The Book

“About the time of Tiberius [42 B.C.-37 A.D.] there lived a man, named Apicius; very rich and luxurious, for whom several kinds of cheesecake called Apician, are named [not found in our present A.]. He spent myriads of drachmas on his belly, living chiefly at Minturnæ, a city of Campania, eating very expensive crawfish, which are found in that place superior in size to those of Smyrna, or even to the crabs of Alexandria. Hearing, too, that they were very large in Africa, he sailed thither, without waiting a single day, and suffered exceedingly on his voyage. But when he came near the coast, before he disembarked (for his arrival made a great stir among the Africans) the fishermen came alongside in their boats and brought him some very fine crawfish; and he, when he saw them, asked if they had any finer; and when they said that there were none finer than those which they had brought, he, recollecting those at Minturnæ ordered the master of the ship to sail back the same way into Italy, without going near the land....“When the emperor Trajan [A.D. 52 or 53-117] was in Parthia [a country in Asia, part of Persia?] at a distance of many days from the sea, Apicius sent him fresh oysters, which he had kept so by a clever contrivance of his own; real oysters....”

“When the emperor Trajan [A.D. 52 or 53-117] was in Parthia [a country in Asia, part of Persia?] at a distance of many days from the sea, Apicius sent him fresh oysters, which he had kept so by a clever contrivance of his own; real oysters....”

(The instructions given in our Apicius book, Recipe14, for the keeping ofoysters would hardly guarantee their safe arrival on such a journey as described above.)

Athenaeus tells us further that many of the Apician recipes were famous and that many dishes were named after him. This confirms the theory that Apicius was not the author of the present book but that the book was dedicated to him by an unknown author or compiler. Athenaeus also mentions one Apion who wrote a book on luxurious living. Whether this man is identical with the author or patron of our book is problematic. Torinus, in hisepistola dedicatoriato the 1541 edition expresses the same doubt.

Marcus Gabius (or Gavius) Apicius lived during Rome’s most interesting epoch, when the empire had reached its highest point, when the seeds of decline, not yet apparent, were in the ground, when in the quiet villages of that far-off province, Palestine, the Saviour’s doctrines fascinated humble audiences—teachings that later reaching the very heart of the world’s mistress were destined to tarnish the splendor of that autocrat.

According to the mention by various writers, this man, M. Gabius Apicius, was one of the many ancient gastronomers who took the subject of food seriously. Assuming a scientific attitude towards eating and food they were criticised for paying too much attention to their table. This was considered a superfluous and indeed wicked luxury when frugality was a virtue. These men who knew by intuition the importance of knowing something about nutrition are only now being vindicated by the findings of modern science.

M. Gabius Apicius, this most famous of the celebrated and much maligned bon-vivants, quite naturally took great interest in the preparation of food. He is said to have originated many dishes himself; he collected much material on the subject and he endowed a school for the teaching of cookery and for the promotion of culinary ideas. This very statement by his critics places him high in our esteem, as it shows him up as a scientist and educator. He spent his vast fortune for food, as the stories go, and when he had only a quarter million dollars left (a paltry sum today but a considerable one in those days when gold was scarce and monetary standards in a worse muddle than today) Apicius took his own life, fearing that he might have to starve to death some day.

This story seems absurd on the face of it, yet Seneca and Martial tell it (both with different tendencies) and Suidas, Albino and other writers repeat it without critical analysis. These writers who are unreliable in culinary matters anyway, claim that Apicius spent one hundred millionsestertiion his appetite—in gulam. Finally when the hour of accounting came he found that there were only ten millionsestertiileft, so he concluded that life was not worth living if his gastronomic ideas could no longer be carried out in the accustomed and approved style, and he took poison at a banquet especially arranged for the occasion.

In the light of modern experience with psychology, with economics, depressions, journalism, we focus on this and similar stories, and we find them thoroughly unreliable. We cannot believe this one. It is too melodramatic, toomoralistic perhaps to suit our modern taste. The underlying causes for the conduct, life and end of Apicius have not been told. Of course, we have to accept the facts as reported. If only a Petronius had written that story! What a story it might have been! But there is only one Petronius in antiquity. His Trimalchio, former slave, successful profiteer and food speculator, braggard and drunkard, wife-beater—an upstart who arranged extravagant banquets merely to show off, who, by the way, also arranged for his funeral at his banquet (Apician fashion and, indeed, Petronian fashion! for Petronius died in the same manner) and who peacefully “passed out” soundly intoxicated—this man is a figure true to life as it was then, as it is now and as it probably will continue to be. Last but not least: Mrs. Trimalchio, the resolute lady who helped him “make his pile”—these are human characters much more real, much more trustworthy than anything and everything else ever depicted by any ancient pen; they bring out so graphically the modernity of antiquity. Without Petronius and Pompeii the antique world would forever remain at an inexplicably remote distance to our modern conception of life. With him, and with the dead city, the riddles of antiquity are cleared up.

Many dishes listed in Apicius are named for various celebrities who flourished at a later date than the second Apicius. It is noteworthy, however, that neither such close contemporaries as Heliogabalus and Nero, notorious gluttons, nor Petronius, the arbiter of fashion of the period, are among the persons thus honored. Vitellius, a later glutton, is well represented in the book. It is fair to assume, then, that the author or collector of our present Apicius lived long after the second Apicius, or, at least, that the book was augmented by persons posterior to M. Gabius A. The book in its present state was probably completed about the latter part of the third century. It is almost certain that many recipes were added to a much earlier edition.

We may as well add another to the many speculations by saying that it is quite probable for our book to originate in a number of Greek manuals or monographs on specialized subjects or departments of cookery. Such special treatises are mentioned by Athenaeus (cf. Humelbergius, quoted by Lister). The titles of each chapter (or book) are in Greek, the text is full of Greek terminology. While classification under the respective titles is not strictly adhered to at all times, it is significant that certain subjects, that of fish cookery, for instance, appear twice in the book, the same subject showing treatment by widely different hands. Still more significant is the absence in our book of such important departments as desserts—dulcia—confections in which the ancients were experts. Bakery, too, even the plainest kind, is conspicuously absent in the Apician books. The latter two trades being particularly well developed, were departmentalized to an astonishing degree in ancient Greece and Rome. Theseindispensable books are simply wanting in our book if it be but a collection of Greek monographs. Roman culture and refinement of living, commencing about 200-250 years before our era was under the complete rule of Hellas. Greek influence included everybody from philosophers, artists, architects, actors, law-makers to cooks.

