Juice of a Lemon, pour in some drawn Butter and Gravy: So serve it. 

So it doesn’t seem like any of the negative publicity caused cooks to raise any eyebrows.  In fact, by the 1760s, calves head had earned the status of the “mock turtle” in "mock turtle soup."  (And lest you assume by the word “mock” that this dish was intended for the lower classes, I would like to point out that even the cosmopolitan and rather aristocratic Thursday’s Club dined on it repeatedly)

Another Calves Head Image from the 1734 Riot
The head is being held above the bonfire
(See the last post for the 'view from inside')

Thus, neither the political consternation nor the visceral disgust elicited by the Calves Head Club had anything to do with the fact that one was eating ... well... a head.  It was the context –– the ritual and its treasonous tenor –– that provoked events like the image of the 1734 riot you can see on the left. 

I found only one reference to actual gustatory sensations associated with the club.  But instead of describing dinner, it describes the character of a typical "Calves Head Clubb Man." 

“…when he disputes his Principles he is as Hot as Pepper, as biting as Mustard, and as sower as Vinegar…. and snuffs up his Nose at the Name of the King, as if the very Title it self was grown offensive to his Nostrils.” 

Perhaps the sense of taste is being politically mobilized in some way or another.  But it appears in a very different way that one would expect.  

The King's Feast

We usually credit the Victorians with the invention of most of our Christmas "traditions. "  But when it comes to the dinner, their 18th century predecessors practiced plenty edible customs of their own.  In her best-selling cookbook from 1747, Hannah Glasse included a recipe for "a Yorkshire Christmas Pye:" a novelty gift made of turkey, goose, partridge, pidgeon, woodcock, rabbit, “and what sort of wild Fowl you can get.” [1] Mince pie was also a beloved holiday treat suitable for raucous tavern celebrations.  The Royal Society's illustrious and oh-so-exclusive dining club enjoyed it without fail every year.[2]  

Getting in the Holiday Spirit: 1763
Dinner at the Mitre Tavern, Strand
(Mince Pie generally contained currants, apples, lemons, suet, beef,
"mountain" wine and brandy)

Those of more limited means were by no means excluded from edible traditions.  Plumb pudding was standard fare even for those who toiled in the workhouses around Westminster.  And in 1802, the Foundling Hospital’s matron requested Malaga raisins, allspice, ginger, and 28 pounds of suet for the orphan children’s “Christmas Puddings.”[3]  Up and down the social scale, holiday meals meant serious business.  

Especially for royalty.  A while back, I had stumbled across two elaborate royal menus hidden away in the British Library's manuscript collection, but I fear that they won't arouse your hunger.[4]  Most of the dishes are "disguised" in elaborate word puzzles.  Many of them sound downright disgusting.  "Quintessence of Toes," anyone?  Perhaps the denizens of the 18th century would find these puzzles hilarious, but the jokes are all but lost on us modern readers.  See for yourself below.  

The King in Question:
King George II (1727-1760) 

Bill of Fare for

His Majesty’s Dinner on Christmas Day 1755

First Course

Top Dish

The House of a Bird with the Life and Death of a Calf, season’d with Lord Mayor’s pride and Welshman’s Delight, and garnished with an Old Woman of ninety.

This was a soup.

The Remove

The fleet of Conveyance

Starrs broil’d with Lawyers fees for Sauce, garnish’d with Horses

Bottom Dishes

Fragments of the preserve of Rome in a pye.

The Sign of the going out of March divided with the Debtors Security, Sweet Wine, and the produce of a Walking Stick.

Side Dishes

Eternal pikes broil’d

The Imposters Earring ragou’d

Second Course

Furrows roasted.

An unruly Member chop’t small and mix’d with reason, and confin’d in a Courtier's promise.

The Top of Corn roasted

These were the Top, bottom and middle Dishes.

Side Dishes

Colour’d Boards fricasee’d with Stationer’s Ware

The bash of a Jest burnt

A Ragou of Slops, with the Original of Eternal pikes, and the sweet support of Life and small.

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If this wasn't enough to sate your appetite, our anonymous record-keeper included a second menu for the next day.  So save some room for more!    

His Majesty’s Dinner on the Following Day

First Course

A Fool’s head with a Lilliputian Sauce, garnish’d with Oaths.

A roasted Turnspit

The revenue of being proud in a pye

The Grand Seignour’s Dominions roasted

Side Dishes

An unruly Member

The best part of an Office

The inside of a Snuff Box roasted

A Maid with Jump Sauce, surrounded with Beaus fool’s Coats

A Dutch princesses pudding

Second Course

The Conveyors of Venus roasted

A couple of Threshing poets

The Divine part of Mortals fry’d

The Supposters of a Squeaker Stew’d

Third Course

Three Dragons swimming in Cows blood and Indian powder

Quagmires, quintessence of Toes, sweet Turds and a transparent Cock standing in the middle

Three fiery Devils smother’d in their own Dung

Side Dishes

Two Quakers hashed

A Sign in the Zodiack butter’d

The Desert

A plate of Oxford scholars

A plate of Couplers

A plate of prize Fighters

A plate of Mischief Makers

A plate of Two hundred thousand pounds 

Liquors

The Joke of a puppet Shew

Counterfeit Agony

The twelfth part of a Chaldron of Coales

A Soliders Habitation, with a pretty Lady in it

Amusement

Half a hundred of the best plantation to play upon the hinden part of a Hog

Some of these dishes are obviously intended to disgust.  It's hard to argue with the "sweet turds" and "three devils smothered in dung."  Yet after giving it some thought, I realized that some of these dishes might not be so bad after all.  Many of them seem to be in code:

"The Divine Part of Mortals Fry'd" - Might this be fried sole?"  

"The Grand Seignor's Domains Roated" - The Grand Seigneur was none other than the Sultan of Turkey.  Guess our holiday palates have not changed as much as one might think!  

 "The Revenue of Being Proud in a Pie" - Could this be a humble pie?  Who knows what secret meat-treats lie beneath this delicate crust?  

If the history buffs and crossword-nuts out there in the blogosphere join forces, I am sure we can solve this foodie puzzle.  Happy Holidays, and Happy Sleuthing! 

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[1] Hannah Glasse, The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy (London, 1748) 145.

[2] Royal Society Club Dinner Books (Royal Society Archives: RSC Papers.)

[3] Foundling Hospital Subcommittee Minutes, December 18, 1802. (LMA Archives: A/FH/A/3/5/25.)

[4] If you would like to check them out yourself go to MSS 15956 in the British Library.  Sadly, the library doesn't allow pictures.