"Masdeu," he said, "is Catalan; you know the wine is grown not far from Perpignan, where the people are half Spanish. Do you know the meaning of Masdeu? It is a very old name for the vineyard, and it signifies 'God's field.'"
I thought of the difference of national character between the French and the Germans—"God's field" in France, a vineyard; "God's field" in Germany, a churchyard.
"The ancient Romans," continued my friend, "liked the wines, the sweet wines of this country, better than any other growths in Gaul."
"The Romans," I said, "had a most swinish taste in wines, and dishes too. The Falernian was boiled syrup, cooked up with drugs, and tempered with salt water. Only think of mixing brine with your tipple; or of placing it in a fumarium, to imbibe the flavour of the smoke! The Romans were mere liqueur drinkers. Aniseed, or maraschino, or parfait amour, or any trash of that kind, would have suited them better than genuine, fine-flavoured wine."
"Pourtant;" said my friend; "you go too far; maraschino and parfait amour are not trash. Although I agree with you, that the palate which eternally appeals for sweets is in a morbid condition. But the Romans, after all, must have had tongues of peculiar nicety for some savours. A Roman epicure could tell, by the relative tenderness, the leg upon which a partridge had been in the habit of sitting at night, and whether a carp had been caught above or below a certain bridge."
"Or was it not," I asked, with hazy reminiscences of Juvenal floating about me,—"was it not a certain sewer—the Cloaca Maxima, perhaps?"
"Only," argued the priest in continuation, "I could never understand their fondness for lampreys."
"Perhaps," said I, "it is because you never tasted them after they had been fattened on slaves."
"Perhaps it is," replied the good man, musing.
By this time dinner was over, and the guests gone. We had the remains of the dessert, the pick-tooths, and another bottle of the Catalan wine to ourselves.