Venison Surprize

I returned from the archives in London last fall with a hard drive full of JPEGS and vague but eager dreams of storing this information within some sort of database, with which I could map quantitively the psychology of social connections forged over food.  I had uncovered the records belonging to the Thursday's Club call'd the Royal Philosophers, an 18th century dining club semi-officially affiliated with the Royal Society, and the Philosophers' meticulous attendance and dinner records lent themselves well, I thought, to this sort of thing.

Here's the contents of the dinner books
found in the archives
(Please excuse my pinkie)

I had never really worked with these kinds of sources before, and my inspiration, admittedly, was at first largely literary.  The project I had in mind reminded me of that scene in David Lodge's Small World: An Academic Romance (1984) in which a respected novelist is invited to a new cutting edge academic department –– the Centre for Computational Stylistics –– only to witness his entire literary oeuvre deflated by the state-of-the-art computers into a single adjective: "greasy."  With a few effortless keystrokes, a machine could analyze a career's worth of subconscious mores and social hang-ups, revealing literary proclivities unnoticed by the naked eye.

30 years before the Digital Humanities
became an academic buzzword,
Lodge anticipated some of its
humorous pitfalls

Nearly 30 years after this fictional work was published, I stubbornly believed that the ability to analyze my 18th century records in a similar fashion would significantly contribute to our understandings of friendship and social networking.  Linking these patterns to the elaborate records of weekly meals shared by the Thursday's Club illustrates how consumption of particular dishes in particular contexts engendered new collective tastes and civic identities.  Indeed, the the era that exalted the so-called "man of taste" it is hard to dispute the fact that the provision, sharing and connoisseurship of food were integral to the making of the gentleman.

The problem was that my rudimentary Excel spreadsheet was full of holes and wasn't able to answer the queries that I asked of it.  So this past semester, I have been working with an OpenOffice database that allows me the flexibility to address a range of queries as well as generate new ones.

The same information in the OpenOffice database

Over the course of the summer, my worthy and efficacious readers will learn of my findings.  But because my very first post on Homo Gastronomicus, over one year ago, addressed the special status of venison among members of the Thursday's Club, I'll begin by playing around with the database as a tool ... to track man's love of tasty treats.

First, I tracked all the venison references made in the first fifteen years of the club's weekly meetings.  Below, I show how often it was served as a gift versus how often it was served in the bill of fare without reference nor further comment.  Venison was obviously something out of the ordinary, appearing as a gift 47% of the time it was served.  But that's nothing too surprising.

Moreover, out of the venison references listed in the bills of fare, the ones that were received as gifts were larger and more expensive cuts –– such as haunches and necks.  On the chart below, you can see that the venison dishes that frequently appeared on the normal bill of fare mostly comprised of pasties and pies, dishes typically prepared with less expensive cuts of meat mixed with giblets, vegetables and herbs.  (Gifts are marked as blue, while dishes on the regular bill of fare are red.)

Finally, I wondered what attendance looked like when a juicy haunch was gifted to the club.  One would think that it would be disproportionately higher.  After all, who would turn down this aristocratic delicacy, especially when washed down with a few glasses of claret?  Surely its consumption would be a pretty big deal.

But surprisingly, the mean attendance between 1748-1762 was only marginally higher when a haunch of venison was on the table.  Venison dinners attracted an average of 15.8 members per meeting, while the average attendance hovered around 15.5.   What does this mean?

It seems hard to believe that the members didn't care whether venison was served or not.  After all, venison was the most frequently gifted food to the club, and annual gifts of a haunch could secure honorary membership for the donor.  Perhaps the evidence suggests instead that gifts were not very well publicized.  Venison dinners, as a result, took place on a largely ad-hoc basis.  Sort of like a secret pop-up catering to the well-connected gentleman "in the know."

