The Food Taster

by Peter Elbling

  I almost forgot! Just before we reached the abbey, we passed a peasant standing in his field. His skinny body was lost inside his shift and his naked legs protruded into the stony soil like sticks of wood which had been left out in the sun. When some of the knights laughed at him, the peasant ran alongside Federico's carriage, screaming that he had lost his children in the famine while Federico ate like a pig. He ran between the horses and before anyone could stop him, leaped onto Federico's cart just as Federico stuck his head out to discover the cause of the yelling.

  Oi me! I do not know who was more surprised, the peasant or Federico. Before the peasant could harm Federico, the knights slashed him to pieces with their swords and he fell onto the ground where the knights continued to lance and slice him long after his soul had left the earth.

  Federico was eager to reach Firenze and stay with Bento Verana, a wealthy wool merchant who traded with Corsoli. Most of the servants remained on Verana's estate in the country, but a few of us stayed in his palazzo overlooking the Arno. Verana was a thin-faced, stern-looking man who dressed as a priest and regarded his wealth as something to be hoarded and not enjoyed. But because he treated everyone with dignity and was said to be honest in his business dealings, he had no need of a food taster. He said at our first meal that since he considered Federico a friend he would be offended if Federico used a food taster in his house.

  Federico licked his lips, not knowing what to say. I said, 'My Lord, it is not that Duke Federico fears being poisoned. He has a tender digestion and as mine is the same as his, by tasting his food I am able to spare him any discomfort before it arises.'

  Federico nodded and said that was exactly so. Unfortunately, I could not soothe the other discomforts so easily. The Firenzani ate differently than we in Corsoli did. They liked more vegetables — pumpkins, leeks, broad beans — and less meat. They ate spinach with anchovies, baked fruit into their ravioli, and made desserts in the shapes of emblems. They used less seasoning and considered the uses of spices a gaudy display of wealth. They employed squares of cloth called napkins to wipe their mouths, ate from gold plates instead of trenchers, and covered their mouths when they belched.

  'There are so many things to remember,' Federico complained at dinner. 'I cannot enjoy the food!'

  'But conversation is the real food, is it not?' Verana answered. 'Too much food leads to gluttony, and gluttony slows the brain just as too much drink dulls the senses. Because the body is forced to expend energy to digest the meal, conversation is forgotten and the diners are reduced to animals who gorge themselves in silence. In my house, conversation is first on the menu.'

  Septivus chimed in. 'The joy of eating is like the joy of learning, for each feast is like a book. The dishes are words to be savored, enjoyed, and digested. As Petrarch said, "I ate in the morning what I would digest in the evening. I swallowed as a boy what I would ponder as a man!"'

  'Indeed,' cried Verana. 'To be a slave to the stomach instead of acquiring knowledge at the table is, in my reckoning, to fail as a man.' Verana must have seen Federico's face, for even from where I was standing I could see that Federico's bottom lip was now lower than his chin. 'But come, let us eat. Forget the seasoning, Federico. Truly the best seasoning is the company of good friends.'

  O my soul! I prayed for his sake that Septivus would not say another word for as surely as there are stars in the sky, one of Federico's black moods was coming on. So when Verana recommended a thin pancake stuffed with liver called fegatelli, I took a small bite and suggested Federico not eat it because his stomach was too delicate. Federico loved that.

  'Did you see Verana's face?' he roared afterward. 'Well done, Ugo.' I hoped he would instruct Cecchi to give me a gold coin but he did not.

  Verana said much of what he learned came from a book by a Dutchman called Erasmus, which had just been translated into Italian, and after dinner he presented a copy to Federico. No one had ever given Federico a book before and he held it in his hand as if he did not know what to do with it. When he returned to his room he threw the book at Cecchi and told him to burn it. We left Verana's palazzo soon after because Federico said he would starve if he stayed another day.

