As long as toasting remained a matter of passionately maintained honour, as competitive in its way as duelling, and restricted to groups of men only, it was always blamed for causing excessive drinking. It has been frequently condemned or banned as a means of cutting down on drunkenness; the earliest known Temperance Society was founded in 1517 with the express aim of abolishing toasting. The Dissenter William Prynne devoted his life to condemning drink, and especially toasting; he wrote a book against it called Health’s Sicknesse (1628). Samuel Pepys went to a dinner in 1664 at which Prynne, ever faithful to his principles, “would not drink any health, no, not the King’s, but sat down with his hat on all the while; but nobody took notice of it to him at all.”
Competitive toasting died out, however, for social reasons which had little to do with moral wrath: the practice came simply to be seen as too demonstrative, and therefore embarrassing. Good manners increasingly required one to leave other people alone and not to show one’s own hand too blatantly. Even the person toasted could feel annoyed at being singled out. “What could be more rude or ridiculous,” demanded John Trusler in 1791, “than to interrupt persons at their meals with unnecessary compliments?” He explained in his System of Etiquette (1804) that toasting was “exploded,” having become a proof of lower-class origins. The custom continued as a polite, slightly wooden gesture, or as an intimate sign of affection. The Illustrated Manners Book advises mid-nineteenth-century Americans not to toast at all—“it may however be done quietly and unobtrusively, as a familiar pleasantry.” A woman to whom a glass was raised in company was taught to “catch the person’s eye and bow with politeness. It is not necessary to say anything, but smile with an air of great kindness.” By the end of the nineteenth century in England, it was thought “not the act of a gentleman” to mention a woman’s name when the men met in the women’s absence after dinner to drink port and smoke cigars.
Indeed, it could be felt as early as the seventeenth century that looking deeply into a person’s eyes was sufficient; the drinking was merely metaphorical and could therefore be dispensed with. Ben Jonson was sensible of its poetic power, however, even as he dismissed it:
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I’ll not look for wine.
Formal toasting, sternly exclusive of any rambunctious behaviour, is still a common custom—and perhaps, when done in private, as a “familiar pleasantry,” toasting has regained a little of its power as a symbol of togetherness. In Germany, Scandinavia, and eastern European countries, it survives as a piece of etiquette important enough for foreigners to be warned, for example by Braganti and Devine, how to behave when encountering it. Their tradition is an ancient one, with powerful beginnings. It is believed that the bowl referred to in the Scandinavian toast “Skoal!” was originally made from the skull of a fallen enemy. Certainly skoal and skull, both meaning “a hollow thing,” are etymologically related.
TABLE TALK
Few people become quite as disgusted as Europeans and North Americans do if diners eat with their mouths open. Chewing absolutely must be performed with the lips shut. Yet few also are the societies which insist, as we do, that at invited dinner parties everybody must talk during dinner. Among us it is rude to eat and not talk, unless the meal is a very intimate one where the rule is ignored or dropped. We need never think of our manners as weakening as long as this fiendishly difficult skill is demanded of us, that when we are in a convivial group we shall talk at all the correct moments, saying everything we should, and even everything we mean, but never be caught doing so with our mouths full.
Talking is of course one of the ways in which we “rise above food”: we are not at table merely to eat, but in order to enjoy each other’s company. “It isn’t so much what’s on the table that matters,” said W. S. Gilbert, “as what’s on the chairs.” The ancient Greeks never tired of reiterating that “stomach” (gaster) was not enough, one needed “mind” (psyche) as well; that civilized people came together for each other and for philosophy, and not just to stuff themselves. A philosopher-host like Menedemus would provide a meal for only one or two of his guests; the others would have to dine before coming, bring their own cushions, and be content with a sip for everybody from one half-pint cup and nothing but a lupine or a bean for dessert. He offered a token dinner, but made it impossible for most guests to come to the party for anything but the conversation.
The Greeks turned discussion at a symposium into a literary genre in its own right: Plato’s great dialogue, Symposium, Xenophon’s Symposium, Plutarch’s Symposiacs and Banquet of the Seven Sages, Macrobius’ Saturnalia were the ancestors of collections of Table Talk or Propos de table which have continued as a minor tradition of European belles lettres down the centuries. Athenaeus wrote what must be one of the longest versions on record: fifteen volumes of chat, called The Sophists at Dinner. Books like these, as well as artistic representations, especially paintings of dinner parties on ancient Greek dinnerware, are the reason why so much information is available about ancient Greek and Roman attitudes towards eating and drinking together. (Their actual dining habits are more elusive. Like most people, the Greeks and Romans seldom described their table manners in detail because they considered them common knowledge.) Greeks in fact talked little during the meal itself. A few things were said, one of the tasks apparently being to decide, while dinner was being eaten, what the subject of conversation would be when talking did get under way.