The Best Turtle-house in Town

The 18th century epicure is an elusive character, slippery to pin down and all too cryptic when he rests his fork and knife for a brief moment and tells us of his gastronomical adventures.  And all too often, I find only brief, posthumous traces of him, as this satirical will illustrates:  

Memoirs of the dying, or, a collection of wills, executed by several
of the most eminent characters, of both sexes, now living, in Great Britain (1784)

Who was B---- G----ne?  Perhaps a thinly veiled reference to particularly gluttonous City alderman, or maybe an East India Company official hooked on the good life.  (The famous London Tavern was their unofficial hangout throughout the second half of the 18th century.)  Maybe he was based on nobody at all, a mere invention for the public's amusement.  But whoever he was, he must have been very well-to-do, because only the upper crust –– both in title and in wealth –– could afford to dine "at the best Turtle-house in town" on a semi-regular basis.  And only the most zealous connoisseur would select a turtle house as his legacy to posterity.

Out of many breeds, "green turtle" was the most highly valued

Indeed, "this pleasant and salubrious meat," in one contemporary's terms, was not so easy to come by. The astronomical prices paid for it –– it could get as high as 4 shillings, 6 pence a pound (shell included) –– likened it to imported luxuries like truffles or caviar today.  I guess the price starts to make a little more sense when one considers the hardships of the reptilian middle passage.  One contemporary lamented:

"The green turtle Indeed has become a branch of commerce, and ships are provided with conveniences for supplying them with water and provision ... this cannot, however, always be effected; for though they scarce require any provision upon the voyage, yet the workings of the ship occasions them to be beat against the sides of the boat that contains them, by which they become very lean and battered; so that, in order to eat this animal in the highest perfection; instead of bringing the turtle to the epicure, the epicure ought to be transported to the turtle."
   - A new, complete and universal body, or System of natural history, being a grand, accurate and extensive display of animated nature (1785) 

Given the fact that 18th century Jamaica was not considered the healthiest climate for the fragile and delicate English constitution, many decided not to take the trip.  But this did not slow the public's insatiable craving for luscious green turtle fat.  But where did fashionable men get their hands on it?  Where was the best turtle house in town?  The question is still unresolved, but I've noted a few potential candidates;

1. Wood's Hotel, Tavern and Coffee House, Covent Garden:  The New London Magazine noted "if any preference to it can be given in preparing any particular viands, it is that of turtle and game" (Volume 4, Issue 6, 1788).

An Ad from the Morning Herald, 1793

2. The Queens Arms Tavern, St. Paul's Churchyard: A long time hang-out of City politicians, one source observed "great numbers of these animals are dressed at the Queen's-arms-tavern... where we remember to have seen them in two extremes ... three Turtles, two of which together did not weigh three ounces, and the other exceeded nine hundred pounds in weight." (A new, complete and universal body, or System, of natural history, 1787)

3. The London Tavern, Bishopsgate Street: One of the chicest places in town; on August 24, 1787 The World and Fashionable Advertiser published a bill of fare reputedly from an alderman's dinner that featured no less than 10 dishes of it.  Check out the first course below:

What to Eat after a Wedding Feast

It is not uncommon to take a few days to recover one's appetite after indulging in a wedding feast.

In the jubilant spirit of mingling and merry-making –– seeing old relatives all grown up, and old friends all dressed up, and in my case, a whole lot of new people –– one eats and drinks freely and unhurriedly.  Restraint is exercised only in the interest of having sufficient stomach-space to enjoy everything brought to the table ... being sure to save room for the cake.  And why should there be any reason to refrain, especially when there are such delightful options available?  Beginning around noon, the guests were entertained with fat bacon wrapped scallops, dainty cubes of butternut squash topped with dollops of arugula pesto, and balls of coarsely chopped root vegetables encased in a breadcrumb crust, fried lightly enough that each one melted in the mouth and left but a touch of sweet oil on the thumb and the forefinger.

For Philip Miller, vegetable
cultivation was no laughing matter:
The cover of "The Gardener's Dictionary"

These gastronomical amusements, of course, constituted a mere fraction of the sundry wedding appetizers served.  And let it be known, voracious reader, that the main fare was equal if not superior in flavor to the above-mentioned dainties, even though I have neither the time nor the space to describe them all.

But what might one like to eat after such a feast (and two slices of rich pumpkin cake frosted with three layers of buttercream)?  Reader, I wanted a kale salad.

