Part 1 (1/2)

NOT FOR BREAD ALONE.

WRITERS ON FOOD, WINE, AND.

THE ART OF EATING.

Edited by Daniel Halpern.

INTRODUCTION.

Food as Gesture There are ways to think about food and its preparation beyond its actual consumption: thus the essays in Not for Bread Alone: Writers on Food, Not for Bread Alone: Writers on Food, Wine, and the Art of Eating Wine, and the Art of Eating. My idea was to put together a collection that celebrated both the nouris.h.i.+ng (and necessary) act of eating, as well as that part that goes beyond merely eating to live-that is, the various social, anthropological, psychological, and philosophical gestures in the non-consuming aspects of food and rituals of eating. Eating our slice of daily bread, but not for the intake of that slice alone.

I entered the resplendent realm of cooking one very early Sunday morning in Seattle, circa 1952, at the age of six or seven, when I served eggs I had poached for an hour or two to my sleeping parents. I had watched my mother poach eggs and understood the technique perfectly: the poaching trays, the arrangement, the proper allotment of water.

However, the notion of time time was yet to enter my burgeoning culinary repertoire. Even then, or especially then, it was was yet to enter my burgeoning culinary repertoire. Even then, or especially then, it was gesture gesture that made an impression on me: the act of serving ”the prepared” to another. that made an impression on me: the act of serving ”the prepared” to another.

But to me cooking did not truly matter until I used food to do my bidding in the court of women. It was the late sixties and I was undergoing a post-p.u.b.erty period in Los Angeles, a Valley Boy living in a cheap but rustic apartment rented from Apache landlords in Laurel Canyon, just down the street from ”the log cabin,” where Frank Zappa and The Mothers of Invention posted rent and held extravagant parties, where I turned up many of the young women I nourished during that time. My small kitchen had a square table with a plastic checkerboard tablecloth, two wicker chairs, and a view of what I liked to describe solemnly as ”deep forest.” My intention was to give the view a kind of eerie mystery-to set my guests on edge, but to what end I now wonder?

I had rehea.r.s.ed a number of good-looking, if moderately accomplished dishes, but settled on two that seemed to win for themselves the necessary regard. The meals began with spicy corn fritters. I served these with a little creme fraiche and, 1.depending on the intensity of my feelings, a splash of red lumpfish caviar. I followed with a leg of lamb, shank half, injected with garlic splinters and rubbed with olive oil and rosemary. And throughout, plenty of inexpensive zinfandel from Napa, finis.h.i.+ng with a simple dessert that would not unduly prolong the evening.

A short time later, I found myself living in Tangier, Morocco, where I taught English and began cooking with a certain earnestness. I lived in the apartment below Paul Bowles, who served as a sort of post-graduate mentor to me. On our afternoon walks through the covered food markets of the Socco Grande, where we shopped for our dinners, we discussed music, literature, stateside gossip, and the mysterious Moroccan culture.

It was in Tangier that I was first seduced by the richness of the dark spices-c.u.min, clove, cinnamon, turmeric, paprika, cardamom-and one fresh herb in particular, kosbour kosbour (coriander), whose aroma still conjures up those intense, profuse, and honest markets, where nothing was masked or disguised. (coriander), whose aroma still conjures up those intense, profuse, and honest markets, where nothing was masked or disguised.

Paul and I often ate together and one of the dishes he most enjoyed was a chickpea dish I made with my two favorite ingredients: c.u.min and coriander. We ate this with our favorite tagine tagine, a stew of chicken rubbed with freshly ground c.u.min, prunes stewed with ginger, and onions sauteed with cinnamon and topped with toasted almonds.

When I left Tangier for Italy, to visit my mother and sisters in Florence, Paul suggested I stop in Venice to see Peggy Guggenheim.

As her guest at the Guggenheim palazzo/museo palazzo/museo, it came to pa.s.s that I had the opportunity to help her, using the few culinary skills I had managed to acquire. It was one of those languid, mid-summer days on the lagoons of Venice; we were looking at various obscure churches in the small back ca.n.a.ls in her chauffeured gondola, talking about her support of Djuna Barnes, one the expatriate stars of the twenties, and of Italian food. She mentioned she had invited a number of friends to dinner, but was going to have to cancel because her chef had taken ill suddenly. Naturally, in a gesture of foolish generosity, I asked if I might help out by preparing a modest meal for her friends.