“The conquered thus conquered the conquerors.”

Humelbergius makes a significant reference to the origin of Apicius. We confess, we have not checked up this worthy editor nor his successor, Dr. Lister, whom he quotes in the preface as to the origin of our book. With reference to Plato’s work, Humelbergius says:

“Que res tota spectat medicinæ partem, quæ diaitetike appelatur, et victu medetur: at in hac tes diaitetikes parte totus est Apicius noster.”

In our opinion, unfounded of course by positive proof, the Apicius book is somewhat of a gastronomic bible, consisting of ten different books by several authors, originating in Greece and taken over by the Romans along with the rest of Greek culture as spoils of war. These books, or chapters, or fragments thereof, must have been in vogue long before they were collected and assembled in the present form. Editions, or copies of the same must have been numerous, either singly or collectively, at the beginning of our era. As a matter of fact, the Excerpts by Vinidarius, found in thecodex Salmasianusprove this theory and give rise to the assumption that the Apicius book was a standard work for cookery that existed at one time or other in a far more copious volume and that the present Apicius is but a fragment of a formerly vaster and more complete collection of culinary and medical formulæ.

Thus a fragmentary Apicius has been handed down to us in manuscript form through the centuries, through the revolutionary era of Christian ascendancy, through the dark ages down to the Renaissance. Unknown agencies, mostly medical and monastic, stout custodians of antique learning, reverent lovers of good cheer have preserved it for us until printing made possible the book’s wide distribution among the scholars. Just prior to Gutenberg’s epoch-making printing press there was a spurt of interest in our book in Italy, as attested to by a dozen of manuscripts, copied in the fourteenth and the fifteenth centuries.

Apicius may justly be called the world’s oldest cookery book; the very old Sanscrit book, Vasavarayeyam, unknown to us except by name, is said to be a tract on vegetarian cookery.

The men who have preserved this work for future generations, who have made it accessible to the public (as was Lister’s intention) have performed a service to civilization that is not to be underestimated. They have done better than the average archaeologist with one or another find to his credit. The Apicius book is a living thing, capable of creating happiness. Some gastronomic writers have pointed out that the man who discovers a new dish does more for humanity than the man who discovers a new star, because the discovery of a new dish affects the happiness of mankind more pleasantly than the addition of a newplanet to an already overcrowded chart of the universe. Viewing Apicius from such a materialistic point of view he should become very popular in this age of ours so keen for utilities of every sort.

The name of another personality is introduced in connection with the book, namely that of Cœlius or Cælius. This name is mentioned in the title of the first undated edition (ca. 1483-6) as Celius. Torinus, 1541, places “Cælius” before “Apicius”; Humelbergius, 1542, places “Cœlius” after A. Lister approves of this, berating Torinus for his willful methods of editing the book: “En hominem in conjecturis sane audacissimus!” If any of them were correct about “Cœlius,” Torinus would be the man. (Cf. Schanz, Röm. Lit. Gesch., Müller’s Handbuch d. klass. Altertums-Wissenschaft, V III, 112, p. 506.) However, there is noraison d’êtrefor Cœlius.

His presence and the unreality thereof has been cleared up by Vollmer, as will be duly shown. The squabble of the medieval savants has also given rise to the story that Apicius is but a joke perpetrated upon the world by a medieval savant. This will be refuted also later on. Our book is a genuine Roman. Medieval savants have made plenty of Roman “fakes,” for sundry reasons. A most ingenious hoax was the “completion” of the Petronius fragment by a scholar able to hoodwink his learned contemporaries by an exhibition of Petronian literary style and a fertile imagination. Ever so many other “fakers” were shown up in due time. When this version of Petronius was pronounced genuine by the scientific world, the perpetrator of the “joke” confessed, enjoying a good laugh at the expense of his colleagues. But we shall presently understand how such a “joke” with Apicius would be impossible. Meanwhile, we crave the indulgence of the modern reader with our mention of Cœlius. We desire to do full justice to the ancient work and complete the presentation of its history. The controversies that have raged over it make this course necessary.

Our predecessors have not had the benefit of modern communication, and, therefore, could not know all that is to be known on the subject. We sympathize with Lister yet do not condemn Torinus. If Torinus ever dared making important changes in the old text, they are easily ascertained by collation with other texts. This we have endeavored to do. Explaining the discrepancies, it will be noted that we have not given a full vote of confidence to Lister.

Why should the mysterious Cœlius or Cælius, if such an author or compiler of a tome on cookery existed affix the name of “Apicius” to it? The reason would be commercial gain, prestige accruing from the name of that cookery celebrity. Such business sense would not be extraordinary. Modern cooks pursue the same method. Witness the innumerable à la soandsos. Babies, apartment houses, streets, cities, parks, dogs, race horses, soap, cheese, herring, cigars, hair restorers are thus named today. “Apicius” on the front page of any ancient cookery book would be perfectly consistent with the ancient spirit of advertising. It has beenstated, too, that Cœlius had more than one collaborator. Neither can this be proven.

The copyists have made many changes throughout the original text. Misspelling of terms, ignorance of cookery have done much to obscure the meaning. The scribes of the middle ages had much difficulty in this respect since medieval Latin is different from Apician language.

The very language of the original is proof for its authenticity. The desire of Torinus to interpret to his medieval readers the ancient text is pardonable. How much or how little he succeeded is attested to by some of his contemporary readers, former owners of our copies. Scholars plainly confess inability to decipher Apicius by groans inscribed on the fly leaves and title pages in Latin, French and other languages. One French scholar of the 16th century, apparently “kidded” for studying an undecipherable cook book, stoically inscribes the title page of our Lyon, 1541, copy with: “This amuses me. Why make fun of me?” This sort of message, reaching us out of the dim past of bygone centuries is among the most touching reading we have done, and has urged us on with the good though laborious and unprofitable work.

Notwithstanding its drawbacks, our book is a classic both as to form and contents. It has served as a prototype of most ancient and modern books. Its influence is felt to the present day.

The book has often been cited by old writers as proof of the debaucheries and the gluttony of ancient Rome. Nothing could be further from the truth because these writers failed to understand the book.

The Apicius book reflects the true condition (partly so, because it is incomplete) of the kitchen prevailing at the beginning of our era when the mistress of the Old World was in her full regalia, when her ample body had not yet succumbed to that fatty degeneration of the interior so fatal to ever so many individuals, families, cities and nations.