Were such concoctions available in 18th century Britain, I wondered?  (I admit that I often wonder about such things.)  It is likely that they were; the chief gardener to the Chelsea Physic Garden, Philip Miller, listed six of them in his chef d'oeuvre of 1731: The Gardener's Dictionary.  (Actually, he admitted that there were many additional varieties in existence, but claimed that they are not "cultivated for culinary use, being fit only for ornament or curiosity.")  However, he seemed to value kale (which he called borecole) primarily for its hardiness in bad weather rather than for its flavor, although he had some nice things to say about the Buda, or the "Russian Kail."

Lacking a bona fide historical recipe, I considered my 21st century options.  Perhaps I could replicate the blanched Lacinato conception (dressed with a blend of olive oil, lemon, dijon mustard and all the fresh rosemary and thyme I had on hand at the time) that I had tinkered with the week before?

Attempt #1: Blanched Kale and Shaved Parmesan

But there are many ways to love a kale salad, and last night I desired nothing but the one I had tasted for the first time at the rehearsal dinner.  The kale was served completely raw, but was chopped so finely that its texture –– light and ethereal –– betrayed none of the kale's natural fibrousness.  Sort of like tabouleh.

At Last: Travel-Weary and Salad-Happy 

"Before and After a Wedding" Kale Salad

- Lightly toast one cup of quinoa in olive oil over medium heat, and cook through (making sure to retain a little crunch).  Add generous amounts of parmesan cheese and a little olive oil and mix it up.
- Remove the stems of a large bunch of red kale, and chop very finely.  Do the same thing with half of a (large) bunch of Italian parsley.  Toss around in a bowl, and add a mixture of olive oil, salt, pepper, one or two garlic cloves, and about a tablespoon of lemon juice (and a little zest if you like).  Add the quinoa and mix it up again.
- Cook a handful of pumpkin seeds in some olive oil and add to the salad, along with some dried currants and more parmesan cheese.  



The whole thing takes about 20 minutes and 90% of the work is in the kale and parsley chopping.  It's hearty enough that the salad can be a dinner on its own if you wish, but it is particularly tasty when complemented with beer and pizza.  

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

A Predilection for (Food) Collection

As this Blog enters its seventh month of existence, my wise and efficacious readers most likely have gathered that the records of the Royal Society's semi-official dining club, "The Thursday's Club called the Royal Philosophers," have proven essential to the Lady of Quality's dissertation research.  Indeed, for 38 years –– from 1748 through 1785 –– this club assiduously recorded everything the members ate for dinner, from "Beef-Stake Pye" all the way down to the butter and cheese.

But alas.  In 1786, for some unknown reason, the treasurer ceased to record the 'Bill of Fare' in the dinner books.  (However, he unflaggingly continued to keep the attendance records for years.)

Why?  Did the Bill of Fare no longer matter to him?

In Annals of the Royal Society Club, published in 1917,  Sir Archibald Geikie attributes this unfortunate event to mere happenstance, proclaiming the two minutes of extra work being "too much for the increasingly feeble fingers of the devoted treasurer."

But I'm skeptical.  After all, the treasurer's hand-writing post-1786 resembles that of a man in perfectly good health (even for a physician, no less).  Thus, noble readers, I here propose an alternative explanation.  The 'Bill of Fare' ceased to be recorded in 1786 because it was no longer integral to the club's identity.

I implore you, noble reader, to hear me out.

Knowledge in the 18th century was often gleaned by
collecting and classifying like objects.
So why not food?

First, what we think of as "scientific research" today was, during the 18th century, heavily intertwined with the practice of antiquarian collecting (read more about it in my last post.)   Writing down what was eaten every week was an act of empirical observation.  When "chines of beef" were donated to the club, the treasurer would always weigh and measure them, duly recording his findings in the dinner books.  This zest for documentation also extended to the flavors of different foods.  For a bunch of guys who were trying exotic fruits for the very first time, the collective consensus that the flavor of cantaloupe was "equal if not superior to pine apple," was not just a piece of subjective whimsy.  It was a serious attempt to deduce standards of taste.  "Science" wasn't done in labs in those days; it was practiced in places like taverns and coffee-houses.  And more often than not, people would experiment on themselves.