She and I then put together a list and, via gondola, ”shopped.” This meant we went from hotel to hotel, where Peggy was friendly with the head chefs who happily supplied her.

2 An hour after the appointed hour, the guests began to arrive: local artists and politicians, exiled Brits and Americans, a banker, a beautiful Eastern European jeweller, and (Peggy had neglected to prepare me, a hopeful writer of verses), Ezra Pound. Later in the evening, after a quant.i.ty of Veneto red (an Amarone produced by Quintarelli), I reminded him that we had met once ten years earlier on a vaporetto vaporetto plying through a rainy December night from San Marco to Accademia. I had asked, innocently, if he might be the poet Ezra Pound and he had replied, ”Nope”, in perfect English, keeping things simple. He now said, quietly, ”Yes, but you see that wasn't me.” plying through a rainy December night from San Marco to Accademia. I had asked, innocently, if he might be the poet Ezra Pound and he had replied, ”Nope”, in perfect English, keeping things simple. He now said, quietly, ”Yes, but you see that wasn't me.”

I prepared the meal. Red and yellow peppers stuffed with a puree of tuna and various aromatics and followed by simple but enthusiastic fusilli fusilli tossed with sausage and three kinds of tomatoes. For a meat dish, I grilled pork tenderloin (the kind that in this country comes packaged in cellophane) marinated, a la Tangier, in a blizzard of brown spices. tossed with sausage and three kinds of tomatoes. For a meat dish, I grilled pork tenderloin (the kind that in this country comes packaged in cellophane) marinated, a la Tangier, in a blizzard of brown spices.

To close, I presented with immodesty a local thigh-food specialty known as tiramisu tiramisu.

Peggy told me the dinner was well-received. She knew by the invita-tions at meal's end-gesture for gesture. I left the next day after a lunch on her terrace overlooking the Grand Ca.n.a.l, sitting in the shadow of Brancusi's Bird in Flight Bird in Flight. As we ate (leftovers), Peggy told me the story of its painful acquisition from the artist himself. They had been ”seeing each other in a serious way,” as Peggy put it. When the moment eventually arrived for them to break up-which I gathered, from the stories she told me about her many close encounters with the most important men of the first half of this century, was something she got rather used to-she agreed to purchase his Bird in Flight Bird in Flight. At the appointed hour, she went to fetch the piece. Brancusi came out of his house carrying it in his arms. I asked Peggy if it weren't too heavy for him to carry alone and she replied, ”Oh no, he was an extremely strong man.” And she added, ”You know, he had tears in his eyes, it was very moving. But to this day I don't know whether those tears were for me because I left him or because he was losing his beloved Bird in Flight Bird in Flight.” I like to think, these many years later (and given this context), their final encounter was like a last supper, bird in hand-betrayed first by his love-in-flesh, who in turn robbed (albeit purchased purchased) him of his love-in-silver, both now in flight.

But this is not the gesture I wish to end with. Not with a gesture of parting, but one of arrival. As in introduction. It is reported that Genghis Not for Bread Alone / 3 Not for Bread Alone / 3 Kahn said the first thing one man gives another is his hand. I'm thinking of gatherings of friends and relations, and how the hand and cheek are certainly the first to be put forward. But we expect this gesture of formal greeting (among friends) to be quickly followed by the question that makes coming together such a welcome thing, that pregustatory interrogative we have come this distance to be offered by our good and thoughtful hosts: ”What can I get you?”

DANIEL HALPERN.

4

ROSE MACAULAY.

Eating and Drinking Here is a wonderful and delightful thing, that we should have furnished ourselves with orifices, with traps that open and shut, through which to push and pour alien objects that give us such pleasurable, such delicious sensations, and at the same time sustain us. A simple pleasure; a pleasure accessible, in normal circ.u.mstances and in varying degrees, to all, and that several times each day. An expensive pleasure, if calculated in the long run and over a lifetime; but count the cost of each mouthful as it comes, and it is (naturally) cheaper. You can, for instance, get a delicious plate of spaghetti and cheese, or fried mushrooms and onions, for very little; or practically anything else, except caviare, smoked salmon, the eggs of plovers, ostriches and humming-birds, and fauna and flora completely out of their appropriate seasons, which you will, of course, desire, but to indulge such desires is Gluttony, or Gule, against which the human race has always been warned. It was, of course, through Gule that our first parents fell. As the confessor of Gower's Amans told him, this vice of gluttony was in Paradise, most deplorably mistimed.

