A Brief History of Food: The humble tin can

I wonder how many of us take the humble tin can for granted? Have you ever stopped to think of the origins of this omnipresent object as you toss another one into the recycling? As the name might imply, Tastes Of History spends a lot of time teaching history in primary schools across Great Britain. Our workshops from the Stone Age to World War 2 are also mirrored by our practical cooking demonstrations at historical events around the country. While talking with children and adults, either in school or at events, one can quickly realise that many of us are ignorant (in the true sense of the word) of the history of food and such mundane objects as, say, the tin can. Yet the story of the tin can is one of ingenuity and persistence. It has changed the way we eat, the way we shop, and the way we travel.

Amazingly the inventors had no idea how widespread their innovation would become. All they had set out to achieve was to solve an ages old problem – how to feed thousands of soldiers and sailors with nutritious, fresh food when on campaign or far from their nation's shores. Despite the military power available to the late 18th-century British, French and Dutch navies, the question of nourishment was exercising the minds of the warring admirals and solving the conundrum was becoming vital to national supremacy.

Military necessity  Over the centuries a seaman's diet, whether they were part of the crews of Sir Francis Drake or Admiral Horatio Nelson, hardly changed. Food stored onboard ship was meant to last many months, through damp, cold, and heat. Although 18th-century seafarers’ rations might sound less than appetising, by and large sailors were better fed than many in the labouring classes at home. Even so, the quality of provisions on board ships deteriorated quickly due to storage problems, a lack of proper ventilation, and poor drainage. Moreover, many ships' suppliers were dishonest and sent stores that were already rotten before they were taken on board. Fresh food was therefore eaten early in any sea voyage before it perished, became infested with maggots, or was eaten by rats. After that a sailor’s main rations were salted beef or pork, cheese, fish, ale and some form of long-lasting biscuits, known as ‘hard tack’ or ‘ship’s bread’, but the latter were often plagued with maggots and weevils, a type of beetle.

It was in Paris during the Napoleonic Wars (1803–1815), a series of conflicts fought between the First French Empire under Napoleon Bonaparte and various European coalitions, that a financial reward was offered to solve the French military’s supply problem. Enter Nicolas Appert, a confectioner from Massy, south of Paris, who devised a method of heating food in sealed glass jars and bottles placed in boiling water. In so doing Appert had invented, or perhaps stumbled upon, sterilisation decades before Louis Pasteur revealed to the world how heat killed bacteria. Appert’s use of glass, however, was somewhat impractical given its heavy, fragile nature and a tendency to explode under internal pressure. Even so, he is still known as the “father of canning” despite not being the first to use tin plate.

The French Ministry of the Interior awarded Appert 12,000 Francs (possibly at the personal behest of Napoleon) on the condition he made his discovery public. His findings were duly published in 1810 in “The Art of Preserving Animal and Vegetable Substances”. While Appert’s method was used by the French Navy, it was in England that his idea was fully exploited and improved. Within months, British merchant Peter Durand was granted a patent by King George III to preserve food using tinplated cans.

Patent zero  As a non-corrosive coating, tin was already being used to preserve steel and iron cooking utensils. Indeed, many antique or vintage copper pans are tinplated both to preserve them and prevent food being tainted by the metal. Durand's patent, however, records he was the first to sterilise food within a sealed tin container by placing it in cold water that was gradually brought to the boil at which point the lid was opened slightly before being sealed once again. Yet a close examination of Durand’s patent, held at the National Archives in London, reveals he was not the inventor of the tin can. The wording of the patent documents it was “an invention communicated to him by a certain foreigner residing abroad”. According to extensive research by Norman Cowell, a retired lecturer at Reading University’s department of food science and technology, that “foreigner” was another Frenchman, Philippe de Girard. He had been making regular visits to the Royal Society in London to test his canned foods on its members and had used Durand as an agent to patent his own idea. The record of this hitherto unknown arrangement was discovered in the Royal Society’s library in an archived diary, entitled CB/3/6, belonging to Sir Charles Blagden, a fellow of the Society. The entry for 28 January 1811 explicitly says it is Durand's patent in name only. So, it seems that two Frenchmen were ultimately responsible for inspiring an Englishman to patent what would become the ubiquitous tin can. But that is just the beginning because Durand sold the patent to one Bryan Donkin, a Northumbrian engineer, for £1,000. Then having pocketed a fee and securing an elevated place in history, Durand disappears from the story.

Commercial canning  Donkin, on the other hand, had a flair for innovation and for making his ideas profitable. He patented the first steel pen as an alternative to the quill, for example, and invented a device to measure the speed of machines. In 1811 after making a profit of £2,212 in his papermaking machine business Donkin, and his fellow collaborators John Hall and John Gamble, invested in a new interest - canning. The firm of Donkin, Hall and Gamble established a canning factory in Blue Anchor Lane in Bermondsey, adjacent to the earlier papermaking machine factory, where land was cheap but close to the River Thames docks. With Gamble leading the experiments and running of the factory to make tinned iron containers, it took a further two years to refine the preservation method for use on a commercial scale.