Indeed, discerning the different flavors of fruit was a serious matter

But not only was the 'Bill of Fare' a matter of empirical observation; it also forged a "common taste" shared among the members.  I have already mentioned that members of the Thursday's Club did not all share the same social rank.  Sure, all of them were well-off by the standards of the day, but they could range from nobles to apothecaries, from politicians to poets.  By writing down everything that they ate, they were proclaiming to the world, and to posterity, that they were men who were cosmopolitan enough to know what a pineapple tasted like, but preferred the English "Apple Pye" to all other sweets.  They were men who happily dined on "Calves Head Hashed" and "Tongues and Udders," but disdained suspiciously French "Fricassees."  They were men who, by means of their urban street-smarts and savoir-faire, could dine on twenty different kinds of fresh fish and have cauliflowers in winter.  

By 1786, the Bill of Fare no longer performed the same scientific and social "work" that it once did.  Antiquarian collecting was losing relevance as the principal means of organizing knowledge.  And pineapples and cantaloupes were no longer complete edible novelties to those who could afford them.

In the 19th century, we start getting the menu with all of its a la carte options.  But the 18th century 'Bill of Fare' was an entirely different beast.

Men of the Upper Crust

My last post took a peek at the sweet treats most frequently served to the Thursday's Club over 1748-49, when the club first started recording its weekly dinners.  40 years later, the club mysteriously stopped recording its meals.  But what happened in between then?

Joseph Banks: Botanist, Collector, Gastronome
(I think he looks the part)

The club had witnessed some pretty significant changes over this period.  In 1779, the botanist Joseph Banks (most famous for his travels with Captain Cook) was elected President of the Society.  Banks was quite the dinner party aficionado; he headed the Thursday's Club for 42 years, and it was said that when he wasn't collecting exotic plants abroad, he patronized 12 different eating clubs in London. 

Then, in 1784, the club relocated from the Mitre Tavern to the popular Crown and Anchor on the Strand (only after drawing up a few new dinner provisions, which you can read about here).  The Crown and Anchor appears quite frequently in accounts of 18th century public dining.  Because of its large size and central location, it served as venue for everything from political rallies to charity events to Masonic meetings.   

So what did members get for dessert at this new location, almost 40 years after my last post?  You would think that, given the changed venue, and the greater availability of sugar and exotic fruits, we would see a little more creativity in the offerings. 

But lo and behold; my amateur "Pye Chart" reveals virtually the same sugary culprits: Gooseberry Pye, Marrow Pudding, and the marked persistence of the apple.  There are a few variations, of course –– dumplings and tarts popping up every now and then –– but pye remains the most ubiquitous form of pastry.  There are a few new additions, such as "Almond Cake," "Hunting Pudding" "Blamange" and the rather mysterious "Fruit Pyes," but these dishes are few and far between.      

To me, this suggests that the club members, whilst at the Mitre, cultivated a particular proclivity for the dish, which was, by the 1780s, ingrained as an unwritten tradition.  Apple Pie was, of course, believed to be a quintessential English dish in the 18th century; I've run across a couple poems about it throughout the course of my research.  You certainly can't say that about the suspiciously francophillic "Blamange."  

To the right, I've added an example "menu page" that demonstrates how the information was set down on the page at this time.  Notice all the repetition; the second half of the menu looks like a mirror image of the first half, and the roast (here a 'chine of mutton') constitutes the center piece.  I'm pretty sure this list resembles the way the dinner looked like when it was set upon the table.  It doesn't look like a modern-day menu in the slightest, with a progression from appetizer to main course to dessert.  But it doesn't say whether there was any rhyme or reason as to how the dishes were eaten.

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.

The Lord Mayor's Banquet Extravaganza of 1727: Part One

Very exciting news, loyal readers.  It took a while to get into the LMA's special "conservation room," but man, did the wait pay off.  Upon the pages of this immaculately preserved leather tome are the complete party planning records for one of the most extravagant yet fabulous sounding dinners I have ever dreamt of tasting.