  I was sorry to leave Firenze. While it is true the Firenzani have 'sharp eyes and bad tongues,' they live in a beautiful city! I saw the blessed Duomo and the statues in the Piazza della Signoria and best of all, the stupendous David by Michelangelo next to City Hall. I wanted to kiss that magnificent sculptor's hands and kneel at his feet, but his servant said that unfortunately he had left for Roma that very morning. I saw many fine palaces built by wealthy princes and merchants, but the ones I liked best belonged to the guilds. As we journeyed on to Bologna, I could not stop thinking about them and soon an idea began forming in my head. I had never had an idea such as this one before and it thrilled and excited me. The hills on either side of us were covered in a rich tapestry of red, blue, and yellow flowers. I was sure that God Himself must live here since harmony and beauty are the truest aspects of His soul and my idea was in keeping with these surroundings. Thus I was sure my idea had been blessed by God. It was as follows:

  Of all the servants, be they chamberlains, grooms, scribes, cooks or so on, surely the food taster is the bravest of all. What other servant risks his life not once, but two or three times a day just in the service of his work? In truth, we are as brave as the bravest knight for if a knight is outnumbered in battle he runs away — I have known many that fled before the battle even started — but does a food taster run away? No! Every day he does battle and every day he stays until the battle is ended. Why then, if there are guilds for goldsmiths, lawyers, spinners,' weavers, bakers, and tailors, should there not be a guild for food tasters? Are we not as important as they? The very existence of our princes depends on us! Of course a food tasters' guild would be smaller, sometimes only one person to a city, but we could still meet, discuss new foods, poisons, antidotes, even assassins.

  Thinking about this helped pass the hours of travel. Even as I was hunting for boar I was planning our initiation rites. I thought they should not only be severe, but useful. I listed them as follows.

  1. An apprentice food taster should be starved for three days, after which he should be blindfolded and made to taste tiny amounts of poison which would be increased until he identified them correctly. If he survived he would have proven his ability. If he died, then he was obviously not suited for the task.

  2. To make sure his heart was strong, he should be told after eating a meal that there was poison in it. If he immediately clutched an amulet and began praying to God, he should be thrown out the window, for if there had been poison in the meal, he would soon be dead anyway. But if he immediately found a woman and made sport with her, then he should be admitted with full honors. For a food taster must remain calm at all times: calmness will save a life, whereas a man who dabbles in superstition will act on the first thing that comes to his mind, which is usually wrong!

  3. Most importantly, the examinations must be held in summer and in the open air since the emetics would cause such a foul odor in an enclosed room as to make a pig sick.

  Having made these rules, I looked forward to meeting other food tasters to discuss my ideas with them.

  But I met very few tasters on the way to Milano. A clown who claimed that he had faked his death was too stupid to change his story even after I told him who I was and so did not deserve to be in my guild. I also met a thin, nervous man with white hair, a pronounced nose, and thick lips. He sat in a chair in the sun and did not answer my questions, but every so often licked his lips with his tongue. When I asked him why, he said he was not aware he did so. Later, I saw other tasters do the same thing. They said they had been doing it ever since they could remember and were of the opinion that wet lips could better detect poisons.

  In Piacenza, I met a taster who was convinced Federico had told me to fake my death; since he, the taster, was not capable of such cunning, how could I have done so?

&n
bsp; Federico had planned to arrive in Milano in time for the feast of San Pietro. The guests included princes, merchants from Liguria, Genoa, and Savoy, as well as cardinals and an ambassador of the emperor. These many men of importance would ensure that many women would be there, too. However, we had traveled so slowly that the feast was already in progress the night we arrived. Federico was in a bad mood. Outside Parma, the cart had lurched unexpectedly while one of his whores was sitting on top of him. She had hit her head on a wooden beam, her eyes had become glassy, and she had muttered strange things. Fearing he would catch her madness, Federico left her on the side of the road. His gout had also been plaguing him badly. The gatekeepers allowed him and a few servants, including me, into the castello. The others were to follow in the morning.