In April 1813, the Duke of Wellington, then Lord Wellesley, wrote to say how tasty he had found the firm's canned beef and recommended it be adopted by both the Army and the Navy. With such glowing praise, Donkin’s diary entry for Monday May 3rd records that he had begun preparations to supply the Britain’s Admiralty with what would be the world's first commercial cans of preserved food. By late spring 1813 the firm of Donkin, Hall and Gamble was appointing agents along the south coast to sell their preserved food to outbound ships, and it was around this time that the British Admiralty bought 156lb of Donkin's food to feed sick sailors in the mistaken belief that scurvy was due to over-reliance on salted meat. Despite this not being the case, the praise from seamen for this unexpected addition to their daily menu was warm and glowing, from every corner of the globe.

Just over one month later, and nine days after Wellington decisively beat the French at the Battle of Vitoria in Spain, Donkin and Gamble presented their beef to the Duke of Kent at Kensington Palace on June 3oth. Subsequently, the Duke of Kent's secretary Jon Parker wrote: “I am commanded by the Duke of Kent to acquaint you that his Royal Highness having procured introduction of some of your patent beef on the Duke of York's table, where it was tasted by the Queen [1], the Prince Regent and several distinguished personages and highly approved. He wishes you to furnish him with some of your printed papers in order that His Majesty and many other individuals may according to their wish expressed have an opportunity of further proving the merits of the things for general adoption.”

Furnished with royal approval, and with a network of agents based at key seaports to tout for custom from naval ships and merchants, Donkin, Hall and Gamble formally opened the first commercial canning factory in England. Inside the company’s first employees handcrafted sheets of tin plate into tin cans at the rate of about six an hour. These early cans ranged from 4 to 20 pounds in weight. The oldest survivor, measuring 14 cm (5.5 in) high and 18 cm (7 in) wide, can be found in the Science Museum in London. Filled with veal, it weighed a hefty 7 lbs when taken by Sir William Parry to explore the Northwest Passage. One 2½ year old can was opened by Sir Joseph Banks on behalf of the Royal Society. He declared the veal inside to be in “a perfect state of preservation”. Indeed, Banks went on to describe Donkin's work as “one of the most important discoveries of the age we live in”. On the back of such praise, business with the Admiralty took off. In 1814, the Admiralty’s order was for 2,939 lb but in 1821 that had grown to 9,000 lb. Filled with beef, mutton, carrots, parsnips and soup, the early tinned iron cans were destined for every corner of the British Empire, and with prices ranging from 8d/lb for carrots to 30d for roast beef, the company was soon making money.

Hall left the canning firm partnership in 1819, but the venture continued as Gamble and Company before eventually being acquired by Crosse & Blackwell. Nonetheless, the first steps had been taken towards realising the multi-billion pound business of today. When Gamble exhibited an array of canned foods at the Great Exhibition in 1851 to widespread approval, it must have seemed like the tin can's switch from military necessity to household must-have was only a matter of time. Yet, the road to success was nearly ruined by a meat scandal one year later that rocked public faith in tinned foods and threatened to end the fledgling canning industry.

Scandal  Donkin and Gamble had employed a quality assurance system where each can spent one month of incubation at 90°C to 110°C heat before distribution, but not every canning entrepreneur was quite so rigorous. In January 1852 a group of meat inspectors gathered at the Royal Clarence Victualling Yard in Portsmouth and proceeded to open 306 cans of meat destined for the Royal Navy. It was not until they opened the nineteenth can that they found one fit for human consumption. According to the Illustrated London News, the Yard’s stone floors had to be coated with chloride of lime to mask the stench of putrid beef. The inspectors fished out pieces of heart, the rotting tongues from a dog or sheep, offal, blood, a whole kidney “perfectly putrid”, ligaments and tendons and a mass of pulp. Some organs appeared to be from diseased animals. Two hundred and sixty-four cans were condemned to a watery grave, while the remaining 42 cans of untainted food were given to the poor. A nationwide inspection ordered by the Admiralty discovered similar situations at Navy depots across the country.