We shall never know what that fruit was, which so solicited the longing Eve, which smelt so savoury, which tasted so delightful as greedily she ignored it without restraint. The only fruit that has ever seemed to me to be worthy of the magnificently inebriating effects wrought by its consumption on both our parents is the mango. When I have eaten mangoes, I have felt like Eve.

Satiate at length, And hightn'd as with Wine, jocund and boon, Thus to her self she pleasingly began.

O sovran, vertuous, precious of all trees In Paradise, of operation blest....

And like both of them together: As with new Wine intoxicated both They swim in mirth, and fansie that they feel 5 Divinitie within them breeding wings Wherewith to scorn the Earth: but that false Fruit Farr other operation first displaid....

And so on. But, waking up the morning after mangoes, one does not feel such ill effects as was produced by that fallacious fruit when its exhilarating vapour bland had worn off. One feels, unless one has very grossly exceeded, satiate, happy and benign, turning sweet memories over on one's palate, desiring, for the present, no more of anything. The part of the soul (see Timaeus) which desires meats and drinks lies torpid and replete by its manger, somewhere between midriff and navel, for there the G.o.ds housed these desires, that wild animal chained up with man, which must be nourished if man is to exist, but must not be allowed to disturb the council chamber, the seat of reason. For the authors of our race, said Timaeus, were aware that we should be intemperate in eating and drinking, and take a good deal more than was necessary or proper, by reason of gluttony. Prescient and kindly authors of our race! What a happy companion they allotted to mankind in this wild animal, whom I should rather call a domestic and pampered pet. How sweet it is to please it, to indulge it with delicious nourishment, with superfluous t.i.t-bits and pretty little tiny kickshaws, with jellies, salads, dainty fowls and fishes, fruits and wines and pasties, fattened and en-truffled livers of geese, sturgeon's eggs from Russia, salmon from the burn, omelettes and souffles from the kitchen. I have always thought the Glutton in Piers Plowman a coa.r.s.e and unresourceful fellow, who, on his way to church and shrift, was beguiled merely by a breweress's offer of ale. (How ungenteel Mr. H. W. Fowler must have thought her, and all of her century and many later centuries, for using this word, which he so condemns, for beer!) The Glutton asked, had she also any hot spices? and she a.s.sured him that she had pepper, paeony seeds, garlic, and fennel. And with this simple and unpleasing fare, Glutton was content, and made merry globbing it until night. Glutton was no gourmet, no Lucullus. Nothing recked he of rare and dainty dishes; nothing out of the ordinary entered his imagination. Not for him the spitted lark, the artful sauce, the delicate salad of chopped herbs and frogs.

There are some sad facts concerning eating and drinking. One is that the best foods are unwholesome: an arrangement doubtless made by the authors of our being in order to circ.u.mvent gluttony. It is a melancholy discovery made early by infants, and repeatedly by adults. We all have to make it in turn, only excepting the ostrich. No doubt the Lady 6 in Comus made it later, after she had more fully grown up, though as an adolescent we find her remarking, sententiously and erroneously, to the enticing sorcerer, And that which is not good is not delicious To a well-govern'd and wise appet.i.te.

Even the untutored savage knows better than this. They of Dominica, said Antonio de Herrera, that elegant Castilian chronicler of Spanish travels in the West Indies, they of Dominica did eat, one day, a Friar, but he proved unwholesome, and all who partook were ill, and some died, and therefore they of Dominica have left eating human flesh. This was a triumph for Friars, which must be envied by many of the animal world.

Another sad comestive truth is that the best foods are the products of infinite and wearying trouble. The trouble need not be taken by the consumer, but someone, ever since the Fall, has had to take it. Even raw fruit was, to the exiles from Eden, hard to come by.

Their meanest simple cheer (says Sylvester) Our wretched parents bought full hard and deer.

To get a Plum, sometimes poor Adam rushes With thousand wounds among a thousand bushes.

