Science in the Kitchen and the Art of Eating Well (13 page)

131
See p. 190 below.

132
See
L’Espresso
, 12 July 2001.

133
See Artusi’s preface, p. 7 below.

SCIENCE
IN THE KITCHEN
AND THE ART
OF EATING WELL

See how often human judgment errs.

I had just put the finishing touches on my book,
Science in the Kitchen and the Art of Eating Well
, when my learned friend Francesco Trevisan, professor of Literature at the Scipione Maffei Secondary School in Verona, happened to come to Florence. A passionate scholar of Ugo Foscolo, he had been chosen to serve as a member of the committee to oversee the construction of a monument to the Bard of the Sepulchers in the church of Santa Croce.
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Having had the pleasure, on that occasion, of hosting him at my home, it seemed to me an opportune moment to ask him his refined opinion of my culinary work. Alas! After examining the work, and with it my humble efforts of many years, he passed the terrible sentence:
This book will have little success
.

Dismayed but not entirely convinced by his opinion, I was pricked by the desire to appeal to the public, and thus decided to turn, for publication, to a well-known Florentine publishing house. I enjoyed what could be described as friendly relations with the proprietors of this house since the time, some years back, when I had spent a considerable sum of money on various publications of mine. I thus hoped that they might be willing to indulge me. Indeed, to encourage these gentlemen, I proposed that we make the undertaking a partnership; and so that they might give the matter due consideration, after having shown them the manuscript, I also wished them to have a real sampling of my cooking. Thus I invited them one day to dinner, the results of which appeared satisfying both to them and to the fellow-guests I had invited to keep them good company.

My enticements were in vain, however, for after much thought and shilly-shallying on the matter, one of them said to me: “I’m terribly sorry, but only if your work had been written by Doney
²
could we talk about it seriously.”

“If it had been written by Doney,” I replied, “probably no one would understand a thing in it, which was precisely the case with that large tome,
The King of Cooks
. With my Manual, on the other hand, one need only know how to hold a wooden spoon to work something out.”

It should be noted here that publishers generally care not a whit whether a book is good or bad, useful or harmful. For them it need only bear a well-known name on the cover, so that they might sell it with ease; a famous name serves to give it a push, and on the wings of its guidance it may then soar to great heights.

Thus having to start all over again, I went in search of a less demanding entrepreneur. Knowing by reputation an important Milanese publishing house, I turned to them, since, as they claimed to print
omnia generis musicorum
, I thought that amidst that hodgepodge they might find a small place for my modest work. Before long came the humiliating and ever so brusque reply: We do not deal in cookbooks.

Let us have done, I told myself, with begging others for help, and publish the book at our own risk and peril. And so I hired the Florentine typographer Salvadore Landi (proprietor of “The Art of Printing”) to print the book. Yet as I was negotiating the terms of our agreement, I had the idea to offer the book to yet another large publisher, better suited to publications of this sort. Truth be told, I found him better disposed than any of the others; but on what conditions, alas! Two hundred lire for the work, and the surrender of all royalties! May this, and the others’ reluctance, stand as proof of the discredit into which cookbooks had fallen in Italy.

At this humiliating proposal I exploded in a fit of rage, which I need not repeat here, and decided to take my chances and publish entirely at my own expense. Discouraged as I was, however, and to prevent an utter fiasco, I had only a thousand copies printed.

Shortly thereafter, it just so happened that a great charity fair was to be held at Forlimpopoli, the town of my birth. A friend of mine wrote to me asking to contribute two copies of my
Life of Foscolo
. But as I had none of these left, I compensated with two copies of
Science in the Kitchen and the Art of Eating Well
. I should never have done so, since I later learned that those who had won the books, instead of appreciating them, held them up to ridicule and then went off and sold them to the tobacconist.

Yet even this was not to be my last humiliation. Having sent a copy of my work to a Rome magazine to which I subscribed, not only was it not accorded the few words of praise and criticism promised in a notice for all books sent to said magazine as gifts; it was actually listed in the rubric of books received, with a mistake in the title!

Finally, after so many setbacks, a man of genius suddenly appeared and took up my cause. Professor Paolo Mantegazza, with that quick and ready wit that is his trademark, immediately recognized that my work indeed had some merit and might be of use to families. Congratulating me for my work, he said: “With this book you have done a good deed; may it have a thousand editions.”

“Too many,” said I. “I would be happy with two.” Later, to my great astonishment and surprise, he praised the book and recommended it to the audience at two of his lectures.

At this point I began to take heart and, seeing that the book was
beginning to have a measure of success, however limited at first, I wrote to my friend at Forlimpopoli, to complain about the offense his town folk had given to a book that would one day bring honor to
their
town. Anger prevented me from saying
my
town.

When the first edition sold out, with some hesitation—since I still could scarcely believe my good fortune—I began the second printing, also of only a thousand copies. As this sold more quickly than the previous one, it gave me the courage to undertake a third one, of two thousand copies, and then a fourth and fifth, of three thousand each. These were then followed, at relatively brief intervals, by six other editions of four thousand copies each. Finally, seeing that as my manual aged, it only seemed to gain favor, and the demand for it only became greater and greater, I decided to increase the print runs of the next three editions to six thousand copies each. 52,000 copies have thus far seen the light of day, many of them supplemented with new recipes (for cooking is an inexhaustible art). All of which is very reassuring to me, especially as the book’s buyers also include learned and illustrious people.

