THE FIRST BITE
Once the meal is ready there is usually, on earth at least, a wait before eating begins. Dinner, in ordinary households, in monasteries, or in the halls of great medieval lords, in large Victorian mansions and hotels, or in disciplined modern resorts such as the Club Mediterranée, has always been announced by a call to the diners to assemble. The dinner bell in a monastery would declare what time it was not only to the monks but to the people outside the monastery walls. The prayer bells and dinner bells, the town curfew bells and tocsins, were sounded by the person whose job it was to keep watch from the church steeple and ring the bells in warning of danger, or simply to mark the time; he was called “the watch,” a name we now give to the timepiece we wear on our individual wrists. The Victorians opted for the butler and his gong. “Beneath the master touch,” wrote Arnold Palmer at the beginning of Moveable Feasts, “of one of those butlers whose glance, like Medusa’s, one never dreamed of meeting, it could murmur, hum, and finally mount to a reverberating crescendo that made ears sing, temples throb, that drowned speech and thought and almost consciousness itself … and how, at its accents, those gastric juices flowed!”
We ourselves are supposed to have washed our hands before approaching the table. But often, especially if people eat with their hands, careful hand-washing will take place in front of the assembled diners, the purpose being not only to safeguard the hygiene of each washer, but to initiate everyone into the sacred ceremony of dining together, and also to pay attention to the peace of mind of everybody who will share the meal. It may be good manners therefore to wash ostentatiously, even if you know your hands are clean. In medieval France the nobility, and they alone, were allowed a trumpet blast to announce dinner; this action was called corner l’eau, “to sound the horn for water”—the water being that used for washing hands in preparation for the meal. People would line up to wash their hands at a side table, or pages would approach the dining tables and proceed to pour scented water over all the guests’ hands and hold out napkins for drying, in the sight of everybody.
European medieval ceremony required that in a noble house hand-washing should be followed by an elaborate, often extraordinarily lengthy tasting ritual, where the food for the lord or his high table was “assayed” by officers whose job it was to die if the food should turn out to be poisoned. Tasting was called “credence,” because of the belief or confidence which the ritual was meant to instil; side tables at feasts were known as “credence” tables. (The term is still in use for the table standing near the altar in a church; and an Italian sideboard is known today as a credenza.) Tasters were trained to perform their task with grace, deliberation, and an air of the utmost unconcern. Assaying could be done by touching the food with substances reputed to change colour or bleed if poison should be present. There were serpents’ tongues which specialized in testing salt (these are now said to have been in reality sharks’ teeth), narwhal (“unicorn”) horns, rhinoceros horns, pieces of rock crystal, agate, or serpentine, and jewels said to have been found in toads’ heads. The fear of being poisoned appears to have haunted the medieval imagination, and indeed unintentional food poisoning, ergotism, and germ-infested water were a constant danger. Yet tainted as opposed to deliberately poisoned food was never obviously enough the cause of sickness for the efficacy of magical objects to be discredited.
Dinners at seventeenth-century Versailles were brought to the royal table under armed guard, to forestall thefts and tampering, from the main kitchens and from l’office de la bouche (the office of the mouth), a kitchen used only for the preparation of desserts. The dishes had to travel an enormous distance—nearly a quarter of a mile—to their destination; as the formidable procession passed by, courtiers would take off their hats and bow, murmuring “C’est la viande du Roi” (“It is the King’s meat”). The food was covered for its journey, to prevent the loss of some of its heat; modern historians speculate nevertheless that Louis XIV must rarely have eaten food that was more than slightly warm. The coverings, which were removed just before the food was tested by the assayers, were also intended to foil would-be poisoners en route; they, and the napkins wrapped round the chief diner’s spoon and knife, are the origin of the term “covers” for place settings. (We have only to think of the hysterical wrappings which enclose modern fast foods to realize that coverings still provide people with the impression that their safety is being taken care of.) Only the most important people had their food tested for poison; the ceremony conferred enormous prestige. It was flattering to be considered so great as to be a likely candidate for assassination, and flattering to watch such elaborate care being taken to prevent any harm to one’s person—while other people looked on, waited, and were not given the same regard.