If they desire a Medler for their food, They must go seek it through a fearfull wood; Or a brown Mulberry, then the ragged Bramble With thousand scratches doth their skin bescramble.

And, did they desire anything better, they could not have it at all. Slowly they learned, we suppose, about planting seeds and reaping ears and grinding flour and welding it into that heavy substance we call bread.

Rather more quickly, perhaps, about the merits of dead animals as food, but how long it took them to appreciate the niceties of cooking these, we know not. That is to say, no doubt the students of the history of man know, but I do not.

Once learnt, this business of cooking was to prove an ever growing burden. It scarcely bears thinking about, the time and labour that man and womankind has devoted to the preparation of dishes that are to melt and vanish in a moment like smoke or a dream, like a shadow, and as a post that hastes by, and the air closes behind them, and afterwards no 7 sign where they went is to be found.

Still, one must keep one's head, and remember that some people voluntarily undertake these immense and ephemeral labours, for pay or for a n.o.ble love of art even at its most perishable, or from not being able to think of a way of avoiding it. All honour to these slaves of baked-meats: let them by all means apply themselves to their labours; so long as those who do not desire to prepare food are not compelled to do so.

If you are of these, and can get no one to cook for you in your home, you should eat mainly such objects as are sold in a form ready for the mouth, such as cheese, bread, b.u.t.ter, fruit, sweets, dough-nuts, macar-oons, meringues, and everything that comes (if you have a tin-opener) out of tins. If you can endure to apply a very little and rudimentary trouble to the matter yourself, eggs are soon made ready, even by the foolish; bacon also. I would not advise you to attempt real meat; this should only be cooked by others; so should potatoes.

But, whatever has been prepared for you, and whoever has had the ill chance to prepare it, there comes the exquisite moment when you push or pour it into the mouth. What bliss, to feel it rotating about the palate, being chewed (if this is required) by the teeth, slipping, in chewed state, down the throat, down the gullet, down the body to the manger, there to find its temporary home. Or, if it is liquid, to feel it gurgling and gus.h.i.+ng, like the flood of life, quite down the throat with silver sound, running sweet ichor through the veins. Red wine, golden wine, pink wine, ginger beer (with gin or without), the juice of grapefruit or orange, tea, coffee, chocolate, iced soda from the fountain, even egg nogg-how merrily and like to brooks they run!

My subject runs away with me: I could, had I but time and s.p.a.ce, discourse on it for ever. I could mention the great, the magnificent gourmets of history; I could dwell on the pleasures experienced by Lucullus, Heliogobalus, those Roman Emperors, those English mon-archs, those Aldermen, who, having dined brilliantly and come to sad satiety, had their slaves tickle them with feathers behind the ears until this caused them to retire in haste from the table, to which they presently returned emptied and ready to work through the menu again. These are the world's great gluttons; to them eating and drinking was a high art.

But they are beaten by one Nicholas Wood, a yeoman of Kent, who, in the reign of James I, ”did eat with ease a whole sheep of 16 s.h.i.+llings price, and that raw, at one meal; another time he eat 13 dozen of pigeons.

At Sir William Sedley's he eat as much as would have sufficed 30 men; at the Lord Wotton's in Kent, he eat at one meal 84 8 rabbits, which number would have sufficed 168 men, allowing to each half a rabbit. He suddenly devoured 18 yards of black pudding, London measure, and having once eat 60 lbs. weight of cherries, he said, they were but wastemeat. He made an end of a whole hog at once, and after it swallowed three pecks of damsons; this was after breakfast, for he said he had eat one pottle of milk, one pottle of pottage, with bread, b.u.t.ter, and cheese, before. He eat in my presence, saith Taylor, the water poet, six penny wheaten loaves, three sixpenny veal pies, one pound of sweet b.u.t.ter, one good dish of thornback, and a sliver of a peck household loaf, an inch thick, and all this within the s.p.a.ce of an hour: the house yielded no more, so he went away unsatisfied.... He spent all his estate to provide for his belly; and though a landed man, and a true labourer, he died very poor in 1630.”

And this is the third snag about good eating and drinking.

Nevertheless, expensive, troublesome, and unwholesome though it be, it is a pleasure by no means to be forgone.