We repeat, our Apicius covers Rome’s healthy epoch; hence the importance of the book. The voluptuous concoctions, the fabulous dishes, the proverbial excesses that have made decent people shudder with disgust throughout the ages are not known to Apicius. If they ever existed at all in their traditional ugliness they made their appearance after Apicius’ time. We recall, Petronius, describing some of these “stunts” is a contemporary of Nero (whom he satirizes as “Trimalchio”). So is Seneca, noble soul, another victim of Cæsarean insanity; he, too, describes Imperial excesses. These extremely few foolish creations are really at the bottom of the cause for this misunderstanding of true Roman life. Such stupidity has allowed the joy of life which, as Epikuros and Platina believe, may be indulged in with perfect virtue and honesty to become a byword among all good people who are not gastronomers either by birth, by choice or by training.

With due justice to the Roman people may we be permitted to say that proverbial excesses were exceedingly rare occurrences. The follies and the vicesof 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. Ourown 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?”).

It matters not whether we share this pessimism, nor what we may have to sayproorconthis question of “progress” or “retrogression” in eating (or in anything else for that matter). In fact we are not concerned with the question here more than to give it passing attention.

If “classic” cookery is dying nowadays, if it cannot reassert itself that would be a loss to mankind. But this classic cookery system has so far only been thesole and exclusive privilege of a dying aristocracy. It seems quite in order that it should go under in the greatGötterdämmerungthat commenced with the German peasants wars of the sixteenth century, flaring up (as the second act) in the French revolution late in the eighteenth century, the Act III of which drama has been experienced in our own days.

The common people as yet have never had an active part in the enjoyment of the classic art of eating. So far, they always provided the wherewithal, and looked on, holding the bag. Modern hotels, because of their commercial character, have done little to perpetuate it. They merely have commercialized the art. Beyond exercising ordinary salesmanship, ourmaîtres d’hôtelhave not educated ournouveaux richesin the mysteries and delights of gastronomy. Hotelmen are not supposed to be educators, they merely cater to a demand. And our new aristocracy has been too busy with limousines, golf, divorces and electricity to bemourn the decline of classic cookery.

Most people “get by” without the benefit of classic cookery, subsisting on a medley of edibles, tenaciously clinging to mother’s traditions, to things “as she used to make them,” and mother’s methods still savor of Apicius. Surely, this is no sign of retrogression but of tenacity.

The only fundamental difference between Roman dining and that of our own times may be found in these two indisputable facts—

(First) Devoid of the science of agriculture, without any advanced mechanical means, food was not raised in a very systematic way; if it happened to be abundant, Roma lacked storage and transportation facilities to make good use of it. There never were any food supplies on any large, extensive and scientific scale, hence raw materials, the wherewithal of a “classic” meal, were expensive.

(Second) Skilled labor, so vital for the success of any good dinner, so imperative for the rational preparation of food was cheap to those who held slaves.

Hence, the culinary conditions of ancient Rome were exactly the opposite of today’s state of affairs. Then, good food was expensive while good labor was cheap. Now, good food is cheap while skilled labor is at a premium. Somehow, good, intelligent “labor” is reluctant to devote itself to food. That is another story. The chances for a good dinner seemed to be in favor of the Romans—but only for a favored few. Those of us, although unable to command a staff of experts, but able to prepare their own meals rationally and serve them well are indeed fortunate. With a few dimes they may dine in royal fashion. If our much maligned age has achieved anything at all it has at least enabled the working “slave” of the “masses” to dine in a manner that even princes could hardly match in former days, a manner indeed that the princes of our own time could not improve upon. The fly in the ointment is that most modern people do not know how to handle and to appreciate food. This condition, however, may be remedied by instruction and education.

Slowly, the modern masses are learning to emulate their erstwhile masters in the art of eating. They have the advantages of the great improvements in provisioning as compared with former days, thanks chiefly to the great lines ofcommunication established by modern commerce, thanks to scientific agriculture and to the spirit of commercial enterprise and its resulting prosperity.

There are two “Ifs” in the path to humanity’s salvation, at least, that of its table. If the commercialization of cookery, i.e., the wholesale production of ready-made foods for the table does not completely enthrall the housewife and if we can succeed to educate the masses to make rational, craftsmanlike use of our wonderful stores of edibles, employing or modifying to this end the rules of classic cookery, there really should be no need for any serious talk about our journey back to the primitive nuts. Even Spengler might be wrong then. Adequate distribution of our foods and rational use thereof seem to be one of the greatest problems today.

Age-old mysteries surrounding our book have not yet been cleared up. Medieval savants have squabbled in vain. Mrs. Pennell’s worries and the fears of the learned Englishmen that Apicius might be a hoax have proven groundless. Still, the mystery of this remarkable book is as perplexing as ever. The authorship will perhaps never be established. But let us forever dispel any doubt about its authenticity.

Modern writers have never doubted the genuineness. To name but a few who believe in Apicius: Thudichum, Vollmer, Brandt, Vicaire, Rumohr, Schuch, Habs, Gollmer.

What matters the identity of the author? Who wrote the Iliad, the Odyssey, the Nibelungen-Lied? Let us be thankful for possessing them!

Apicius is a genuine document of Roman imperial days. There can be no doubt of that!

The unquestionable age of the earliest known manuscripts alone suffices to prove this.

The philologist gives his testimony, too. A medieval scholar could never have manufactured Apicius, imitating his strikingly original terminology. “Faking” a technical treatise requires an intimate knowledge of technical terms and familiarity with the ramifications of an intricate trade. We recommend a comparison of Platina’s text with Apicius: the difference of ancient and medieval Latin is convincing. Striking examples of this kind have been especially noted in our dictionary of technical terms.

H. C. Coote, in his commentary on Apicius (cit. Apiciana) in speaking of pan gravy, remarks:

“Apicius calls this by the singular phrase ofjus de suo sibi! and sometimes though far less frequently,succus suus. This phrase is curious enough in itself to deserve illustration. It is true old fashioned Plautian Latinity, and if other proof were wanting would of itself demonstrate the genuineness of the Apician text.”

This scholar goes on quoting from Plautus,Captivi, Act I, sc. 2, vv. 12, 13;Amphitruo, Act I, sc. q.v. 116 andibid.v. 174; and fromAsinaria, Act IV, sc. 2, vv. 16 and 17 to prove this, and he further says:

“The phrase is a rare remnant of the old familiar language of Rome, such as slaves talked so long, that their masters ultimately adopted it—a language of which Plautus gives us glimpses and which thegraffitimay perhaps help to restore. When Varius was emperor, this phrase of the kitchen was as rife as when Plautus wrote—a proof that occasionally slang has been long lived.”