The rogue supplier in question was Stephan Goldner. He had won an Admiralty contract in 1845 by undercutting all rivals through employing cheap labour at his meat factory in what is now Romania. The contract grew significantly in 1847 when the Admiralty introduced preserved meat as a general ration one day a week. The following year, however, complaints began to trickle in from victualling yards in the UK and from British seamen around the world that other parts of animals were being found in canned meat. Despite this, Goldner was awarded another contract in 1850 albeit with a warning that his meat needed to be genuine. To meet the demand, he asked if he could increase the size of the cans, but failed to make certain the meat was properly cooked. There are varying reports on how much of Goldner's meat was thrown away - one said more than 600,000 lbs to the value of £6,691. Whatever the cost, Goldner was banned from ever supplying the Navy again, but the whole episode became a public relations disaster for canned food. Predictably a nervous public was reluctant to eat anything from a tin, with many believing that to do so risked food poisoning. Moreover, housewives seemingly wanted recognisable cuts of meat rather than the uncertainty of what might or might not have been in a can. All the bad publicity meant there was a real danger people would be put off for good, a threat that still lingered ten years after the Goldner scandal.

A campaign to promote the nutritional benefits of canned produce and restore public confidence began. It proved largely successful as it coincided with demands for better food to feed a growing urban population. Not only that but at about the same time canned food became more affordable to a larger number of people. The tin can's reputation was saved. By 1865 Britain’s first mechanised meat-canning factory was established, and by 1880 Britain was importing 16 million lb of canned meat. The global market for canned produce was rising exponentially helping to create sea, canal and rail transport connections worldwide.

Refinements  “Double seaming” was the next innovation to arrive in 1896. Two seaming rollers pressed two layers of material - one the lid and the other the wall of the can - to create an air-tight and contaminate free seal that ensured the can’s contents remained fresh. Very quickly household brands such as Bovril and Heinz capitalised on this and other technological developments leading to faster and more efficient canning.

The earliest Heinz baked beans had appeared in 1895 in the US, making their debut in London in 1901. Meanwhile Bovril became the main supplier of tinned food – especially “bully-beef” – to the British Army as an emergency ration during the Second Boer War (1890-1902). Alleviating the boredom of hardtack biscuits, bully-beef became a mainstay of the British Army right up until the Falklands War in 1982. Shortly afterward, from 1985 onward, field rations that had consisted almost exclusively of tinned products plus some sachets began to be replaced with pouches that were lighter and easier to pack, open and prepare.

Nothing lasts forever. The tin can’s post Second World War zenith has been further threatened in the latter half of the 20th-century by the introduction of packaging like the aforementioned pouches and cartons (for soups and drinks). These innovations have proved better suited for use with increasingly popular and affordable kitchen appliances such as refrigerators and freezers in the 1960s and microwaves in the 1980s. Although sales may have dipped due to the increased competition from a wider choice of products and packaging, the venerable tin can is certainly not about to disappear. Rather, it seems that 21st-century concerns over recycling and food packaging waste have worked to the can’s advantage. Today they are increasingly regarded as something easily recycled. Moreover, in the face of other natural and manmade threats, the can’s ruggedness and impermeability makes them an ideal choice for the stockpiling and distribution of food supplies for emergencies.

And the can opener?  Yet it is one thing solving the food preservation, storage and distribution problems when the canning innovators thought little about how to open their invention. The first tin cans had such thick walls they had to be hammered open. So, for decades a hammer and chisel, a military bayonet or a rock had to suffice. As with all technology as the manufacturing process evolved, however, can walls became thinner making it possible to invent dedicated can openers. Thus, some 45 years after the commercial tin can went into production, the first can opener was patented by Ezra Warner of Waterbury, Connecticut in 1858. Eight years later, in 1866, J. Osterhoudt patented a can with an integral key opener that is still found on sardine cans and those for corned beef (pictured above).

A classic  By the 1870s almost every middle-class kitchen had a can opener. The inventor of this oh so familiar household device was one William Lyman. His patented opener included a wheel that rolls and cuts around the rim of a can. In 1925 the Star Can Company of San Francisco improved Lyman's design by adding a serrated edge to the wheel. An electric version of the same type of can opener was first sold in December of 1931. Finally, some 28 years later, in 1959 Ermal Fraze invented the pop-top can (or easy-open can) in Kettering, Ohio.

So, the next time you open a can of food or drink, or discard one to be recycled, remember the humble tin can has had quite a history. Without them things would be very different, and far less convenient. Bon appétit!

References:

Bellis, M., (2019), “History of the Can and the Can Opener”, ThoughtCo 25 June 2024, Available online (accessed 3 October 2024).

Geoghegan, T., (2013), “The story of how the tin can nearly wasn't”, BBC News Magazine, Available online (accessed 3 October 2024).

Endnote:

1.  Queen Charlotte, wife and consort of King George III.

Dispelling Some Myths: the “two finger salute”

Despite the best efforts of historians, the internet is still awash with misconceptions about the Middle Ages. Many of these ideas were the product of Victorian writers and historians reflecting Medieval life through the lens of their own society, as was done by antiquarians before and by historians since. However, after more than a century in popular culture, and taught in schools, these sometimes broad, sweeping assertions remain deeply rooted in everyday consciousness, especially when repeatedly reinforced online, in social media, on television and in the movies. Before addressing one such notion, it is worth remembering that the Mediæval period lasted roughly 1,000 years during which peoples’ lives and experiences varied according to time, place and circumstance. So, with that in mind, did the two-finger salute or V-sign originate with Mediæval English and Welsh archers?