Good times had on Lord Mayor's Day

What's the occasion, you might ask?  The entertainment was designed for the Lord Mayor's Banquet of October 30, 1727, an event put on annually by the Corporation of London.  The whole point was to commemorate the 'swearing in' of the newly elected Lord Mayor from the court of Aldermen.  But this wasn't just any regular old Lord Mayor's Banquet.  George II, the new, very recently crowned King, was also planning to attend the dinner, which didn't happen all too often.  And while it's true that that there was no shortage of (mostly Tory) haters who saw the feast as a bastion of corruption and excess, most of London's movers and shakers (excluding Jacobites and such) were in the mood to celebrate.

The careful attention paid to planning and executing a banquet of this magnitude is revealed in the 20 or so different meetings that took place over the month of October, where absolutely nothing was left up to chance.  Below is an excerpt from the meeting held on October 13, 1727.

"Mr Bowler Miller and Mr Pead (Cooks) attended this Committee and laid before them the Bill of Fare and Drafts of the Tables for the ensuing Entertainment. 
ORDERED: That the said Mr Pead and Mr Miller be two of the Cooks to be Employed by this Committee in Dressing the Dinner and that they bring their proposals next Monday at two of the Clock in the Afternoon. And it is recommended to them to provide the said Entertainment in the most Elegant and Magnificent manner.

Elegant and Magnificent?  Those are some rather lofty expectations.  Judge for yourself.  I've listed a few highlights from their proposal.

The Standards:
--  "Dry’d Tongue" 
-- "20 Dishes cold Pyes fill'd with all sorts of Fowle" 
-- "2 haunches of Venison and Udder in Raggoo"

Particularly tasty looking:   
--  "Orange loaves, Lemon Tart, Tanzey, Rice Pudding with Cherry and Apricock Fritters
-- "Raggoos of Mushrooms, Morrells, and Truffles of Pease" 

Complete culinary mysteries: 

-- "10 plates of Indian Creame of sorts stuck with Almonds in coloured and fine green Citrons" 

-- "Olio Pattys" 

Admittedly, the descriptions of these dishes don't always adopt the same level of hyperbole that relentlessly plagues the 21st century menu.  That doesn't meant that the dinner itself wasn't meant to impress.  Check out the table arrangement below.  

Plan for the King's Table

That's certainly a lot of plates on the table, and I suppose it looks rather cluttered to the modern eye.  Today we expect individualized courses served in progression –– an appetizer, followed by a main course, and finished by a dessert.  But dining in the 18th century was usually done in a style known as “a la francaise.”  Each "course" involved an array of different dishes, which were placed on the table at once.  Diners could then choose what they wanted according to their individual tastes.  It was totally feasible to start out with some artichoke bottoms and a plum pudding, have some fruit in the middle, and later snack on some "fish in jelly."  Sweet dishes and savory dishes were served side by side.  

Having spent the morning consumed by these many novelties on an empty stomach, I decided that, for lunch, I would embark on a gastronomic adventure of my own.  Indeed, my curiosity had been aroused by a recently imported craze that has been taking the UK by storm.  Behold, noble readers: the English Burrito. 

Black beans, fajita vegetables, rice, guac, sour cream, salsa, cheese

Hmm.  Eh.  I guess they tried.  But the thing almost fell apart in my hands, the ratios were all messed up, and the "spicy" salsa was mild at best.  My vain and idle hopes were crushed, but I returned to the archive resolute that a Papalote Pit-Stop would be high on my agenda upon my return to the New World.

Regicidal Delights

I found this in the British Library a little while ago, and I haven't yet decided what to make of it.

“A True Bill of Fare for the Calves Head Feast, 1710”

For Bread, Beer and Ale- 3.10.0

For Fifty Calves Heads- 5.5.0

For bacon- 1.10.0

For 6 chickens and 2 capons- 1.00.0

For three joints of Veal- 1.18.0

For butter and flower- 0.15.00

For Oranges, Lemmons, Vinegar and spices- 1.0.0.

For anchovies capers and samphire- 0.5.0

For oysters and sausages- 0.15.0

For sorril, sage, paresely, sweet herbs, and onions- 0.05.0

For the use of pewter and linen- 1.0.0.