Coote is a very able commentator. He has translated in the article quoted a number of Apician formulæ; and betrays an unusual culinary knowledge.

Modern means of communication and photography have enabled scientists in widely different parts to study our book from all angles, to scrutinize the earliest records, the Vatican and the New York manuscripts and the codex Salmasianus in Paris.

Friedrich Vollmer, of Munich, in hisStudien(cit. Apiciana) has treated the manuscripts exhaustively, carrying to completion the research begun by Schuch, Traube, Ihm, Studemund, Giarratano and others with Brandt, his pupil, carrying on the work of Vollmer. More modern scientists deeply interested in the origin of our book! None doubting its genuineness.

Vollmer is of the opinion that there reposed in the monastery of Fulda, Germany, anArchetypuswhich in the ninth century was copied twice: once in a Turonian hand—the manuscript now kept in the Vatican—the other copy written partly in insular, partly in Carolingian minuscle—the Cheltenhamcodex, now in New York. The common source at Fulda of these two manuscripts has been established by Traube. There is another testimony pointing to Fulda as the oldest known source. Pope Nicholas V commissioned Enoche of Ascoli to acquire old manuscripts in Germany. Enoche used as a guide a list of works based upon observations by Poggio in Germany in 1417, listing the Apicius of Fulda. Enoche acquired the Fulda Apicius. He died in October or November, 1457. On December 10th of that year, so we know, Giovanni de’Medici requested Stefano de’Nardini, Governor of Ancona, to procure for him from Enoche’s estate either in copy or in the original the book, entitled,Appicius de re quoquinaria(cf. No.3, Apiciana). It is interesting to note that one of the Milanese editions of 1498 bears a title in this particular spelling. Enoche during his life time had lent the book to Giovanni Aurispa.

It stands to reason that Poggio, in 1417, viewed at Fulda theArchetypusof our Apicius, father of the Vatican and the New York manuscripts, then already mutilated and wanting booksIXandX. Six hundred years before the arrival of Poggio the Fulda book was no longer complete. Already in the ninth century its title page had been damaged which is proven by the title page of the Vatican copy which reads:

INCPAPICÆ

That’s all! The New York copy, it has been noted, has no title page. This book commences in the middle of the list of chapters; the first part of them and the title page are gone. We recall that the New York manuscript was originally bound up with another manuscript, also in the Phillipps library at Cheltenham. The missing page or pages were probably lost in separating the two manuscripts. It is possible that Enoche carried with him to Italy one of the ancient copies, very likely the present New York copy, then already without a title. At any rate, not more than twenty-five years after his book hunting expedition we find both copies in Italy. It is strange, furthermore, that neither of these two ancient copies were used by the fifteenth century copyists to make the various copies distributed by them, but that an inferior copy of the Vatican Ms. became thevulgata—the progenitor of this series of medieval copies. One must bear in mind how assiduously medieval scribes copied everything that appeared to be of any importance to them, and how each new copy by virtue of human fallibility or self-sufficiency must have suffered in the making, and it is only by very careful comparison of the various manuscripts that the original text may be rehabilitated.

This, to a large extent, Vollmer and Giarratano have accomplished. Vollmer, too, rejects the idea invented by the humanists, that Apicius had a collaborator, editor or commentator in the person of Cœlius or Cælius. This name, so Vollmer claims, has been added to the book by medieval scholars without any reason except conjecture for such action. They have been misled by the mutilated title: Api... Cæ...; Vollmer reconstructs this title as follows:

API[cii artis magiri- (or) opsartyti-]CÆ[libri X]

Remember, it is the title page only that is thus mutilated. The ten books or chapters bear the full name of Apicius, never at any time does the name of Cœlius appear in the text, or at the head of the chapters.

TheArchetypus, with the book and the chapters carefully indexed and numbered as they were, with each article neatly titled, the captions and capital letters rubricated—heightened by red color, and with its proper spacing of the articles and chapters must once have been a representative example of the art of book making as it flourished towards the end of the period that sealed the fate of the Roman empire, when books of a technical nature, law books, almanacs, army lists had been developed to a high point of perfection. Luxurious finish, elaborate illumination point to the fact that our book (the Vatican copy) was intended for the use in some aristocratic household.

And now, from a source totally different than the two important manuscripts so much discussed here, we receive additional proof of the authenticity ofApicius. In thecodex Salmasianus(cf.III, Apiciana) we find some thirty formulæ attributed to Apicius, entitled:Apici excerpta a Vinidario vir. inl.They have been accepted as genuine by Salmasius and other early scholars. Schuch incorporated theexcerptawith his Apicius, placing the formulæ in what he believed to be the proper order. This course, for obvious reasons, is not to be recommended. To be sure, theexcerptaare Apician enough in character, though only a few correspond to, or are actual duplicates of, the Apician precepts. They are additions to the stock of authentic Apician recipes. As such, they may not be included but be appended to the traditional text. Theexcerptaencourage the belief that at the time of Vinidarius (got. Vinithaharjis) about the fifth century there must have been in circulation an Apicius (collection of recipes) much more complete than the one handed down to us through Fulda. It is furthermore interesting to note that theexcerpta, too, are silent about Cœlius.

We may safely join Vollmer in his belief that M. Gabius Apicius, celebrated gourmet living during the reign of Tiberius was the real author, or collector, or sponsor of this collection of recipes, or at least of the major part thereof—the formulæ bearing the names of posterior gourmets having been added from time to time. This theory also applies to the two instances where the name of Varro is mentioned in connection with the preparation of beets and onions (bulbs). It is hardly possible that the author of the book made these references to Varro. It is more probable that some well-versed posterior reader, perusing the said articles, added to his copy: “And Varro prepared beets this way, and onions that way....” (cf. BookIII, [70]) Still, there is no certainty in this theory either. There were many persons by the names of Commodus, Trajanus, Frontinianus, such as are appearing in our text, who were contemporaries of Apicius.

With our mind at ease as regards the genuineness of our book we now may view it at a closer range.

Apicius contains technical terms that have been the subject of much speculation and discussion.Liquamen,laser,muria,garum, etc., belong to these. They will be found in our little dictionary. But we cannot refrain from discussing some at present to make intelligible the most essential part of the ancient text.