Two-finger salute  The infamous two-finger salute or V-sign is considered either a symbol of defiance and victory, or an insulting gesture. Most famously, in Britain at least, the V-sign was adopted by Winston Churchill during and throughout World War II but, as can be seen below left, in 1942 he was photographed using the insulting form. Perhaps he did that deliberately or perhaps, as depicted in one scene in the 2017 film “Darkest Hour”, he unknowingly made a mistake until it was pointed out that the first version was considered rude. Regardless, Churchill was soon to make the “V for victory” sign a morale boosting and iconic symbol of defiance (below right).

The same gesture was mentioned in a previous post concerning the origin of the phrase “by hook or by crook” when considering the imposition of Forest Laws by Norman and later kings. One of the penalties for hunting with a bow in England’s royal forests is said to have been the severing of the first two fingers of the right hand so the poacher could no longer draw his bow. This is probably an apocryphal story, however, in much the same way that the two-fingered salute or V sign reputedly originated from a gesture made by English longbowmen fighting at the Battle of Agincourt (25 October 1415). The two are seemingly linked as the latter urban myth follows similar logic in that it claims English archers captured by the French had their index and middle fingers cut off so that they could no longer draw their bows. The insinuation is that the two-fingered V-sign was used as both an insult and a display of defiance towards the French. But there are a couple of problems with this tale.

Firstly, why go to the bother of only removing a couple of fingers when it would be far faster and more effective to cut off the hand or kill the captured archer. Not that the killing of prisoners was condoned by the rules of war but a prisoner’s chances of survival after capture were not always great. Still, losing two or three fingers would not necessarily render the man ineffective. Even disabled in this manner they might still be useful in battle, perhaps wielding a different weapon like a spear, or employed in logistic roles. It is equally unlikely that archers were earmarked for special treatment since most were lowborn commoners with no real value to the French. They simply did not merit ransoming so taking them prisoner would be literally worthless.

Secondly, and most importantly, there are no written historical primary sources supporting the claim. The contemporary 15th-century chronicler Jean de Wavrin (or Jehan de Waurin) did report King Henry V’s pre-battle speech in which he told his assembled men:

“…how the French were boasting that they would cut off three fingers of the right hand of all the archers that should be taken prisoners to the end that neither man nor horse should ever again be killed with their arrows.”

Note that the threat was to sever three fingers not two which does make the connection to the later V-sign somewhat dubious. Yet Wavrin was present at the battle, albeit on the French side so the chances he heard and accurately recorded the speech himself is equally debateable. Although a valuable source, albeit writing more than twenty years after the battle, Wavrin most likely invented Henry’s words to appease readers familiar with such constructs from earlier, classical authors. Most importantly, he and those others present, such as heralds whose job it was to record the battle, do not report anyone sticking one, two or three fingers in the air. Nor do Wavrin or any other contemporary author report that the threat was ever carried out after Agincourt or any other battle. Furthermore, the surviving sources from the Hundred Years’ War period are surprisingly silent concerning a gesture of defiance.

Desmond Morris [1] identified the earliest record of the V-sign as an insult in the 16th-century writings of François Rabelais. In his “Gargantua and Pantagruel” series of books appears the character Panurge, an exceedingly crafty knave, libertine and coward, who is described as carrying on a gestural “duel”. Rabelais writes that after making an explicit copulation sign, Panurge then: 

“…stretched out the forefinger, and middle finger or medical of his right hand, holding them asunder as much as he could, and thrusting them towards Thaumast.”

Clearly something like the V-sign was known in the 1550s, and it is interesting that Rabelais has an Englishman making the gesture. Even so, the gesture disappears from the historical record not re-appearing until the early 20th-century in footage filmed by Mitchell and Kenyon in 1901 [2]. In the still shown right, men are shown standing in line outside the Parkgate Iron and Steel Company in Rotherham. One of them, clearly not too pleased about being filmed, presents a clear two-finger salute to the camera. So, we have a description of a possible insulting gesture in the 16th-century that seemingly disappears and avoids being depicted or described for the best part of 400 years. Sometime thereafter, perhaps in an attempt to explain its origins, a jingoistic tale about the “reviled” French threatening to capture and mutilate “plucky” English archers at Agincourt surfaces. Yet, there is no evidence to connect the two-finger salute to the battle, and little else to establish the V-sign’s origin.

Bon appétit!

Reference:

Morris, D., (1979), “Gestures: their origins and distribution”, London: Jonathan Cape, p.228.

Endnotes:

1. Desmond John Morris FLS hon. caus. (born 24 January 1928) is an English zoologist, ethologist and surrealist painter, as well as a popular author in human sociobiology. He is known for his 1967 book “The Naked Ape”, and for his television programmes such as “Zoo Time”.