The symposium or drinking party was the place and time for discussion, whether serious or trivial. Subjects at symposia ranged from “What is love?” to “Why meat spoils more readily in moonlight than in sunlight” and “Whether people of old did better with portions served to each, or people of today, who dine from a common supply”; subjects very often had something to do with food or drink. But the pangs of hunger had to be assuaged before conversation began. In Homeric times it was considered very rude to expect a stranger to speak at length to his hosts before he had eaten his fill; he was not even asked his name until he had been given dinner. But when speaking began, it was polite to contribute what one had to offer. People knew you by the way you behaved: it was only fair to give them material with which to make their judgement of your worth.
In some societies drinking and talk is done before dinner. A large Sherpa party begins with two, three, four, even five hours of discussion, quarrelling, joking, all facilitated by the drinking of beer. A large crowd assures people that they can work through grudges in safety, while at the same time assessing the opinion of neighbours and finding out who their friends are; the community can express either consensus or disapproval for the behaviour of various members, and ranking (symbolized by shifting seating arrangements) is adjusted among individuals. At a climactic moment, judged with finesse by the host, dinner will appear, to please, pacify, and relieve everybody. Silence falls, and everybody gratefully and happily eats. In the silence, any rough edges left by communal friction are smoothed over by the action of eating together. In China and Iran, the traditional rule is also “talk first, then eat.”
Some people, among them the Newars of Katmandu, feel that silence when eating is formal behaviour, to be maintained in public; among friends and family one may talk, laugh, and dine at the same time. Other societies, including many people in our own culture, feel exactly the opposite on this point. The Japanese banquet begins in silence, that is, with formality and caution, and then “warms up,” becoming louder and friendlier as it goes on. The “lubricating” effect of alcoholic drinks can help this transition to occur. In many African societies only the elders may speak, or else silence is maintained by everybody.
Our own culture’s opting for conversation during meals is undoubtedly linked with our custom of dividing food into separate portions before eating begins. The “togetherness” of a meal in common requires boosting for us, and we intensify the sense of community
by talking to each other; sharing a common dish as other people do entails a great deal of non-verbal cooperation and causes plenty of interpersonal relationship just in the course of eating. Indeed, sharing a common dish might need concentration on the matter in hand just to ensure that everyone gets a fair share. Westerners often remark on the speed with which foreigners seem to eat, and we have noted that food chopped in small pieces to be eaten with chopsticks will get cold if eating is too leisurely. Not talking saves time, and also stems from a different attitude towards mealtimes. Eating might be thought of as pleasurably and ceremonially sufficient; as needing all one’s reverent concentration; or just as a quiet activity enjoyed in common with other people. Speaking can seem de trop, and even an unnecessary risk; the Babylonian Talmud (ca. A.D. 450) advises, “When eating refrain from speaking, lest the windpipe open before the gullet, and life be in danger.”
Often a compromise is sought between silence and speech: entertainment is laid on during the actual eating. (We have seen that elaborate theatrical interludes once took place in the entremets of a medieval banquet, that is, not during the serious eating but between courses.) People often like watching what they are doing when they eat, so the entertainment, unless most eating stops while it is going on, tends to be auditory; the guests keep silent and eat, while someone reads or speaks. The word “collation,” which now means a small, intimate meal, comes from the Conferences (“Lectures,” literally, “things brought together”: “collation” is from the same Latin verb) of John Cassian, to which Benedictine monks listened during meals. There might be singing, as in the Saxon hall or at Homeric feasts. At ancient Greek symposia, guests would take turns singing; a myrtle branch was passed to each singer so that it was clear whose turn it was, and to make sure there were no rowdy interruptions.
Non-dining instrumentalists who play for the company have an ancient history; the tradition continues in some restaurants today. Where there is musical accompaniment, there have to be rules enjoining silence so that others can hear the music. Jesus, son of Sirach, writes in Ecclesiasticus (ca. 185 B.C.), “Speak, old men, it is proper that you should; but know what you are talking about, and do not interrupt the music.” Madame de Sévigné complains in seventeenth-century France that the art of conversing at dinner is dying because music is increasingly played to the guests: “One assembles an excellent group of dinner-table companions, in order that they shall all be silenced.” In countries where the host’s role is not to participate in the meal but to bestow it upon his guests, he might be expected to give a speech, play an instrument, or sing to the group at dinner: they can eat undisturbed, and he is allowed to do all the giving while they remain completely passive receivers in his house.
It is increasingly remarked that North Americans watch more and more television during everyday meals at home. As many as 78 percent are thought to watch at least once or twice a week during dinner; about 24 percent of these always have the television on. The average length of an American dinner, with or without TV, is thirty minutes, which suggests that not a great deal of discussion is taking place. A British report shows that one distinguishing mark of a “proper” Sunday dinner, that is, a formal family meal, is “no TV.” When people sorrowfully note the passing of dinner-time conversation, at least at family meals, we might recall that eating in silence is by far the most common human choice, and that entertainment has often replaced talk—unless food is turned into an art form, or the family gathering into an occasion for education or celebration. We have made silence informal partly because for us formal occasions require verbal communication. But where families spend less and less time together, removing dinner-time talk may well be a serious deprivation: it takes away what was scarce in the first place.