Takeliquamenfor instance. It may stand for broth, sauce, stock, gravy, drippings, even forcourt bouillon—in fact for any liquid appertaining to or derived from a certain dish or food material. Now, if Apicius prescribesliquamenfor the preparation of a meat or a vegetable, it is by no means clear to the uninitiated what he has in mind. In fact, in each case the termliquamenis subject to the interpretation of the experienced practitioner. Others than he would at once be confronted with an unsurmountable difficulty. Scientists may not agree with us, but such is kitchen practice. Hence the many fruitless controversies at the expense of the original, at the disappointment of science.

Garumis another word, one upon which much contemptuous witticism andserious energy has been spent.Garumsimply is a generic name for fish essences. True,garusis a certain and a distinct kind of Mediterranean fish, originally used in the manufacture ofgarum; but this product, in the course of time, has been altered, modified, adulterated,—in short, has been changed and the term has naturally been applied to all varieties and variations of fish essences, without distinction, and it has thus become a collective term, covering all varieties of fish sauces. Indeed, the corruption and degeneration of this term,garum, had so advanced at the time of Vinidarius in the fifth century as to lose even its association with any kind of fish. Terms likegaratum(prepared with g.) have been derived from it. Prepared with the addition of wine it becomesœnogarum,—wine sauce—and dishes prepared with such wine sauce receive the adjective ofœnogaratum, and so forth.

The originalgarumwas no doubt akin to our modern anchovy sauce, at least the best quality of the ancient sauce. The principles of manufacture surely are alike.Garum, like our anchovy sauce, is thepuréeof a small fish, namedgarus, as yet unidentified. The fish, intestines and all, was spiced, pounded, fermented, salted, strained and bottled for future use. The finestgarumwas made of the livers of the fish only, exposed to the sun, fermented, somehow preserved. It was an expensive article in old Rome, famed for its medicinal properties. Its mode of manufacture has given rise to much criticism and scorn on the part of medieval and modern commentators and interpreters who could not comprehend the “perverse taste” of the ancients in placing any value on the “essence from putrified intestines of fish.”

However,garumhas been vindicated, confirmed, endorsed, reiterated, rediscovered, if you please, by modern science! What, pray, is the difference in principle betweengarum(the exact nature of which is unknown) and the oil of the liver of cod (or less expensive fish) exposed to the beneficial rays of ultraviolet light—artificial sunlight—to imbue the oil with an extra large and uniform dose of vitamin D? The ancients, it appears, knew “vitamin D” to exist. Maybe they had a different name for “vitamins,” maybe none at all. The name does not matter. The thing which they knew, does. They knew the nutritive value of liver, proven by many formulæ. Pollio, one of the vicious characters of antiquity, fed murenas (sea-eel) with slaves he threw into thepiscina, the fish pond, and later enjoyed the liver of the fish.

Some “modern” preparations are astonishingly ancient, andvice versa. Our anchovy sauce is used freely to season fish, to mix with butter, to be made into solid anchovy or fish paste. There are sardine pastes, lobster pastes, fish forcemeats found in the larder of every good kitchen—preparations of Apician character. A real platter ofhors d’oeuvres, anantipastois not complete unless made according to certain Apician precepts.

Muriais salt water, brine, yet it may stand for a fluid in which fish or meat, fruits or vegetables have been pickled.

The difficulties of the translator of Apicius who takes him literally, are unconsciously but neatly demonstrated by the work of Danneil. Even he, seasonedpractitioner, condemnsgarum,muria,asa fœtida, because professors before him have done so, because he forgets that these very materials still form a vital part of some of his own sauces only in a different shape, form or under a different name. Danneil calls some Apician recipes “incredibly absurd,” “fabulous,” “exaggerated,” but he thinks nothing of the serving of similar combinations in his own establishment every day in the year.

Danneil would take pride in serving a Veal Cutlet à la Holstein. (What have we learned of Apicius in the Northern countries?). The ancient Holsteiner was not satisfied unless his piece of veal was covered with a nice fat herring. That “barbarity” had to be modified by us moderns into a veal cutlet, turned in milk and flour, eggs and bread crumbs, fried, covered with fried eggs, garnished with anchovies or bits of herring, red beets, capers, and lemon in order to qualify for a restaurant favorite and “best seller.” Apicius hardly has a dish more characteristic and more bewildering.

What of combinations of fish and meat?

De gustibus non est disputandum.It all goes into the same stomach. May it be a sturdy one, and let its owner beware. What of our turkey and oyster dressing? Of our broiled fish and bacon? Of our clam chowder, our divineBouillabaisse? If the ingredients and component parts of such dishes were enumerated in the laconic and careless Apician style, if they were stated without explicit instructions and details (supposed to be known to any good practitioner) we would have recipes just as mysterious as any of the Apician formulæ.

Danneil, like ever so many interpreters, plainly shared the traditional belief, the egregious errors of popular history. People still are under the spell of the fantastic and fanciful descriptions of Roman conviviality and gastronomic eccentricities. Indeed, we rather believe in the insanity of these descriptions than in the insane conduct of the average Roman gourmet. It is absurd of course to assume and to make the world believe that a Roman patrician made a meal ofgarum,laserpitium, and the like. They used these condiments judiciously; any other use thereof is physically impossible. They economized their spices which have caused so much comment, too. As a matter of fact, they used condiments niggardly and sparingly as is plainly described in some formulæ, if only for the one good and sufficient reason that spices and condiments which often came from Asia and Africa were extremely expensive. This very reason, perhaps, caused much of the popular outcry against their use, which, by the way, is merely another form of political propaganda, in which, as we shall see, the mob guided by the rabble of politicians excelled.

We moderns are just as “extravagant” (if not more) in the use of sauces and condiments—Apician sauces, too! Our Worcestershire, catsup, chili, chutney, walnut catsup, A I, Harvey’s, Punch, Soyer’s, Escoffier’s, Oscar’s (every culinary coryphee endeavors to create one)—our mustards and condiments in their different forms, if not actually dating back to Apicius, are, at least lineal descendants from ancient prototypes.

To readers little experienced in kitchen practice such phrases (often repeatedby Apicius) as, “crush pepper, lovage, marjoram,” etc., etc., may appear stereotyped and monotonous. They have not survived in modern kitchen parlance, because the practice of using spices, flavors and aromas has changed. There are now in the market compounds, extracts, mixtures not used in the old days. Many modern spices come to us ready ground or mixed, or compounded ready for kitchen use. This has the disadvantage in that volatile properties deteriorate more rapidly and that the goods may be easily adulterated. The Bavarians, under Duke Albrecht, in 1553 prohibited the grinding of spices for that very reason! Ground spices are time and labor savers, however. Modern kitchen methods have put the old mortar practically out of existence, at the expense of quality of the finished product.

