With due justice to the Roman people may we be permitted to say that proverbial excesses were exceedingly rare occurrences. The follies and the vices of a Nero, a boy Heliogabalus, a Pollio, a Vitellius and a few other notorious wasters are spread sporadically over a period of at least eight hundred years. Between these cases of gastronomic insanity lie wellnigh a thousand years of everyday grind and drudgery of the Roman people. The bulk was miserably fed as compared with modern standards of living. Only a few patricians could afford “high living.” Since a prosperous bourgeoisie (usually the economic and gastronomic background of any nation) was practically unknown in Rome, where the so-called middle classes were in reality poor, shiftless and floating freedmen, it is evident that the bulk of the population because of the empire’s unsettled economic conditions, its extensive system of slavery (precluding all successful practice of trades by freemen), the continuous military operations, the haphazard financial system, was forced to live niggardly. The contrast between the middle classes and the upper classes seemed very cruel. This condition may account for the many outcries against the “extravagances” of the few privileged ones who could afford decent food and for the exaggerated stories about their table found in the literature of the time.
The seemingly outlandish methods of Apician food preparation become plain and clear in the light of social evolution. “Evolution” is perhaps not the right word to convey our idea of social perpetual motion.
Apicius used practically all the cooking utensils in use today. He only lacked gas, electricity and artificial refrigeration, modern achievements while useful in the kitchen and indispensable in wholesale production and for labor saving, that have no bearing on purely gastronomical problems. There is only one difference between the cooking utensils of yore and the modern products: the old ones are hand-made, more individualistic, more beautiful, more artistic than our machine-made varieties.
Despite his strangeness and remoteness, Apicius is not dead by any means. We have but to inspect (as Gollmer has pointed out) the table of the Southern Europeans to find Apician traditions alive. In the Northern countries, too, are found his traces. To think that Apicius should have survived in the North of Europe, far removed from his native soil, is a rather audacious suggestion. But the keen observer can find him in Great Britain, Scandinavia and the Baltic provinces today. The conquerors and seafarers coming from the South have carried the pollen of gastronomic flowers far into the North where they adjusted themselves to soil and climate. Many a cook of the British isles, of Southern Sweden, Holstein, Denmark, Friesland, Pomerania still observes Apicius rules though he may not be aware of the fact.
We must realize that Apicius is only a book, a frail hand-made record and that, while the record itself might have been forgotten, its principles have become international property, long ago. Thus they live on. Like a living thing—a language, a custom, they themselves may have undergone changes, “improvements,” alterations, augmentation, corruption. But the character has been preserved; a couple of thousand years are, after all, but a paltry matter. Our own age is but the grandchild of antiquity. The words we utter, in their roots, are those of our grandfathers. And so do many dishes we eat today resemble those once enjoyed by Apicius and his friends.
Is it necessary to point the tenacity of the spirit of the Antique, reaching deep into the modern age? The latest Apicius edition in the original Latin is dated 1922!
The gastronomic life of Europe was under the complete rule of old Rome until the middle of the seventeenth century. Then came a sudden change for modernity, comparable to the rather abrupt change of languages from the fashionable Latin to the national idioms and vernacular, in England and Germany under the influence of literary giants like Luther, Chaucer, Shakespeare.
All medieval food literature of the continent and indeed the early cookery books of England prior to La Varenne (Le Cuisinier François, 1654) are deeply influenced by Apicius. The great change in eating, resulting in a new gastronomic order, attained its highest peak of perfection just prior to the French revolution. Temporarily suspended by this social upheaval, it continued to flourish until about the latter part of last century. The last decades of this new order is often referred to as the classical period of gastronomy, with France claiming the laurels for its development. “Classic” for reasons we do not know (Urbain Dubois, outstanding master of this period wrote “La Cuisine classique”) except that its precepts appeal as classical to our notion of eating. This may not correspond to the views of posterity, we had therefore better wait a century or two before proclaiming our system of cookery “classical.”
Disposing of that old “classic,” Apicius, as slowly as a conservative cooking world could afford to do, the present nations set out to cultivate a taste for things that a Roman would have pronounced unfit for a slave. Still, the world moves on. Conquest, discovery of foreign parts, the New World, contributed fine things to the modern table,—old forgotten foods were rediscovered—endless lists of materials and combinations, new daring, preposterous dishes that made the younger generation rejoice while old folks looked on gasping with dismay, despair, contempt.
Be it sufficient to remark that the older practitioners of our own days, educated in “classic” cuisine again are quite apprehensive of their traditions endangered by the spirit of revolt of the young against the old. Again and again we hear of a decline that has set in, and even by the best authorities alarmist notes are spread to the effect that “we have begun our journey back, step by step to our primitive tree and our primitive nuts” (Pennell. Does Spengler consider food in his “Decline of the West?”).