Our own culture has thought it worth while to work hard on polishing the art of conversation. Erving Goffman has pointed out that the family-sized dining-room table is a specially created “open region,” where participants have the right “to engage anyone present.” Talking at table is important for the information which is provided for others about any speaker who is not well known to them. The purpose of dinner-table conversation is partly to force people to go through their paces: to show that they have learned the rules and “polished” themselves, and will therefore, in the estimation of the company, “do.” As we saw earlier, manners can constitute a cruel enforcement of class barriers; at table there is nowhere to hide, and the rule against silence means that there is no refuge from having to perform. “Taciturn people,” says one nineteenth-century etiquette book firmly, “are not good for society, and should avoid it.”
It is possible for rules to evolve which will help to keep everyone in order. In the French Navy during the 1920s, the conversation included (and may do so still) a series of silent aids to comprehension—the aids themselves proving, of course, that everyone was fully conversant with the code. There were miniature objects laid on the table, to be used especially when warnings were required: a tiny boat-hook, a gaffe in French and synonymous with an embarrassing faux pas, was placed before someone in danger of committing such an offence. A miniature ladder (the symbolism of which is unclear to me) was shown to a diner who became angry over anything; and a small model of a bronze wall was available for standing in front of one’s own place to warn people that their talk was encroaching on private matters one did not wish to discuss.
People who converse in the context of dinner have always been warned not to talk about anything too important—not religion, not politics, or anything controversial. Arguments must certainly not break out, because manners have a primary mandate to prevent anything even resembling violence. A more avowable fear is that the gastric juices, and hence digestive processes, might be adversely affected by an unpleasant scene. One must not take advantage of the fact that everyone is pinned to his or her chair for the duration of the meal; one must not, for example, ask pointed questions, or questions requiring long replies. No one can or should hold forth for long periods at dinner: everyone must talk and therefore have a chance to do so, and everyone must have time to eat as well. No one should talk shop, or say anything so technical that the others cannot understand: everyone must be brought into the discussion, and anything which is done, even inadvertently, to exclude anyone is a sign of ill breeding. In his essay “On Experience,” Montaigne becomes positively brutal about people who tried to be too intellectual during dinner: “What? Would they try to square the circle while mounting their wives?”
The art of dinner-table conversation, as it evolved from the seventeenth century onward, was that of interaction, almost for its own sake. Diners displayed their social awareness, their manners and tact, and showed respect for the rules they were all keeping. The young, for instance, had to defer to the old, keep silent most of the time, and yet demonstrate that they were listening and interested. They must not put anything into their mouths while they were being spoken to, and not hold on to a glass as though waiting for the interlocutor to stop talking in order to have a drink. They must never imitate—inadvertently of course, one would never do it on purpose—the expression on the face of anyone addressing them.
Manners were in part a moral code, forcing “good breeding” to include consideration for other people’s rights and feelings. No one should show preferential treatment to any one guest over all the others, no two people should whisper together, and explanations were required if anyone laughed during a conversation that was not general, just in case someone thought they were being laughed at. No one must offend a guest by pronouncing a witticism at his or her expense. A host, in spite of or because of his power, ruined his reputation if he spoke too much, praised himself, served himself first, praised the dishes, or spoke about meals he had given before or dishes he had eaten and liked. The Rules and Orders of the Coffee House (1674) expressed most of the main constraints upon conversation:
But let him forfeit Twelve-pence that shall Sweare:
He that shall any Quarrel here begin,
Let Noise of lewd Disputes be quite forborn,
No Maudlin Lovers here in Corners Mourn,
But all be Brisk, and Talk, but not too much.
On Sacred things, Let none presume to touch,
Nor Profane Scripture, or sawcily wrong
Affairs of State with an Irreverent Tongue.
Let Mirth be Innocent, and each man see
That all his Jests without Reflection be.
It was during the seventeenth century, and increasingly during the eighteenth, that tables even at banquets became habitually surrounded by chairs. (At family meals they must always have been so.) Seating at large feasts, except at “high tables,” was no longer arranged along one side only so that guests could be seen, and so that the tables could be approached more readily by processions of servants bearing dishes. From now on the ornaments and decorations were set mostly in the middle of the table, for the diners alone and not for an audience of people watching the show. The amount of silverware, however, and the number of dishes and ornaments meant that tables set for dinner à la française were so broad and encumbered that guests could scarcely talk to each other across the table—and it was expressly forbidden to shout. Gradually tables did become smaller. In the eighteenth century, “intimate suppers” for ten or fewer became the height of fashion. At these events servants were outlawed, food being set out in advance on side tables; the object, when women were invited, was often a projected seduction. The nineteenth-century dinner à la russe took away all need to choose from an array of dishes, and most of the obligation for guests to serve their neighbours; diners were more separated from each other than they had ever been, but the stage was left all the more free for conversation. People at dinner still tend to talk to those sitting beside them, but conversation across our much narrower, less laden tables is possible and encouraged.
The Rituals of Dinner Page 33