The enviable Apicius cared naught for either time or labor. He gave these two important factors in modern life not a single thought. His culinary procedures required a prodigious amount of labor and effort on the part of the cooks and their helpers. The labor item never worried any ancient employer. It was either very cheap or entirely free of charge.

The selfish gourmet (which gourmet is not selfish?) almost wonders whether the abolition of slavery was a well-advised measure in modern social and economic life. Few people appreciate the labor cost in excellent cookery and few have any conception of the cost of good food service today. Yet all demand both, when “dining out,” at least. Who, on the other hand, but a brute would care to dine well, “taking it out of the hide of others?”

Hence we moderns with a craving forgourmandisebut minus appropriations for skilled labor would do well to follow the example of Alexandre Dumas who cheerfully and successfully attended to his own cuisine. Despite an extensive fiction practice he found time to edit “Le Grand Dictionnaire de Cuisine” and was not above writing mustard advertisements, either.

The appetite of the ancients was at times successfully curbed by sumptuary laws, cropping out at fairly regular intervals. These laws, usually given under the pretext of safeguarding the morals of the people and accompanied by similar euphonious phrases were, like modern prohibitions, vicious and virulent effusions of the predatory instinct in mankind. We cannot give a chronological list of them here, and are citing them merely to illustrate the difficulty confronting the prospective ancient host.

During the reign of Cæsar and Augustus severe laws were passed, fixing the sums to be spent for public and private dinners and specifying the edibles to be consumed. These laws classified gastronomic functions with an ingenious eye for system, professing all the time to protect the public’s morals and health; but they were primarily designed to replenish the ever-vanishing contents ofthe Imperial exchequer and to provide soft jobs for hordes of enforcers. The amounts allowed to be spent for various social functions were so ridiculously small in our own modern estimation that we may well wonder how a Roman host could have ever made a decent showing at a banquet. However, he and the cooks managed somehow. Imperial spies and informers were omnipresent. The market places were policed, the purchases by prospective hosts carefully noted, dealers selling supplies and cooks (the more skillful kind usually) hired for the occasion were bribed to reveal the “menu.” Dining room windows had to be located conveniently to allow free inspection from the street of the dainties served; the passing Imperial food inspector did not like to intrude upon the sanctity of the host’s home. The pitiable host of those days, his unenviable guests and the bewildered cooks, however, contrived and conspired somehow to get up a banquet that was a trifle better than a Chicago quick lunch.

How did they do it?

In the light of modern experience gained by modern governments dillydallying with sumptuary legislation that has been discarded as a bad job some two thousand years ago, the question seems superfluous.

Difficile est satyram non scribere!To make a long story short: The Roman host just broke the law, that’s all. Indeed, those who made the laws were first to break them. The minions, appointed to uphold the law, were easily accounted for. Any food inspector too arduous in the pursuit of his duty was disposed of by dispatching him to the rear entrance of the festive hall, and was delivered to the tender care of the chief cook.

Such was the case during the times of Apicius. Indeed, the Roman idea of good cheer during earlier epochs was provincial enough. It was simply barbaric before the Greeks showed the Romans a thing or two in cookery. The methods of fattening fowl introduced from Greece was something unheard-of! It was outrageous, sacrilegious! Senators, orators and other self-appointed saviors of humanity thundered against the vile methods of tickling the human palate, deftly employing all the picturesque tam-tam andélanstill the stock in trade of ever so many modern colleagues in any civilized parliament. The speeches, to be sure, passed into oblivion, the fat capons, however, stayed in the barnyards until they had acquired the saturation point of tender luscious calories to be enjoyed by those who could afford them. How the capon was “invented” is told in a note on the subject.

Many other so-called luxuries, sausage from Epirus, cherries from the Pontus, oysters from England, were greeted with a studied hostility by those who profited from the business of making laws and public opinion.

Evidently, the time and the place was not very propitious for gastronomic over-indulgence. Only when the ice was broken, when the disregard for law and order had become general through the continuous practice of contempt for an unpopular sumptuary law, when corruption had become wellnigh universal chiefly thanks to the examples set by the higher-ups, it was then that the torrentof human passion and folly ran riot, exceeding natural bounds, tearing everything with them, all that is beautiful and decent, thus swamping the great empire beyond the hopes for any recovery.

Most of the Apician directions are vague, hastily jotted down, carelessly edited. One of the chief reasons for the eternal misunderstandings! Often the author fails to state the quantities to be used. He has a mania for giving undue prominence to expensive spices and other (quite often irrelevant) ingredients. Plainly, Apicius was no writer, no editor. He was a cook. He took it for granted that spices be used within the bounds of reason, but he could not afford to forget them in his formulæ.

Apicius surely pursues the correct culinary principle of incorporating the flavoring agents during the process of cooking, contrary to many moderns who, vigorously protesting against “highly seasoned” and “rich” food, and who, craving for “something plain” proceed to inundate perfectly good, plain roast or boiled dishes with a deluge of any of the afore-mentioned commercial “sauces” that have absolutely no relation to the dish and that have no mission other than to grant relief from the deadening monotony of “plain” food. Chicken or mutton, beef or venison, finnan haddie or brook trout, eggs or oysters thus “sauced,” taste all alike—sauce! To use such ready-made sauces with dishes cookedà l’anglaiseis logical, excusable, almost advisable. Even the most ascetic of men cannot resist the insidiousness of spicy delights, nor can he for any length of time endure the insipidity of plain food sans sauce. Hence the popularity of such sauces amongst people who do not observe the correct culinary principle of seasoning food judiciously, befitting its character, without spoiling but rather in enhancing its characteristics and in bringing out its flavor at the right time, namely during coction to give the kindred aromas a chance to blend well.

Continental nations, adhering to this important principle of cookery (inherited from Apicius) would not dream of using ready-made (English) sauces.

We have witnessed real crimes being perpetrated upon perfectly seasoned and delicately flavoredentrées. We have watched ill-advised people maltreat good things, cooked to perfection, even before they tasted them, sprinkling them as a matter of habit, with quantities of salt and pepper, paprika, cayenne, daubing them with mustards of every variety or swamping them with one or several of the commercial sauce preparations. “Temperamental” chefs, men who know their art, usually explode at the sight of such wantonness. Which painter would care to see his canvas varnished with all the hues in the rainbow by a patron afflicted with such a taste?