2. Sagar Mitchell and James Kenyon founded the firm of Mitchell & Kenyon in 1897. Sagar Jones Mitchell (28 October 1866 – 2 October 1952) was a pioneer of cinematography in Blackburn, Lancashire, England. James Kenyon (26 May 1850 – 6 February 1925) was a businessman and pioneer of cinematography in the same town.

Travels with my Freed Bear: Villa Spiza

About a week before we were due to fly out to Split in Croatia we chanced upon a repeat of Rick Stein’s gastronomic road trip “From Venice to Istanbul” on BBC television.  Episode two of the series crossed the Adriatic Sea to our very destination and set about exploring local Dalmatian cuisine.  

Featured on the episode was “Villa Spiza”, an eatery that definitely seemed worth seeking out even if apparently “hidden” in one of a myriad small alleys forming Split's old town. Villa Spiza is indeed an intimate neighbourhood taverna, no more than a modest room with wooden beams, exposed stone walls, an ‘L’-shaped counter, and a kitchen squeezed into one end and along one side. There are a few tables, but most guests eat at one of several small, hinged versions attached to the counter. Here you can perch on a bar stool, chat with the most convivial hosts, drink the local beer, and watch your order being prepared in front of your eyes. Everything about Villa Spiza is very definitely open, honest and welcoming.

Apparently “Spiza” is a Dalmatian dialect word meaning “food” in the sense of “grub” so, unsurprisingly, Villa Spiza offers fast-ish food - remember, it’s cooked to order - in a traditional Split style. The menu is hand-written daily. While there are a few recurring dishes, most of what’s on offer changes each day depending on what was available fresh that morning from the local markets. Indeed, almost all the ingredients, if not grown locally, are foraged either from the sea or from the hills overlooking the ancient town. When in season, for example, wild asparagus is prepared with pasta, seafood, local olive oil, white wine and seasoning. It is a simple yet delicious dish.

Unsurprisingly, given Split’s location on the beautiful Dalmatian coast, seafood is a speciality. The fish and bean stew, as prepared for Mr Stein by chef proprietor Ivana Gamulin, is a definite treat; one however that is not offered every day. Yes, it is quite some fun to watch the menu being “updated” by the simple expedient of crossing out an entry as the last portion is sold.

Each night it was obvious that a lot of locals stop by for a beer or glass of wine. Lively drinking sessions often take place on and around the bench in the alley outside.

Overall, Villa Spiza a cosy, intimate restaurant serving only a handful of guests at a time but with exceptionally good food cooked to order right in front of you. If inspired to visit, try and arrive early if you don't want to miss out. Once settled in the house rules are simple: you're welcome to stay as long as you want, but once it’s gone, it’s gone.

Contact: Kružićeva 3
21000, Split, Croatia
+385 91 152 1249
facebook.com/Villa-Spiza

Horrible History: did Roman slaves hand-feed their masters?

Found on the website Twinkl, “Ten short facts about the Romans” was posted on December 8th, 2020 by unknown author possibly based in Ireland. Regardless, but bearing in mind that the “facts” are intended to educate children, number seven elicited a raised eyebrow. The whole text reads as follows, with our highlighted emphasis:

“7. Rich Romans had slaves who served them some exotic foods.

There was a variety of wealth in Roman times. The richest of the Romans would have slaves who would feed their owners. The rich Romans would lay down as their slaves would feed the most exotic foods into their mouths. They were known to eat things such as Flamingo, Stork and roast parrot.”

Being charitable, the emboldened part of “fact” number seven is fine as it stands, but the paragraph that follows is best described as imprecise bordering on plain wrong. By dissecting the text, we hope to correct some general misconceptions and add a few facts to improve the piece. So, beginning with the first sentence, this is fine as there certainly was a vast difference in wealth between the richest Roman and the poorest. Sentence two, however, is only partially correct as slave ownership was not limited just to the richest as implied. Rather, slave ownership was widespread in the Roman world, and further afield in other societies and cultures. Essentially, if you could afford to buy, inherit or otherwise obtain a slave, feed and care for them, then far more Romans seem to have done so.

The next sentence begins well enough as there is documented evidence, epigraphy and imagery that shows wealthier Romans reclined on couches (Latin: lecti, sing. lectus) at dinner parties hosted in a formal dining room known as a triclinium (pl.: triclinia). The latter word was adopted from the Greek triklinion (τρικλίνιον) where tri- (τρι-) meant “three” and klinē (κλίνη) referred to a type of couch rather like a chaise longue. Collectively the three lecti were called triclinares (“of the triclinium”) and were set around three sides of a low square table; the fourth side facing the dining room entrance was left free to allow service to the table. Each lecti was sized to accommodate a diner who reclined, semi-recumbent, on their left side on cushions. Household slaves served multiple courses brought from the culina, or kitchen, while others entertained guests with music, song, poetry or dance.