Tasting for poison is still etiquette in some modern societies. In Papua New Guinea, it is good manners for a host to sip water before offering it to a guest; in several African societies, food is ritually tasted by the host before guests receive it. The person who splits and shares the cola nut in Nigeria must kiss it first, reputedly to reassure everyone present that poison is out of the question. There is normally no real anxiety among the guests; the act is initiatory and honorific, a polite flourish like publicly washing one’s hands even if they are clean. Our custom of having the host taste the wine before approving it for his guests seems merely practical and entirely in the interests of the palate, but it is often at the same time a purely ceremonial expression of concern for the well-being of the guests.
It was only in January 1989 that the new emperor of Japan announced that for the first time in history there would be no requirement of food-tastings before every royal meal. His father, the emperor Hirohito, had updated the tasting ceremony by employing scientists to go over the food beforehand, chemically analyzing every morsel before it was served on sterilized dinnerware and then formally tasted; the royal faeces and urine were also scientifically inspected before bedtime. The emperor’s cook, Tadao Tanaka, committed ritually prescribed suicide when his master died. The prestige value of tasting everything for poison could, and in occasional modern instances still can, be turned into a rather unsubtle insult. When the Communist dictator of Romania, Nicolae Ceausescu, and his wife visited Buckingham Palace as guests of the queen in 1978, they brought with them in their entourage a food-taster. He was to ensure that “the lay God, the heart of the Party and the Romanian nation, the heir of Caesar, Alexander the Great and Napoleon” would not fall victim to an untrustworthy British queen.
Another initiatory rite before dinner is prayer, a blessing on the food and a thanksgiving (which is the meaning of the word “grace”) for sustenance, life, and the health implied by being able to eat and enjoy. Grace may be said by the host, or a child in a family setting, or a guest might be honoured by being asked to say it. An ancient Christian custom accompanying grace was the host’s marking with a cross the round bread-loaf that was about to be shared. Prayer may end the meal, as it commonly does in Jewish practice. There may be two prayers, strictly speaking a benedicite (“blessing”) at the beginning and grace, a thanking, at the end. The custom in Europe and America has been to stand for grace at formal banquets, and men’s hats, when it was correct for men to wear them during dinner, were removed for the prayer. Each diner at an Arab meal rolls back his right sleeve with the prayer “Bismil’lah” (“In God’s name!”) before beginning to eat, and says “Hamdallah!” (“Praise be to God!”) at the end. An Abbasid text (ninth century) warns, understandably, that it is very rude to say “Hamdallah” in the middle of the meal: one might be interpreted as expressing a wish that the meal were over. In our own culture grace is not, of course, said by people who do not believe in God. Religious people themselves may not say it in case they might embarrass non-believers, or because they find it quaintly demonstrative as a ritual. We should note that where grace is said, the occasion is usually a full-scale or “proper” meal, especially when there are many people present; grace includes a recognition of co
mmunity. At breakfast, an intimate family affair where there is relatively little emphasis on centralizing the meal or on sharing, and to which people often come and go as they please, grace is almost never said, even by people who retain the custom.
The prototypical beginning of every feast is, as we have seen, a sacrifice. Many people to this day perform a mini-“sacrifice” before beginning every meal; often the food or drink thus expended is thought of as feeding the dead, remembering them at the most life-giving moments of the day. Among the Igbo of Nigeria, one of the diners may first rotate a pinch of fufuu above his or her head, then throw it outside before the meal begins. American Indians have many different rituals whereby a little food is taken from the feast before anyone may eat, and burned in the fire with a prayer. One of the most important uses for tobacco was as a pre-prandial burnt offering to the gods, its smoke ascending to them as prayers were said. The Ainus of Japan, who take pride in their long hair, moustaches, and full beards, use beautifully carved wooden moustache-lifters to prevent any mess as they drink during dinner. Before the meal begins, the men ceremonially dip their moustache-lifters into their saké or their soup, and sprinkle some drops on the floor as they make their prayer. Ancient Greeks and Romans would fill a special flat bowl full of wine and sing together as they poured some out as a libation to the gods.
