Even later, in one of the (alas! not so many) good books on gastronomy, “Kettner’s Book of the Table,” London, 1877, the excellent author dismisses Roman cookery with a few lines of “warning.” Kettner, admirer of Sala, evidently was still under the baneful influence. Twenty years later, Danneil, colleague of Kettner’s, joined the chorus of “irreverent critics.” They all based their judgment on mere idle conversation, resulting from disappointments in ill-fated attempts to cook in the Apician style. Even the best experts, it appears, fall victims to the mysterious spell surrounding, protecting things of sacred antiquity, hovering like an avenging angel over them, to ward off all “irreverent critics” and curious intruders.
The Proof of the Pudding
After all, the proof of the pudding is in the eating. This homely solid wisdom is literally true of our good old Apicius. We have tested many of his precepts, and have found them practical, good, even delightful. A few, we will say, are of the rarest beauty and of consummate perfection in the realm of gastronomy, while some others again are totally unintelligible for reasons sufficiently explained. Always remembering Humelbergius, we have “laid off” of these torsos, recommending them to some more competent commentator. Many of the ancient formula tried have our unqualified gastronomic approval.
If our work has not differed from that of our predecessors, if it shows the same human frailties and foibles, we have at least one mark of distinction among the editors in that we have subjected the original to severe practical tests as much as this is possible with our modern food materials. We experienced difficulty in securing certain spices long out of use. Nevertheless, the experience of actually sampling Apician dishes and the sensation of dining in the manners of the Cæsars are worth the trouble we took with Apicius. This is a feeling of partaking of an entirely new dish, met with both expectancy and with suspicion, accentuated by the hallowed traditions surrounding it which has rewarded us for the time and expense devoted to the subject. Ever since we have often dined in the classical fashion of the ancients who, after all, were but “folks” like ourselves.
If you care not for the carnal pleasures in Apician gastronomy—for gulam,—if you don’t give a fig for philology, there still is something healthy, something infinitely soothing and comforting—“educational”—in the perusal of the old book and in similar records.
When we see Apicius, the famous “epicure” descending to the very level of a common food “fakir,” giving directions for making Liburnian oil that has never seen that country....
When we note, with a gentle shudder, that the grafters of Naples, defying even the mighty Augustus, leveled the “White Earth Hill” near Puteoli because an admixture of plaster paris is exceedingly profitable to the milling profession....
When Apicius—celebrated glutton—resorts to the comparatively harmless “stunt” of keeping fresh vegetables green by boiling them in a copper kettle with soda....
When we behold hordes of ancient legislators, posing as dervishes of moderation, secretly and openly breaking the prohibition laws of their own making....
When we turn away from such familiar sights and, in a more jovial mood, heartily laugh at the jokes of that former mill slave, Plautus (who could not pay his bills) and when we wonder why his wise cracks sound so familiar we remember that we have heard their modern versions only yesterday at the Tivoli on State Street....