The second part of sentence three however, caused some alarm. As highlighted above it claims: “slaves would feed the most exotic foods into their [the diners’] mouths”. Admittedly the host could have instructed his slaves to physically feed his guests, but that was not the norm. Even the 1st-century AD Roman satirist Petronius, in his work of fiction “Satyricon”, does not mention such behaviour while parodying Roman etiquette during his character Trimalchio’s ostentatious dinner (Cēna Trīmalchiōnis, “Dinner with Trimalchio”) [1]. Rather, polite Roman diners would have selected choice foods from the dishes presented to them and used their own fingers, or the appropriate cutlery, to feed themselves.

The final sentence states Romans “…were known to eat things such as Flamingo, Stork and roast parrot.” Wealthy Romans were seemingly unafraid to consume exotic creatures, or parts of them at least. The flamingo, for example, was only occasionally eaten by Romans, with Apicius suggesting a sauce for the bird (Apicius 6.2.21):

in fenicoptero: fenicopterum eliberas, lauas, ornas, includis in caccabum; adicies aquam salem anetum at aceti modicum. dimidia coctura alligas fasciculum porri et coriandri ut coquator. prope cocturam defritum mittis, coloras. adicies in mortarium piper cuminum coriandrum laseris radicem mentam rutam, fricabis. suffundis acetum, adicies caroenum, ius de suo sibi perfundis. reexinanies in eundem caccabum, amulo obliges. ius perfundis et inferes. idem facies et in psittato.

“Sauce for flamingo: pluck, wash and dress the flamingo and put in a pan; add water, salt, dill, and a little vinegar. Halfway through the cooking, bind up a bundle of leek and coriander to cook with it. Near the end of the cooking, add defrutum [2] for colour. Put in a mortar pepper, cumin, coriander, laser root [3], mint, rue; pound. Pour on vinegar, add caroenum [4], pour on some of the cooking liquor. Pour back into the same pan, thicken with starch. Pour the sauce over the bird and serve. You also make the same sauce for parrot.”

(Grocock & Grainger, 2006, 228 & 229)

In his Natural History (Latin: Naturalis Historia), Pliny the Elder attributes the vogue for eating flamingo tongue to the aforementioned Apicius. Considered a special delicacy, to kill the bird just for its tongue was a demonstration of truly conspicuous consumption (Dalby, 2003, 147). Flamingo tongues are also mentioned by Suetonius [5] as one of the ingredients, alongside pike livers, pheasant brains, peacock brains and lamprey milt, in a dish dedicated and named “The Shield of Minerva the Protectoress” by the Emperor Vitellius (reigned 19 April – 20 December AD 69). Again, it is the lavish nature of such a dish that should be stressed, not that it was widely eaten. As for stork, the meat of this large migratory marsh bird was only “briefly and undeservedly fashionable in early imperial Rome” (Dalby, 2003, 312). The implications are twofold: storks being eaten only appear in the historical record for a short time and only in Rome. To extrapolate that storks were popularly and widely eaten by Romans across the Empire, wealthy or otherwise, is stretching the known facts too far.

As for “roast parrot”, presumably these birds would have been of the African Grey variety native to equatorial Africa ranging from Kenya to the eastern part of the Ivory Coast. Given how far south their habitat is from Roman territory, these birds can only have been imported into the Empire as an expensive luxury through its North African provinces. Interestingly, the venerable Apicius does not suggest a recipe for parrot, and the only reference to Romans eating them must be assumed from the brief, oblique mention that flamingos and parrots can share the same sauce (see above).

Like the oft quoted “Romans ate dormice”, evidence for the widespread consumption of flamingos, storks or parrots is thin at best. Unqualified statements that seemingly imply “all Romans ate” such creatures are really intended to disgust modern sensibilities, be sensationalist to attract attention, and are plain misleading.

If you are, therefore, interested in discovering the sorts of food ordinary Romans routinely ate, then the following links may be of interest: “What did the Romans ever do for us: Roman Food?”, “Food History: A Roman soldier’s diet” and “Roman Fast Food”. We even have a select few recipes from Apicius for readers to recreate in “Fast Food or Dinner Party?”. If you would like more information or further Roman recipes, then do please get in touch. Bon appétit!

References:

Dalby, A. (2003), “Food in the Ancient World from A to Z”, London: Routledge.

Grocock, C. & Grainger, S. (2006), “Apicius”, Totnes: Prospect Books.

Suetonius, “The Twelve Caesars: Vitellius”, London: Penguin Classics (2007), p. 270.

Widger, D. (trans.) (2004), “The Satyricon, Vol. 2 (The Dinner of Trimalchio) by Petronius Arbiter”, Project Gutenberg EBook #5219, Available online (accessed 28 September 2024).