The host, as convenor of the feast, is often expected to display leadership, and continue to do so as the meal progresses. No one should sit down before the host has made the first move. At a modern Western meal, the host usually gives some sign that everyone may sit down at their “proper” places. Very polite men may still pull out chairs for women and slide them back under them as they sit down. The host then unfolds his napkin and lays it over his lap; the guests do the same. As this happens a second, secular “grace” is often said—words like “Bon appétit!” in Czech or Hungarian or Dutch, from diners to their neighbours, wishing them lots of room to fill and much benefit from the meal.
The English, who, unusually among the nations of the earth, commonly make no response to expressions of thanks, also omit this ritual effusion. Germans say, “Gesegnete Mahlzeit!” (“Blessed dinner-time!”) just before eating; or they say, “Guten Appetit! Prost Mahlzeit!” (“May dinner-time prove beneficial!”), or simply “Mahlzeit,” before or after the meal. In Hispanic cultures, people are traditionally constrained when dining in public to invite any stranger in their vicinity to share their meal. Strangers, as Julian Pitt-Rivers explains, must be changed into guests before eating in their presence can be thought proper. The custom today is found mostly in the “lower” classes: a Spanish peasant, travelling for instance in a train, will offer his sandwiches to his fellow travellers; they thank him and politely refuse. In simple Portuguese restaurants, a new arrival, friend or stranger, walking past someone’s table, will be asked, “E servido?” (“Have you been served?”), meaning “Will you have some?” The passer-by must reply, “Nāo, muito obrigado. Bom proveito” (“No, thank you very much. May it profit you”). In Hugh Rhodes’s sixteenth-century Boke of Nurture we hear that the English themselves once wished their neighbours well after the meal:
When ye perceive to rise, say to your fellows all,
“Much good do it you,” gently, then gentle, men will you call.
A man hosting a communal feast has often been expected to give a speech (still before anyone begins eating!), explaining the reason for the gathering and thanking everyone who has helped prepare it. A relic of such a custom is to be found in Portugal (which is often singled out as one of the politest countries in Europe), where the host at a formal dinner frequently says a few words to the guests just before the meat course is served; the Portuguese do allow guests to take the edge off their hunger first. The host of a feast in Melanesian New Ireland, having made his speech, supervises the “waiters” who serve the guests with equal portions of food on their banana-leaf plates; then he and his fellow host walk down the centre of the enclosure round the walls of which the banqueters are sitting. They each hold a small pig’s bone. Everyone falls silent. When they throw their bones away, the guests fall to. In this culture, as in many others, hosts do not partake of the meal; they are givers, and throw this role into relief by not themselves taking. In societies where it is bad form for a host to eat at his own feast, he must walk around and talk to his guests; or he may be expected to sing or play the flute to them while they silently eat.
The Russian emperor, wrote Richard Chancellor of his meeting with Ivan the Terrible in 1553, “before the comming in of the meate … according to an ancient custome of the kings of Muscovy, doth first bestow a peece of bread upon every one of his ghests with a loud pronunciation of his title, and honour … whereupon all the ghests rise up, and by and by sit downe again.” This fatherly role, where the host takes it upon himself to express both hierarchy and sharing in common, is given to the host in many societies. Ever since the days of the Li Chi, the Chinese host has been expected to lead his guests every inch of the way; their part is to accept his lead as passively and obediently as possible. The beginning of a modern Chinese banquet, as described by B. Y. Chao, goes like this: The guests arrive to find either four or eight small cold dishes ready for them on the table. When all are comfortable, the host lifts his wine-cup as a signal for his guests to thank him. They say, “Duō xiè, duō xiè!” (“A thousand thanks, a thousand thanks!”), lift their cups, and drink. The host raises his chopsticks and holds them poised over the dishes; the guests do the same. He moves his rice bowl off the plate to the side; the guests follow suit. The last person to touch the food is the politest. When at last the cold food has been tasted, the hot dishes can arrive, and the banquet proper begins.
