Today I am
going to give you a cautionary tale from mid-seventeenth century Amsterdam. I
have no idea of its authenticity – perhaps it is urban myth - but there is a certain
timelessness and universality about it, as befits all good cautionary tales.
And besides, it is fun.
The story was
told (or re-told) a century and a continent away, in the Massachusetts Spy of August 18, 1785:
An Excellent Example
of Frugality.
In the reign
of King James the II, an eminent burgomaster of Amsterdam, having, with much
grief, observed the degeneracy which began to shew itself among the Dutch, and
the excesses which were the issue of wealth and idleness, took this method to
shew his countrymen the folly and danger of their prodigalities. He invited the
whole magistracy (consisting of thirty-six persons) and their ladies to a
dinner which they made no doubt both for variety and delicacy, would be worthy
both of him and them, but how great was their disappointment, when they saw the
first course upon the board, consisting of apples boiled in buttermilk, stock
fish with turnips and carrots, red herrings, and a lettuce salad; and for
drink, small beer. The master invited his guests to fall to, the ladies pleaded
want of appetite, the men looked like young prophets, when they cried out that
death was in the pot, and until the table was cleared, scarce a word was spoke.
But then there appeared under every plate a scroll of verses signifying that
such was the fare of their forefathers, when their city first began to thrive,
and the States to have a name among the nations. The second course was then
served up, which consisted of butchers’ meat of every sort, roasted and boiled;
but all undisguised with the arts of cookery and without any sauce than what a
good stomach was to supply. English
beer and Punch wine were likewise added
to the side-board; and when the table was cleared a second time, certain other
verses presented themselves, by which the guests were informed that, with
regard to the wants of nature, these were luxuries; that it was the office of
reason to regulate both the taste and the appetite; that by living thus, they
would leave both their wealth and their temperance to their heirs, who being
used to such excellent examples, would blush to be thought degenerate by their
children. The table was then spread with all manner of fish and fowl, wild and
tame, exquisitely dressed, and relished with the most agreeable sauces which
were served up in plate, accompanied with wines of the finest growths of the
Rhine Moselle, champaign and burgundy, and followed with a poetical memorial, importing,
that all beyond enough was too much, that all beyond nourishment was luxury;
and that beyond decency was extravagance; that intemperance had a smiling
aspect, but a dreadful retinue, consisting of a composition of diseases that death
had been their cook, and that he had infused a slow poison in every sauce. The
last scroll seemed to strike a momentary damp on the spirits of the guests;
which was soon forgot, on the appearance of a most magnificent desert [sic], to which
not only all Europe, but both the Indies had contributed, followed by several
rich wines, and every other delicacy that wealth without bounds could purchase.
After which the hand writing again denounced, that Luxury is to property, what
a plague is to health; that it is equally destructive; that it is the disease
of which the noblest monarchies and most flourishing States have died; that
when it became epidemical in a country depending on commerce, like theirs, a
dissolution must inevitably follow; in consequence of which, the rich and
renowned city of Amsterdam would
again be reduced to a fishing village, and their posterity becomes poor as
their ancestors were, without their continuance, industry or virtue. This wise,
seasonable and excellent admonition of this noble burgomaster it is more than
probable, had just as much effect at Amsterdam, as the repetition of them would
have been in London or Dublin. The rigour of them was, perhaps
ridiculed by a few, the truth acknowledged by the majority, and the application
neglected by all. So powerful is reason in the field, so insignificant are the
fruits of her victories.
As the Recipe
for the Day, I give you an eighteenth century English concept of chicken cooked
‘in the Dutch way.’ Note the use of the parsley root. You don’t see parsley
root in many recipes today, do you?
Chickens
in the Dutch way, with parsley roots, and leaves of ditto.
Three large
chickens will be enough; cut off the pinions, but not the feet, strip off the
stockings (as they are called) by fire or boiling water, and tie them down upon
the breasts; make a forcemeat with the livers, &c. as before named,
put into them, blanch them nice and white over a clear stove, put them upon a
lark spit, and tie them to another, with some lards of bacon, and plenty of
butter'd paper; take care they are exactly coloured as you would roast a
chicken in the English way, and provide your sauce as here set down; take some
parsley roots that are not sticky, take off the rinds, cut them in thin slices,
and lay them to soak in vinegar, salt and water, a green onion or two, and some
parsley and shallot, with a blade of mace and whole pepper, for two or three
hours; fry them very softly in a bit of butter, and wash afterwards in warm
water; put them into some cullis, with a good dash of white wine of the sharp
sort, boil it all together with a minced mushroom or two, or a green truffle, a
little pepper, salt and nutmeg, have a good quantity of parsley leaves boiled
nice and green, stir it into your roots just before it goes to table; clean
your chickens from grease, and lay them in your dish, make your sauce boiling
hot, add the juice of two or three lemons or oranges, and serve it up.
[A Complete System of Cookery, by William
Verral 1759]
Quotation of the Day.
Food
probably has a very great influence on the condition of men. Wine exercises a
more visible influence, food does it more slowly but perhaps just as surely.
Who knows if a well-prepared soup was not responsible for the pneumatic pump or
a poor one for a war?
Georg
C. Lichtenberg