Endnotes:

1. The nouveau-riche host, Trimalchio. is an arrogant former slave who has become quite wealthy as a wine merchant. Essentially, the character is everything a respectable Roman should not aspire to be.

2. Defrutum is a reduction of must in ancient Roman cuisine, made by boiling down grape juice or must in large kettles until reduced to half of the original volume. Defrutum helped preserve and sweeten wine but was also added to fruit and meat dishes as a sweetening and souring agent. It was also given to food animals such as ducks and suckling pigs to improve the taste of their flesh.

3. Laser root (also known as laserwort or Silphium; Ancient Greek: σίλφιον, sílphion) is an unidentified plant used in classical antiquity as a culinary seasoning, a perfume, aphrodisiac, and medicine.

4. As for defrutum, but the grape juice or must for Caroenum was reduced to two-thirds of its original volume.

5. Gaius Suetonius Tranquillus (c. AD 69 – after AD 122) was a Roman historian writing during the early Imperial era of the Roman Empire. His most important surviving work is De vita Caesarum, commonly known in English as The Twelve Caesars, a set of biographies of 12 successive Roman rulers from Julius Caesar to Domitian.

Dispelling Some Myths: Rotten teeth

Despite the best efforts of historians, the internet is still awash with misconceptions about the Middle Ages. Many of these ideas were the product of Victorian writers and historians reflecting Medieval life through the lens of their own society, as was done by antiquarians before and by historians since. However, after more than a century in popular culture, and taught in schools, these sometimes broad, sweeping assertions remain deeply rooted in everyday consciousness, especially when repeatedly reinforced online, in social media, on television and in the movies. Before addressing one such notion, it is worth remembering that the Mediæval period lasted roughly 1,000 years during which peoples’ lives and experiences varied according to time, place and circumstance.

Comparing dental (or medical) care in the Mediæval world, or even earlier, to modern standards is much the same as comparing apples to oranges. Yet, in one key area Mediæval folk had one less worry about dental care as their diet contained far less refined starches, sugars and acids. By contrast modern diets are, in many cases, laden with additives that damage tooth enamel and encourage gum disease. Sugary drinks, coffee, chocolate and other sweets for example are all detrimental to the health of teeth. While natural sugars such as honey were frequently used in the past, it was not until the 16th-century that sugar from the New World began to appear in quantity in Britain.

Tudor adventurers  An age of discovery transformed Tudor life where exploration, conquest, colonisation and trade all had their impact in various guises. The middling sort benefited from a boom in trade prospering from the new goods becoming available. New items and imported luxuries from food to furniture were one way for Tudors to signal their wealth and status, and it was in the dining room that the taste for the new and exotic was clearly visible. Overseas trade brought new goods, such as tobacco, potatoes, tomatoes and chilli peppers, and the abundance of things that were previously rare. In the newly discovered distant Americas, the mass production began of a substance that was so valuable, and delicious, that it would become known as white gold - sugar.

Sugar had been a fantastically expensive commodity throughout the Middle Ages but during the reign of Elizabeth I the employment of slave labour in the colonies kept production costs low and the sugar price dropped sharply. The Mediæval diet of bread, pottage, beans, lentils, oats, dairy and eggs, occasional meat, and vegetables, began to be enhanced with sugar. Sold in cones, the sugar had to be broken into lumps with a hammer or shaved off the cone. To produce icing sugar to sprinkle over things the granules would have to been ground even finer in a pestle and mortar before being pushed through a silk sieve. Given the hours of work needed, it is perhaps easy to see why sugar was an expensive luxury.

Banqueting  After a meal, diners in the early Tudor period would have stood and drunk sweet wine and spices while the tables were cleared, or “voided” by the servants. Dishes and linens were removed, and the boards taken from the trestles to put the tables away. The voide would not be replaced with the more familiar dessert until much later in the 17th-century. To avoid the noise and disturbance of clearing away, it became increasingly popular for diners on the top table to withdraw to another room to enjoy special luxuries, or “banquettes”.

Today we think of a banquet as the full meal, but when banqueting became fashionable in Elizabeth I's reign, the word applied only to a final course of cakes, biscuits, sticky preserves and candied fruits, or “suckets”. All these tasty delights featured sugar in varying degrees, but the centrepiece of any banquet would be of decorative marchpane (marzipan), itself made from sugar, rosewater and almonds, which could be moulded into elaborate shapes. Eating these sugary treats meant sticky fingers. So, over time the double-ended fork and spoon combination (pictured), known as “sucket forks” gained widespread use, especially amongst the fashionable upper classes. Even so, forks were not used at table and did not become popular until much later in the 17th-century. Today few of us sit down to a feast, a banquet or a simple meal without a fork being present.