  I must say something in praise of Milano. If a finer city exists then they must invent new words to describe it. To begin with, the roads in the center of the city are not only as straight as gun barrels but also paved too, so that the carriages, of which there are many, may have a smoother ride! Is that not a miracle? And the castle! If a more magnificent one exists I have not seen it. It is almost as big as Corsoli itself and has an enormous moat around it. They told me the pig-swilling French stole many of its treasures, but everywhere I looked I saw the most beautiful paintings and the most exquisite sculptures! I remember a painting of Mary Magdalen by Il Giampietrino, which was so beautiful and tender it was no wonder Our Lord had reached out to her. By now I could write well enough to record things like this.

  One staircase, designed by Leonardo da Vinci, was so magnificent I walked up and down it several times because it made me feel like a prince. Bold, colorful carpets of Oriental designs lined the hallways. A hundred scenes were painted on the ceilings and from the center of each room hung a chandelier with a thousand candles. Servants scurried to and fro, beautiful women entertained themselves, and from every room came the sound of laughter and music. If one is going to die in the service of a prince, I said to myself, then let it be for Duke Sforza.

  Then I found the kitchen! Oh, what better sanctuary is there for a weary traveler than the hiss of boiling pots, the sight of steam curling up from the fire, and the warm smell of pies cooking? And what a kitchen! Compared to this, the kitchen in Corsoli was like a mousehole. There were three times as many fires, five times the number of cauldrons, and more knives than in the Turkish army. I ate quickly because I wanted to visit the servants' quarters, for I was sure that such a magnificent prince would have extended his generosity to those who worked for him. I should have known better.

  Just as in Corsoli, the servants' rooms were smaller and uncared for. Since French and Swiss soldiers had recently lived here, the stench was almost unbearable. As I wandered the hallways, my disappointment increasing with each step, the sound of voices pulled me to an open door. I peered in.

  Six or seven men sat drinking and playing cards. One, a dandy with a careless attitude, wore a large feather in his hat and lounged with one leg over the arm of his chair. Another was a man with a bulbous onion-like face whose right eyelid was half closed from a knife wound. He was arguing with a fat man who looked as if he might have been a monk. 'But if he sides with Venezia, then what?' the onion-faced man said fiercely.

  The Fat One shrugged. 'It depends on the pope.'

  The onion-faced man spat. 'The pope changes sides more often than the weather.'

  'Who does not?' said the Fat One. 'Besides I heard—' He saw me in the doorway. 'What do you want?' he said brusquely.

  'I have just arrived with Duke Federico Basillione DiVincelli,' I said. 'I am his food taster.'

  The others stopped their conversation to look at me. 'Welcome,' said the dandy in a smooth high voice. 'We are all tasters here.'

  'Yes, come in,' they cried.

  At long last, I was home.

  CHAPTER 21

  They sat me down at the table and a small, drunk man with bad teeth and a mouth that turned down at the corners like a frog poured a goblet of wine. I seldom drank wine, but since I was among friends I saw no reason not to enjoy myself. He handed me the goblet and said, 'Mind the arsenic'

  We laughed loudly. 'Salute!' I said.

  'Salute!' They cheered.

  The wine swirled around my mouth like a spring river washing away the weary taste of my journey. 'Benissimo!' I said. 'Benissimo!'

  'You do not have this in Corsoli?'

  'We do not have anything in Corsoli.'

  ' We do not have anything here either,' the small man laughed, from which I gathered the flask had been stolen. They clapped me on the back and introduced themselves. Onionface served Duke Sforza, the small drunk a Cardinal of Ferrara, the Fat One a rich Genoese merchant. I believe the others were German and French.

  'What is Federico like?' asked the drunk.

  'Fat.'

  He laughed. 'No, to work for.'

  'I have never worked for anyone else so I do not know.'

  Onionface jabbed me in the ribs. 'Have you seen the food taster for the archbishop of Nimes?'

  'No,' I said. 'Is he here?'

  'A he!' they laughed. 'He is a she!'

  'A woman?'

  'As God is my witness,' said the Fat One.

  'I would like to dip my bone into her bush to see if it is poisoned,' a German said, and we roared with laughter and drank again.

