Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 150.djvu/180
parson. Be this as it may, there is no appearance of dulness or want of taste in the book itself.
The first condition of gastronomic enjoyment is undoubtedly a good appetite, and Brillat Savarin gives us several stories of heroic performances at the table. One of his friends devoured thirty-two dozen oysters before sitting down to dinner, and then ate his meal with the vigour of a man who had been fasting for some time: another, the vicar of Bregnier, disposed of the following dishes at a single meal,—soup, bouilli, a leg of mutton, a capon, a large bowl of salad, a large slice of cheese, a bottle of wine, and a decanter of water. Brillat Savarin was present, and assures us that “nothing was left of the mutton but the bone, nothing of the capon but the skeleton, and nothing of the salad but the bowl—apres quoi il se reposa”—as well, indeed, he might.
Nothing that we have read in history equals this Gargantuan feat, except, perhaps, the performance of the “glutton of Kent,” whom Fuller places among his worthies, and who devoured, at a single meal, “fourscore rabbits and eighteen black puddings, London measure.” Coming down to more recent times, there is the probably apocryphal story of a Scotsman who ate a solan goose by way of a whet for dinner; and of a Welsh nobleman who devoured a covey of partridges for breakfast every morning. There is also a well-known legend, which found its way into ‘Punch,’ of a certain eminent politician who entered an eating-house near the Old Bailey, and after putting away seven pounds and a half of cold boiled beef, observed cheerfully to the landlord, “Capital beef this! One may cut and come again here.” To which the landlord, regarding him grimly, made reply,—“Sir, you may cut, but I'm d——d if you shall come again!”
We are tempted to add one more story, which we believe has not as yet found its way into print. On the Derby day, a few years ago, a well-known man of business—let us call him Mr X.—went down to Epsom with the rest of the world, and, after the great race was over, bethought himself of lunch. It was then four o’clock, and he was ravenously hungry. Seeing no friendly coach or carriage at hand, he entered one of the refreshment-booths, where a three-and sixpenny meal was provided for all comers. He attacked some ribs of beef, and soon cleared them to the bone; then he “went for” a chicken, which also disappeared; finally, he espied a pigeon-pie at the other end of the table, which had not yet been touched, and ordered the waiter to bring it to him. But the waiter, after a whispered conference with an individual in black, who had been observing Mr X.’s performances with suspicion and alarm, came and said confidentially, “If you please, sir, the governor says as how he won’t charge you nothing for anything, if you'll go away at once.” Mr X., however, insisted on his rights, and declined this obliging offer; then he proceeded to make a vigorous onslaught on the pigeon-pie.
From Brillat Savarin it is a natural transition to Alexandre Dumas, who, great in all he did—beau mangeur as well as beau conteur—has left us his ‘Grand Dictionnaire de Cuisine,’ a large and sumptuous volume. Dumas knew the principles of the art as well as most professional cooks,