By the time we had reached the house, Cutler joined us, and we dined off of the doctor’s salmon, which was prepared in a way that I had never seen before; and as it was a touch above common, and smacked of the wigwam, I must get the receipt. The only way for a man who travels and wants to get something better than amusement out of it, is to notch down anything new, for every place has something to teach you in that line. “The silent pig is the best feeder,” but it remains a pig still, and hastens its death by growing too fat. Now the talking traveller feeds his mind as well as his body, and soon finds the less he pampers his appetite the clearer his head is and the better his spirits. The great thing is to live and learn, and learn to live.
Now I hate an epicure above all created things—worse than lawyers, doctors, politicians, and selfish fellows of all kinds. In a giniral way he is a miserable critter, for nothin’ is good enough for him or done right, and his appetite gives itself as many airs, and requires as much waitin’ on, as a crotchetty, fanciful, peevish old lady of fashion. If a man’s sensibility is all in his palate he can’t in course have much in his heart. Makin’ oneself miserable, fastin’ in sackcloth and ashes, ain’t a bit more foolish than makin’ oneself wretched in the midst of plenty, because the sea, the air, and the earth won’t give him the dainties he wants, and Providence won’t send the cook to dress them. To spend one’s life in eating, drinking, and sleeping, or like a bullock, in ruminating on food, reduces a man to the level of an ox or an ass. The stomach is the kitchen, and a very small one too, in a general way, and broiling, simmering, stewing, baking, and steaming, is a goin’ on there night and day. The atmosphere is none of the pleasantest neither, and if a man chooses to withdraw into himself and live there, why I don’t see what earthly good he is to society, unless he wants to wind up life by writin’ a cookery-book. I hate them—that’s just the tarm, and I like tarms that express what I mean.
I shall never forget when I was up to Michelimackinic. A thunderin’ long word, ain’t it? We call it Mackinic now for shortness. But perhaps you wouldn’t understand it spelt that way, no more than I did when I was to England that Brighton means Brighthelmeston, or Sissiter, Cirencester, for the English take such liberties with words, they can’t afford to let others do the same; so I give it to you both ways. Well, when I was there last, I dined with a village doctor, the greatest epicure I think I ever see in all my born days. He thought and talked of nothing else from morning till night but eatin’.
“Oh, Mr Slick,” said he, rubbin’ his hands, “this is the tallest country in the world to live in. What a variety of food there is here,—fish, flesh, and fowl,—wild, tame, and mongeral,—fruits, vegetables, and spongy plants!”
“What’s that?” sais I. I always do that when a fellow uses strange words. “We call a man who drops in accidently on purpose to dinner a sponging fellow, which means if you give him the liquid he will soak it up dry.”
“Spongy plants,” sais he, “means mushrooms and the like.”
“Ah!” said I, “mushrooms are nateral to a new soil like this. Upstarts we call them; they arise at night, and by next mornin’ their house is up and its white roof on.”
“Very good,” said he, but not lookin’ pleased at havin’ his oratory cut short that way. “Oh, Mr Slick!” said he, “there is a poor man here who richly deserves a pension both from your government and mine. He has done more to advance the culinary art than either Ude or Soyer.”
“Who on earth now were they?” said I. I knew well enough who they were, for when I was to England they used to brag greatly of Soyer at the Reform Club. For fear folks would call their association house after their politics, “the cheap and dirty” they built a very splash affair, and to set an example to the state in their own establishment of economy and reform in the public departments, hired Soyer, the best cook of the age, at a salary that would have pensioned half-a-dozen of the poor worn-out clerks in Downing Street. Vulgarity is always showy. It is a pretty word, “Reformers.” The common herd of them I don’t mind much, for rogues and fools always find employment for each other. But when I hear of a great reformer like some of the big bugs to England, that have been grinning through horse-collars of late years, like harlequins at fairs, for the amusement and instruction of the public, I must say I do expect to see a super-superior hypocrite.
Yes, I know who those great artists Soyer and Ude were, but I thought I’d draw him out. So I just asked who on earth they were, and he explained at great length, and mentioned the wonderful discoveries they had made in their divine art.