But the pertinacity with which Charles V. of Spain gratified his appetite, under all circumstances, rivalled even that of Frederick the Great. It is said that before rising in the morning, potted capon was usually served to him, prepared with sugar, milk, and spices, after partaking of which he would turn to sleep again. At noon he dined on a variety of dishes, soon after vespers he partook of another meal, and later in the evening he supped heartily on anchovies, or some other savoury food; and after his abdication the same propensity accompanied him to his monastic retreat at Yuste. Fish of every kind was his taste—eels, frogs, and oysters occupying an important place in the royal bill of fare. Potted fish, especially anchovies, found special favour with him, and on an eel pasty he particularly doted. Soles, lampreys, and flounders were sent in large quantities from Seville and Portugal. The nobles in the neighbourhood, who knew his weakness for the pleasures of the table, constantly sent him presents of game and vegetables, and the churchmen were equally attentive. The Prior of our Lady of Guadalupe, the Archbishop of Saragossa, the Bishop of Plasencia, and the Archbishop of Toledo were liberal in their contributions. To wash down this extraordinary quantity of food, Charles drank in proportion. And Sastrow, who saw Charles V. at the Diet of Augsburg in the year 1546, states in his “Pomeranian Chronicle”: “His dinner was served by young princes and counts, four courses always of six dishes each. The dishes being placed before him, the covers were removed, and he shook his head at those of which he did not wish to partake; but if he fancied one he nodded, and drew it towards him. Goodly pasties, venison, and savoury-made dishes were sometimes taken away, while he kept back a sucking pig, calf’s head, or such like. He had no one to carve for him, nor did he use the knife much himself; but he first cut his bread in small pieces, then stuck his knife into the joint where he fancied a piece, scooped it out, or otherwise tore it with his fingers.”[28]

He was just turned thirty when his confessor, Cardinal Loaysa, wrote to him to urge him to leave off eating fish, which always disagreed with him, and he added, “I am told that your chest can often be heard farther off than your tongue.” Subsequent letters from the same honest counsellor contain many similar warnings, one of which closes with these words: “If your Majesty will give the reins to your appetite, I tell you that your conscience and bodily health must go down-hill.”

But these gastronomic excesses brought on intense suffering, nor did experience teach him moderation. With few teeth and impaired digestion, he “continued to eat from as many dishes, and to empty as many flasks, as in the days when his powers were great, his health flourishing, and his exercise regular. His medical men were his abettors, for they allowed him to satisfy every appetite, without attempting to restrain him.”[29] And it was by a strange irony of fate that when Death began to close his jaws upon the Emperor, there were those in his vicinity “who were suffering from a worse vertigo than that which springs from old age and an abused stomach—the vertigo of famine. In their sufferings the hungry peasantry forgot their respect for him. They stripped his kitchen-garden, plundered his orchards, impounded his cattle, drew the fish from his ponds, and waylaid and rifled his mules which traversed the hunger-district laden with dainties.”

Peter the Great was another very decided epicure, and one of his favourite dinners was the following: A soup with four cabbages in it, gruel, pig, with sour cream for sauce, cold roast meat, with pickled cucumbers or salad, lemons and lamprey, salt meat, ham, and Limburg cheese. And, it may be added, there is preserved in Ballard’s Collection in the Bodleian Library the bill of fare of a breakfast and dinner, which the Czar and his party—twenty-one in number—partook of at Godalming on his return from a visit to Portsmouth, consisting at breakfast of half a sheep, a quarter of lamb, ten pullets, twelve chickens, seven dozen of eggs, and salad in proportion, three quarts of brandy and six quarts of mulled wine; at dinner, five ribs of beef, weight three stone; one sheep, fifty-six pounds; three quarters of lamb, a shoulder and loin of veal boiled, eight pullets, eight rabbits; two dozen and a half of sack, and one dozen of claret. But, as it has been remarked, some of our own countrymen have almost rivalled the Czar and his companions. At Godalming—probably at the same inn that Peter the Great patronised—two nobles, dukes, are reported to have stopped, as they intended, for a few minutes, while sitting in their carriages, to eat a mutton chop, which they found so good that they devoured eighteen chops, and drank five bottles of claret.

Catherine II. of Russia did not care for elaborate cookery: her favourite dish was boiled beef with salted cucumber; her drink, water with gooseberry syrup. Among her cooks there was one who cooked abominably; but, when this was pointed out to her, “she refused to dismiss the man, as he had been in her service too long.” She merely inquired when his turn came, and on sitting down to table would say, “Ladies and gentlemen, we must exercise our patience, we have a week’s fast before us.”[30]

An enthusiastic epicure was the Polish King, Stanislaus Leczinski, who invented many a new dish, and succeeded in vastly improving the style of cooking, astonishing the Lorrainers, amongst other things, by having served up at his table dishes of meat with fruits, both of which had been cooked together. Geese which had been plucked when alive, then whipped to death, and marinées were set down in his bill of fare as foreign birds; and after a similar fashion turkeys were metamorphosed into coqs de bruyères, and were served at table buried under the strong-smelling herbs of Lorraine. One year was remarkable for the entire failure of the fruit crop, but Stanislaus would not be deprived of his dessert; for, turning his attention to confectionery, he made delicate compositions of sugared vegetables, especially turnips, and even now the Lorrainers dip their babas—cakes in which there are raisins de caisse and saffron—into their wine, and think of the royal inventor.

The story goes that on one occasion there appeared on the table of Stanislaus a large pie, and the guests were admiring its dimensions, beauty, and odour, when all of a sudden the almond cakes which covered it flew in all directions, and from beneath them leaped up Bébé, the ex-king’s favourite dwarf, armed like a knight. The whole table was in a roar of laughter, with the exception of one noble guest, whose nose the dwarf had pricked with his lance, and who vowed vengeance for the two or three drops of blood which fell. But, it is said, Stanislaus loved his dwarf so well that he provided for his security by placing him under the care of two soldiers of his bodyguard.

Then again, Ferdinand I. of Naples was an epicure in fruit, and was wont to pride himself on the excellent varieties which were produced in his royal gardens, one of which was designated “Paradise.” Many years ago, too, Prince Metternich first tasted rhubarb in this country, and was so delighted with it that he had some plants sent to his Austrian garden. On the occasion of a large party in the following year, the Prince ordered rhubarb to be served up dressed as it was in this country. But the cook knew nothing of the English mode of cooking it, and selecting the large leaves served them up as spinach. As might be expected, the guests made wry faces at this unsavoury dish, and henceforth rhubarb was discarded from the Prince’s table. And, it may remembered, Ludovico, the Duke of Milan, carried this kind of epicurean luxury so far that he actually had a travelling fruit garden, the trees being brought to his table that he might gratify his taste by gathering the fruit with his own hands. Charles XII. of Sweden was often satisfied with simple bread and butter, and Joseph II. of Austria with omelets and hard bread.