Perhaps the craving for excessive flavoring is an olfactory delirium, a pathological case, as yet unfathomed like the excessive craving for liquor, and, being a problem for the medical fraternity, it is only of secondary importance to gastronomy.

To say that the Romans were afflicted on a national scale with a strange spice mania (as some interpreters want us to believe) would be equivalent to the assertion that all wine-growing nations were nations of drunkards. As a matter of fact, the reverse is the truth.

Apicius surely would be surprised at some things we enjoy.Voilà, a recipe, “modern,” not older than half a century, given by us in the Apician style or writing: Take liquamen, pepper, cayenne, eggs, lemon, olive oil, vinegar, white wine, anchovies, onions, tarragon, pickled cucumbers, parsley, chervil, hard-boiled eggs, capers, green peppers, mustard, chop, mix well, and serve.

Do you recognize it? This formula sounds as phantastic, as “weird” and as “vile” as any of the Apician concoctions, confusing even a well-trained cook because we stated neither the title of this preparation nor the mode of making it, nor did we name the ingredients in their proper sequence. This mystery was conceived with an illustrative purpose which will be explained later, which may and may not have to do with the mystery of Apicius. Consider, for a moment, this mysterious creation No. 2: Take bananas, oranges, cherries, flavored with bitter almonds, fresh pineapple, lettuce, fresh peaches, plums, figs, grapes, apples, nuts, cream cheese, olive oil, eggs, white wine, vinegar, cayenne, lemon, salt, white pepper, dry mustard, tarragon, rich sour cream, chop, mix, whip well.

Worse yet! Instead of having our appetite aroused the very perusal of this quasi-Apicianmixtum compositumrepels every desire to partake of it. We are justly tempted to condemn it as being utterly impossible. Yet every day hundreds of thousand portions of it are sold under the name of special fruit salad withmayonnaise mousseuse. The above mystery No. 1 is the justly popular tartar sauce.

Thus we could go on analyzing modern preparations and make them appear as outlandish things. Yet we relish them every day. The ingredients, obnoxious in great quantities, are employed with common sense. We are not mystified seeing them in print; they are usually given in clear logical order. This is not the style of Apicius, however.

We can hardly judge Apicius by what he has revealed but we rather should try to discover what he—purposely or otherwise—has concealed if we would get a good idea of the ancient kitchen. This thought occurred to us at the eleventh hour, after years of study of the text and after almost despairing of a plausible solution of its mysteries. And it seems surprising that Apicius has never been suspected before of withholding information essential to the successful practice of his rather hypothetical and empirical formulæ. The more we scrutinize them, the more we become convinced that the author has omitted vital directions—same as we did purposely with the two modern examples above. Many of the Apician recipes are dry enumerations of ingredients supposed to belong to a given dish or sauce. It is well-known that in chemistry (cookery is but applied chemistry) the knowledge of the rules governing the quantities andthe sequence of the ingredients, their manipulation, either separately or jointly, either successively or simultaneously, is a very important matter, and that violation or ignorance of the process may spell failure at any stage of the experiment. In the kitchen this is particularly true of baking and soup and sauce making, the most intricate of culinary operations.

There may have been two chief reasons for concealing necessary information. Apicius, or more likely the professional collectors of the recipes, may have considered technical elaboration of the formulæ quite superfluous on the assumption that the formulæ were for professional use only. Every good practitioner knows, with ingredients or components given, what manipulations are required, what effects are desired. Even in the absence of detailed specifications, the experienced practitioner will be able to divine correct proportions, by intuition. As a matter of fact, in cookery the mention in the right place of a single ingredient, like in poetry the right word, often suffices to conjure up before the gourmet’s mental eye vistas of delight. Call it inspiration, association of ideas or what you please, a single word may often prove a guide, a savior.

Let us remember that in Apicii days paper (parchment, papyrus) and writing materials were expensive and that, moreover, the ability of correct logical and literary expression was necessarily limited in the case of a practising cook who, after all, must have been the collector of the Apician formulæ. This is sufficiently proven by thelingua coquinaria, the vulgar Latin of our old work. In our opinion, the ancient author did not consider it worth his while to give anything but the most indispensable information in the tersest form. This he certainly did. A comparison of his literary performance with that of the artistic and accomplished writer of the Renaissance, Platina, will at once show up Apicius as a hard-working practical cook, a man who knew his business but who could not tell what he knew.

Like ever so many of his successors, he could not refrain from beginning and concluding many of his articles with such superfluities as “take this” and “And serve,” etc., all of which shows him up as a genuine cook. These articles, written in the most laconic language possible—the language of a very busy, very harassed, very hurried man, are the literary product of a cook, or several of them.

The other chief motive for condensing or obscuring his text has a more subtle foundation. Indeed, we are surprised that we should possess so great a collection of recipes, representing to him who could use them certain commercial and social value. The preservation of Apicius seems entirely accidental. Experienced cooks were in demand in Apicii times; the valuation of their ministrations increased proportionately to the progress in gastronomy and to the prosperity of the nation. During Rome’s frugal era, up to 200 B.C. the primitive cooks were just slaves and household chattels; but the development of their trade into an art, stimulated by foreign precepts, imported principally from Greece, Sicily and Asia Minor, opened up to the practitioners not only the door to freedom from servitude but it offered even positions of wealth with social and political standing,often arousing the envy, satire, criticism of bona-fide politicians, journalists, moralists, satirists and of the ever-present hordes of parasites and hangers-on. Some cooks became confidants, even friends and advisors of men in high places, emperors, (cf. life of Vitellius) and through their subtle influence upon the mighty they may have contributed in no mean measure to the fate of the nation. But such invisible string-pullers have not been confined to those days alone. (Take Rasputin! Take the valet to William I, reputed to have had more “say” than the mighty Bismarck, who, as it developed, got “the air” while the valet died in his berth.)

Such being the case, what potential power reposed in a greasy cookery manuscript! And, if so, why bare such wonderful secrets to Tom, Dick and Harry?