  My heart soared. Here at last were men who risked their lives as I did. Who understood not the dangers of war, but the evil hidden in a leaf of lettuce. Here were men who would understand my guild! We spoke of which foods we liked and which we hated, which cooks we trusted and which to beware of. Oh, I could have talked like this forever and I would have done so had not the dandy suddenly slapped his thigh and said, 'You are that Ugo DiFonte.'

  'Yes, that is me. Ugo DiFonte. Ugo, the magnificent!' I was a little drunk by now.

  'Ugo the magnificent?' the Fat One said.

  The dandy leaned across the table toward me. 'Tell us what really happened.'

  'What happened when?' the Fat One asked.

  'Yes, when?' I said.

  'When Federico killed his wife and his mother-in-law because he thought the food was poisoned—'

  'That was you?' said the drunk. The others murmured excitedly and crowded around me. They were younger than they had first appeared, some no more than boys. The drunk climbed onto a chair and, cupping his hands like a trumpet gave three loud blasts, shouted, 'I salute you!'

  Onionface knocked him to the floor.

  'Why did you do that?' whined the drunk. 'It is time one of us survived.' I wanted to help him up, but Onionface stopped me. 'Never mind him,' he said. 'Tell us.'

  'Yes, tell us, tell us,' the others pleaded, their faces desperate for any story of triumph.

  'Ah, there will be time enough for that. Tonight, let us just drink and forget our cares.'

  No one moved. Perhaps I needed to be coaxed, one said, and called for more wine. They filled the goblets and shouted, 'A long life.'

  'Tell us!' Onionface repeated. 'We are all friends here.' For all his bullying he seemed more anxious than the others.

  'Wait,' the drunk appealed, 'he has just arrived. We cannot expect him to give away his secrets before we show him some of ours.' He dug his hand into his pouch. 'Ever seen one of these?' He held up a small, yellow stone dangling on the end of a chain. 'It is a bezoar stone from the belly of a cow. It saved my life.'

  'The only thing that saved your life,' said Onionface, 'was you were so drunk you threw up.'

  The drunk ignored him. 'It gets hot in your hand if there is poison around.'

  'We all have them,' said another, and, pushing the cards aside, spread a handful of stones on the table like a jeweler showing off his wares. The others did the same and in a moment the table was covered with objects of every size and color. As well as bezoar stones there were amulets of gold and silver, an earring which had belonged to John the Baptist, a stone from Jerusalem that threatened to crumble at the touch, a lock
of Samson's hair, a fingernail of Saint Julian, a bee stinger locked in amber and finger rings of ivory. There were also ancient plants, the brain of a toad no bigger than my thumb, shells and pieces of ruby and topaz.

  They picked up each piece in turn, told how it came into their possession, and boasted of its powers, each tale grander than the one before. Each time the owner swore to the Virgin Mary the tale was true — they had seen it with their own eyes or knew someone who had — and anyone who disputed them was a liar and should have their tongue cut out. No one doubted any of the stories and I saw for all their passions and boasts they were nothing more than ants, ants blindly marching forward without knowing why.

  'I bet no one has one of these,' said Onionface, holding out a dagger with a brown bone handle. 'It is made from the fangs of an African snake. It is the only one in the world.'

  'Then what is this?' said the Fat One, pulling out a knife with exactly the same handle.

  'This is the real one,' Onionface said darkly, 'I paid two hundred ducats for it.'

  'Then you were cheated,' the Fat One smirked.

  Onionface flicked the dagger around so the point was facing the fat man. The others hastily grabbed their stones and put them away.

  'Neither of them are as good as a unicorn's bone, are they Ugo?' said the dandy, stepping between them.

  'You have a unicorn bone?' Onionface asked.

  They turned to me, the fight forgotten.

  'I had one,' I said, 'but not anymore.'

  "What do you use, then?'

  'Yes, show us,' said the drunk.

  'If you are hiding something—' The Fat One pushed me in the chest.

  ‘I am not hiding anything.'

  'Then open your pouch,' Onionface demanded.

  I heard the door close behind me. Before I could pull my knife I was grabbed from behind and thrown to the floor. The Fat One sat on my chest. Onionface tore off my pouch, untied the string, and turned it upside down so the contents would spill out, but nothing did. It was empty.