With my pride tickled by these happy results, I was anxious to oblige the public with editions of increasing elegance and accuracy. When, one day, it seemed to me that those overseeing the printing were less than fully committed to this purpose, I said to them in jest: “So just because my book smells of stew, I suppose that you, too, disdain to take it seriously? But let me tell you, and I say this reluctantly, that with our century tending towards materialism and life’s enjoyments, the day shall soon come when writings of this sort, which delight the mind and nourish the body, will be more widely sought and read than the works of great scientists, which are of much greater value to humanity.”

Blind is the man who cannot see this! The days of seductive, flattering ideals, the days of the hermits, are coming to an end. With greater eagerness than it ought to, the world is rushing to the wellsprings
of pleasure, and those who know how to temper this dangerous inclination with healthy morals shall take the palm.

And so I conclude my opening peroration. Let me close, then, with a well-deserved tribute and expression of thanks to the publishing house of R. Bemporad
&c
Son of Florence, who made every effort to bring this manual of mine to the knowledge of the public and to disseminate it.

Cooking is a troublesome sprite. Often it may drive you to despair. Yet it also very rewarding, for when you do succeed, or overcome a difficulty in doing so, you feel the satisfaction of a great triumph.

Beware of books that deal with this art: most of them are inaccurate or incomprehensible, especially the Italian ones. The French are a little better. But from either, the very most you will glean are a few notions, useful only if you already know the art.

If you do not aspire to become a premier cook, you need not have been born with a pan on your head to become a good one. Passion, care, and precision of method will certainly suffice; then, of course, you must choose the finest ingredients as your raw materials, for these will make you shine.

The best teacher is experience, under an adept’s watchful eye. Yet even lacking this, with a guide such as mine, and devotion to your labors, you should be able, I hope, to put something decent together.

It was at the insistence of many gentlemen and ladies of my acquaintance, who honor me with their friendship, that I finally decided to publish the present volume. Its materials had long been prepared, and served only for my personal use. I thus present it to you now as the simple amateur that I am, certain that I shall not disappoint you, having tried and retried these dishes many times myself. If at first you do not succeed, do not despair; with good will and persistence, you shall manage to make them one day, I guarantee it, and perhaps even
to improve them. For I, after all, cannot presume to have reached the acme of perfection.

Yet seeing that this volume marks the 14th edition and a total print run of 52,000 copies, I may discreetly assume that my dishes have been generally well received, and that to my great fortune few people, thus far, have cursed me for stomach aches or other phenomena that decency forbids me to mention.

Finally, I should not like my interest in gastronomy to give me the reputation of a gourmand or glutton. I object to any such dishonorable imputation, for I am neither. I love the good and the beautiful wherever I find them, and hate to see anyone squander, as they say, God’s bounty. Amen.

Life has two principal functions: nourishment and the propagation of the species. Those who turn their minds to these two needs of existence, who study them and suggest practices whereby they might best be satisfied, make life less gloomy and benefit humanity. They may therefore be allowed to hope that, while humanity may not appreciate their efforts, it will at least show them generous and benevolent indulgence.

The meaning contained in these few lines, which preface the third edition of this book, was better expressed in a letter to me by the celebrated poet, Lorenzo Stecchetti. It is my pleasure to transcribe them here:

The human race survives only because man possesses the instincts of self-preservation and reproduction, and keenly feels the need to satisfy both. The satisfaction of a need is always accompanied by pleasure. The pleasure of self-preservation lies in the sense of taste, and that of reproduction in the sense of touch. If man did not find food appetizing, or experience sexual desire, the human race would quickly come to an end.

Taste and touch are therefore the senses most necessary, indeed indispensable to the life of the individual and the species. The other senses are only there to help, and one can, after all, live life blind and deaf, but not without the functional activity of the organs of taste.

How is it, then, that on the scale of the senses, the two most necessary to life and its continuance are considered the basest? Why are those things that satisfy the other senses— painting, music, etc.—called art and deemed noble, while those that satisfy the sense of taste are considered ignoble? Why is a person who enjoys gazing at a lovely painting or listening to a beautiful symphony held in higher esteem than one who enjoys eating an excellent dish? Is the equality among the senses perhaps comparable to that among humans, whereby those who work may be well off, but those who do not are even better off?

The blame, no doubt, must lie with the tyrannical sway the brain now holds over all the organs of the body. In the time of Menenius Agrippa, the stomach ruled; nowadays it no longer even serves, or, if so, serves badly. Of all those who overwork their brains, is there a single one who can boast of good digestion? They are all nerves, neuroses, and neurasthenia. The height, chest-size, strength and reproductive powers of this ingenious, rachitic breed of sages and artists, all refinement and glands, are in daily decline. Indeed they do not even eat, but rather overstimulate themselves and keep going by dint of coffee, alcohol and morphine. Thus are the senses that direct the brain’s functions deemed nobler than those that preside over self-preservation—and the time has come to right this unjust verdict.

God bless the bicycle, which lets us know the joys of a hearty appetite, notwithstanding all the decadent and decayed who dream of chlorosis, consumption and boils in the name of the ideal art! Let us go out, out into the open air, into the free-flowing, healthy air! It reddens the blood and strengthens the muscles! Let us not be ashamed, therefore, to eat the best we can and return gastronomy to its rightful place. In the end, even the tyrannical brain will be the better for it, and this
nerve-wracked society will finally understand that, even in art, a discussion on how to cook eel is every bit as worthy as a disquisition on the smile of Beatrice.

It is true that man does not live by bread alone; he must eat something with it. And the art of making this something as economical, savory and healthy as possible is, I insist, a true art. Let us rehabilitate the sense of taste and not be ashamed to satisfy it honestly, and as best we can, according to its own dictates.
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