Weights and measures are given by Apicius in some instances. But just such figures can be used artfully to conceal a trap. Any mediocre cook, gaining possession of a choice collection of detailed and itemized recipes would have been placed in an enviable position. Experimenting for some time (at his master’s expense) he would soon reach that perfection when he could demand a handsome compensation for his ministrations. Throughout antique times, throughout the middle ages down to the present day (when patent laws no longer protect a secret) strict secrecy was maintained around many useful and lucrative formulæ, not only by cooks, but also by physicians, alchemists and the various scientists, artisans and craftsmen. Only the favorite apprentice would be made heir to or shareholder in this important stock in trade after his worthiness had been proven to his master’s satisfaction, usually by the payment of a goodly sum of money—apprentice’s pay. We remember reading in Lanciani (Rodolfo L.: Ancient Rome in the Light of Recent Discoveries) how in the entire history of Rome there is but one voice, that of a solitary, noble-minded physician, complaining about the secrecy that was being maintained by his colleagues as regards their science. To be sure, those fellows had every reason in the world for keeping quiet: so preposterous were their methods in most cases! This secrecy indeed must have carried with it a blessing in disguise. Professional reserve was not its object. The motive was purely commercial.

Seeing where the information given by Apicius is out of reason and unintelligible we are led to believe that such text is by no means to be taken very literally. On the contrary, it is quite probable that weights and measures are not correct: they are quite likely to be of an artful and studied unreliability. A secret private code is often employed, necessitating the elimination or transposition of certain words, figures or letters before the whole will become intelligible and useful. If by any chance an uninitiated hand should attempt to grasp such veiled directions, failure would be certain. We confess to have employed at an early stage of our own career this same strategy and time-honored camouflage to protect a precious lot of recipes. Promptly we lost this unctuous manuscript, as we feared we would; if not deciphered today, the book has long since been discarded as being a record of the ravings of a madman.

The advent of the printing press changed the situation. With Platina, ca.1474, an avalanche of cookery literature started. The secrets of Scappi, “cuoco secreto” to the pope, were “scooped” by an enterprising Venetian printer in 1570. The guilds of French mustard makers and sauce cooks (precursors of modern food firms and manufacturers of ready-made condiments) were a powerful tribe of secret mongers in the middle ages. English gastronomic literature of the 16th, 17th and even the 18th century is crowded with “closets opened,” “secrets let out” and other alluring titles purporting to regale the prospective reader with profitable and appetizing secrets of all sorts. Kitchen secrets became commercial articles.

These remarks should suffice to illustrate the assumption that the Apicius book was not created for publication but that it is a collection of abridged formulæ for private use, a treasure chest as it were, of some cook, which after the demise of its owner, collector, originator, a curious world could not resist to play with, although but a few experienced masters held the key, being able to make use of the recipes.

In perusing Apicius only one or two instances of cruelty to animals have come to our attention (cf. recipes No.140and259). Cruel methods of slaughter were common. Some of the dumb beasts that were to feed man and even had to contribute to his pleasures and enjoyment of life by giving up their own lives often were tortured in cruel, unspeakable ways. The belief existed that such methods might increase the quality, palatability and flavor of the meat. Such beliefs and methods may still be encountered on the highways and byways in Europe and Asia today. Since the topic, strictly speaking does not belong here, we cannot depict it in detail, and in passing make mention of it to refer students interested in the psychology of the ancients to such details as are found in the writings of Plutarch and other ancient writers during the early Christian era. It must be remembered, however, that such writers (including the irreproachable Plutarch) were advocates of vegetarianism. Some passages are inspired by true humane feeling, but much appears to be written in the interest of vegetarianism.

The ancients were not such confirmed meat eaters as the modern Western nations, merely because the meat supply was not so ample. Beef was scarce because of the shortage of large pastures. The cow was sacred, the ox furnished motive power, and, after its usefulness was gone, the muscular old brute had little attraction for the gourmet. Today lives a race of beef eaters. Our beef diet, no doubt is bound to change somewhat. Already the world’s grazing grounds are steadily diminishing. The North American prairies are being parcelled off into small farms the working conditions of which make beef raising expensive. The South American pampas and a strip of coastal land in Australia now furnish the bulk of the world’s beef supply. Perhaps Northern Asia still holds in store a large future supply of meat but this no doubt will be claimed byAsia. Already North America is acclimating the Lapland reindeer to offset the waning beef, to utilize its Northern wastes.

With the increasing shortage of beef, with the increasing facilities for raising chicken and pork, a reversion to Apician methods of cookery and diet is not only probably but actually seems inevitable. The ancient bill of fare and the ancient methods of cookery were entirely guided by the supply of raw materials—precisely like ours. They had no great food stores nor very efficient marketing and transportation systems, food cold storage. They knew, however, to take care of what there was. They were good managers.

Such atrocities as the willful destruction of huge quantities of food of every description on the one side and starving multitudes on the other as seen today never occurred in antiquity.

Many of the Apician dishes will not appeal to the beef eaters. It is worthy of note that much criticism was heaped upon Apicius some 200 years ago in England when beef eating became fashionable in that country. The art of Apicius requires practitioners of superior intellect. Indeed, it requires a superior clientèle to appreciate Apician dishes. But practitioners that would pass the requirements of the Apician school are scarce in the kitchens of the beef eaters. We cannot blame meat eaters for rejecting the averagechef d’œuvreset before them by a mediocre cook who has learned little besides the roasting or broiling of meats. Once the average man has acquired a taste for the refined compositions made by a talented and experienced cook, say, a composition of meats, vegetables or cereals, properly “balanced” by that intuition that never fails the real artist, the fortunate diner will eventually curtail the preponderant meat diet. A glance at some Chinese and Japanese methods of cookery may perhaps convince us of the probability of these remarks.

Nothing is more perplexing and more alarming than a new dish, but we can see in a reversion to Apician cookery methods only a dietetic benefit accruing to this so-called white race of beef eaters.

Apicius certainly excels in the preparation of vegetable dishes (cf. his cabbage and asparagus) and in the utilization of parts of food materials that are today considered inferior, hardly worth preparing for the table except by the very careful and economical housekeeper. Properly prepared, many of these things are good, often more nutritious than the dearer cuts, and sometimes they are really delicious.

One has but to study the methods of ancient and intelligent people who have suffered for thousands of years under the perennial shortage of food supplies in order to understand and to appreciate Apician methods. Be it far from us to advocate their methods, or to wish upon us the conditions that engendered such methods; for such practices have been pounded into these people by dire necessity. They have graduated from the merciless school of hunger.

Food materials, we repeat, were never as cheap and as abundant as they are today. But who can say that they always will be so in the future?

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