For firing in the kitchen- 0.15.0

For firing in the parlour- 0.3.0

For boat hire and porterage- 0.05.0

For cook’s wages- 0.15.0

For garnishing and stewing- 0.05.0

Total 18.6.0

That's all that's on the page, save for this additional note:

That a sett of men were wicked enough to meet and feast according to this bill of fare in the year of our Lord 1710, and that this was truly the bill of their eatables, besides drink, was attested to me by one of honour and reputation, and in a considerable publick post, who had the bill at first hand.

This I do attest,

A. Campbell, London, 1711

Fifty calves heads?  What kind of party was this?  Well, turns out it was a very anti-monarchical one indeed.

More bovine or goat-like?

The Calves Head Club was ostensibly founded in celebration of the beheading of the incompetent and unlucky monarch Charles I in 1649.  The members apparently got together every January 30th (the anniversary of his execution) to drink wine out of calves heads with the brains scooped out.

Jonathan Swift summed it up most poetically (and pretty succinctly):

"The meat shall represent the TYRANT'S head
The Wine, his blood, our Predecessors shed"

I always thought King Charles' quintessential Van-Dyke beard looked rather goat-like, but a calf?  Ehh.  It's a stretch.

Anyway, back to what's important: the food.  Look at all this seasoning.  The Bill of Fare (which is really a Bill of Charges) seems to indicate that every member of the club got his own head from which to drink.  Which means that all these other items –– the bacon, the capers, the anchovies, onions and herbs –– would have gone into the seasoning.  Who knew that regicide could be so tasty?

Nevertheless, I was left with more questions.  How did this ritual work?  Did the cooks whip something up with the brains, and then leave the heads as the drinking vessels?  Did you get your own, or were they passed around in some kind of anti-royal health?  Can you even drink out of something so large and unwieldy?  How did the dish prepared compare to other calves head recipes?  And why isn't wine (a crucial part of the ritual) included in the list of expenses?

Then I ran across this print from a few decades later, which depicts the entire ritual in a very different way.  (It is based on the story of a riot that, according to the Gentleman's Magazine, actually occurred.)

"The true effigies of the calf's club" 1734 

Note that the calf's head (just one this time) is relegated to a symbolic centerpiece and stripped of its more 'practical' function.  The deceased monarch's blood is enjoyed from a rather conventional looking wine-glass.  The caption mentions a feast, but there are neither plates nor silverware nor side-dishes on the table.

What accounts for these different depictions of the ritual?  It may be that all the negative publicity spawned a lot of copy-cat societies.  Or maybe there were just a lot of very imaginative Tory polemicists out there, all of whom were eager to make their opponents look like blasphemous king-killing maniacs.

But either way, why was it in this form –– a private eating society –– that political beliefs and fears were expressed?

Another Mystery Menu

As promised, below is the 'bill of fare' for dinner on the 26th of December, 1755.  

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

---

But is there any logic behind this?  

"The Divine Part of Mortals fry'd?"  

-- Does he mean a fried soul?  (The philosopher René Descartes famously claimed the soul to be located in the pineal gland.)  Even at the time, however, he got a lot of flack for this.  So is the writer trying to imply that a dish of fried brains is on the menu?  

-- Or is this a sole?  (Soles were certainly consumed in 18th century England... in one cookery book alone, I found recipes to boil them, fry them, fricassee them, and bake them into a pie.)  

"A Sign of the Zodiack butter'd?"

-- Well, we know that many of the twelve astrological signs were edible.  

-- Could this mean a butter'd goat (Capricorn) bull (Taurus) or fish (Pisces)?   

The only thing that really makes sense is the structure of the 'bill of fare' itself.  From the organization of the meal –– first course, second course, liquors, desserts, etc –– we can get a sense of how the bill of fare would look on the table.  Fortunately, contemporary cookery books included many of these "maps" that orchestrated the placement of dishes for special occasions.  

Table setting for the first course
from The London Art of Cookery

---

I've looked at hundreds of these things, and they never actually show an illustration of the dish.  Perhaps cookery writers wanted the readers to fill in the gaps with their own gastronomic fantasy.  Or perhaps illustrations just cost too much money.  I've always interpreted them as kind of a culinary cock tease –– whetting the imagination with ideas of epicurean pleasure without actually satiating the appetite.  

But this bill of fare defies all description.  Are we supposed to be enticed or revolted?     

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.

---

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! 

---

[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.