All these complicated manoeuvres have been devised by their various cultures in order to make the person who is about to eat conscious of what he or she is doing, and to force the members of the group to take notice of one another. An ascetic practice common to many religious traditions requires the adept always to think about the first bite while making it: the first bite is acknowledged as being different from every other bite. Always remembering to detach oneself by consciously consuming the first bite is extremely difficult, because nothing could be easier to forget to do than to recollect oneself before the simple action of eating, when one is hungry and the food is ready and waiting. Table manners everywhere insist on the rituals of starting: they impose rules which delay the beginning of eating and override the natural impulse simply to get stuck in. They represent, both practically and symbolically, an option not to be satisfied with merely assuaging our bodily hunger, but to overlay and control “nature” in order to enjoy it more. The idea is also that other attitudes can then find expression—ideals such as mindfulness, gratitude, and willing awareness of people other than ourselves.
Our own culture has to deal with a dilemma in that we are served, or serve ourselves, with portions; we do not take pieces from a common heap of food and eat each mouthful as we take it, nor do we pick bits from different central dishes whenever we like, as the Chinese and Japanese do with their chopsticks. We have to decide whether to eat as soon as we are served, or to wait till everyone has received his dinner before starting. The old way was for everyone to wait till all have been served before beginning; this is still the rule in Portugal, for instance, where everyone awaits everyone else before eating, at each course that is served. The new custom is to start eating at once, “or it’ll get cold.” We now like eating food hot, and we do not have the aid of servants to supply everyone with portions very quickly. It is still ritually correct for the hostess to invite guests to start immediately, making it clear that she thinks they were capable of having waited, letting the gravy congeal on their plates, for politeness’ sake. Emily Post says the guest of honour should wait until one more guest has been served after herself, and then begin, so she will not find herself the only person eating and no one else will be tempted to wait for her. It is still strict etiquette in many countries to
wait until all drinks are served before picking up one’s glass. There is no problem or excuse about the temperature of drinks; and looking as though one were dying for a drink is even more to be avoided than is obviously longing for food.
An anonymous nineteenth-century American manners book (1855) warns the hostess never to send her plate away until everyone has finished, because that could be interpreted as a wish that everyone would stop eating. Queen Victoria, who as royalty had always to be served first and who would start eating as soon as the food was set before her, is said to have been unaware that as soon as she had finished and put her knife and fork down, the plates of everybody at the table had to be removed at once. Dinners with her must have been extremely anxiety-ridden, until a desperate and courageous guest once called the footman and asked him to bring back his plate. Queen Victoria (luckily) noticed, enquired into the custom, and put a stop to it.
TAKING NOTE OF OUR SURROUNDINGS
A princely house, in early Greece or at the beginning of the European Middle Ages, used typically to have as its centre a spacious hall where retainers ate dinner under the eye of their lord. He was enthroned alone or with a few highly favoured or important people at his high table, or at a similarly prominent place in the room. As time passed, the lord gradually withdrew from his hall and dined in private, with his chosen companions. He needed the assistance less and less of assiduously feasted followers to help him fight his battles and to express his power by the allegiance he was able to muster. In ancient Greece, the aristocrats formed themselves into coteries; in fourteenth-, fifteenth-, and sixteenth-century Europe the inner circle tended increasingly to eat in a chamber away from the lower orders.
The Rituals of Dinner Page 18