Hidden Killer  All that lovely sweet sugar was a must have for society folk, but it was not without its dangers. Queen Elizabeth’s love of sweets and her fear of the barber surgeon contributed to severe tooth decay and tooth loss to such an extent that foreign ambassadors reported difficulty understanding her speech. André Hurault de Maisse, Ambassador Extraordinary from King Henry IV of France, for example reported an audience with the queen during which he noticed:

“Her teeth are very yellow and unequal...and on the left side less than on the right. Many of them are missing, so that one cannot understand her easily when she speaks quickly.”

By Elizabeth’s day, after-dinner “comfits” were eaten to freshen breath. Comfits, however, were sweets consisting of a nut, seed, or other centre coated in sugar. This conspicuous consumption of sugary or starchy food and drink merely encouraged the growth of bacteria in plaque leading in many cases to decay and a dental abscess. The latter is a collection of pus that can form inside the teeth, in the gums or in the bone that holds the teeth in place. It is caused by a bacterial infection that without treatment can lead to sepsis (blood poisoning). It was this unforeseen consequence of too much sugar that proved to be a hidden killer in Tudor England.

Dental hygiene  Although Mediæval and earlier diets were far less laden with damaging ingredients, people still took care of their dental hygiene. To our eyes some of the methods used may seem basic:

• “Toothpicks” were used to clean between the teeth. Indeed, a 2016 study of some of the oldest human remains in Europe found microscopic evidence of indigestible wood fibres preserved inside calcified plaque [1] suggesting prehistoric people used crude toothpicks to clean their teeth.

• 
  The earliest known toothbrushes dating to 3,500 BC were found in Egyptian tombs next to their owners. Used for thousands of years, all over the world, these “chew sticks” rely on their frayed, fibrous ends to whisk away debris. Where available, the chewed root of the Liquorice (Glycyrrhiza glabra) plant (pictured) was well suited as a simple yet effective toothbrush particularly as some research in 2020 suggests that liquorice extract may help reduce the growth of Streptococcus mutans bacteria in the mouth. This, in turn, lessens environmental acidity around the teeth and helps to prevent dental cavities from forming.

• Teeth were rubbed with a clean cloth to wipe off tartar build-up and remove any left-over food particles from the teeth.

• 
  Teeth were cleaned with a mixture of ground pumice (volcanic stone) and coral to remove tartar. The Roman used ground oyster shell in a similar way. Such abrasives will gradually remove tooth enamel over time however increasing the chance of tooth decay. Moreover, the powder tasted horrid, but could be sweetened with honey or sugar, which somewhat defeats the objective.

• Powdered sage or the ashes of burnt rosemary were used to whiten teeth.

• To freshen breath, herbs such as mint, cloves, cinnamon or sage were chewed.

• Water was used as a basic mouthwash to remove debris from the mouth, as was a mixture of mint and vinegar. A mix of acetic acid and water, vinegar has been used for thousands of years as a common disinfectant to kill bacteria, while the mint would freshen breath.

The evidence from the archaeological record reveals that, despite showing signs of wear, plaque and tartar buildup [2], Mediæval teeth often have surprisingly fewer cavities. Yet it is far from uncommon to observe the untreated buildup of tartar resulting in gum disease, tooth loss and infections. As already mentioned, sepsis caused by the latter could lead to death even among young, otherwise healthy people. So, what treatments were available to Mediæval people?

Dental treatments  Anderson’s (2004) article “Dental treatment in Medieval England” published in the British Dental Journal is well worth reading. In it Anderson notes that documentary evidence in “medical literature from the 12th- to 14th-century suggests care of the teeth was largely limited to non-invasive treatment.” The various texts cited by Anderson reveal herbal remedies, charms and amulets were the favoured cures mainly for toothache, which was itself believed to be the caused by a “tooth worm”.

The article emphasises that medical and dental practitioners at the time were heavily influenced by humoral theory, a system of medicine describing a supposed makeup and workings of the human body adopted by ancient Greek and Roman physicians and philosophers. The most famous model comprises the four humours described by Hippocrates [3] and developed further by Galen [4]. In simple terms, the four humours are black bile, yellow bile, phlegm, and blood where each corresponds to one of the traditional four temperaments. Based on Hippocratic medicine, it was therefore believed that for a body to be healthy, the four humours should be balanced in amount and strength to achieve eukrasia. Thus, in accordance with humoral theory, bloodletting was advised for certain types of toothache.

The treatises cited provide documentary evidence for powders and liquids for cleaning and/or whitening teeth, as mentioned above, together with methods for removing calculus and compounds for filling cavities. Evidence for surgical interventions for oral cancer and facial fracture is also presented, along with treating post-operative infection and abscess formation, and the mention of early forms of dentures made of human teeth or cow bone. That said, medical texts would have been expensive, and their possession limited to an elite group of physicians or surgeons most likely based in either the university towns or the larger Mediæval cities. Unsurprisingly, only the richer townsfolk would be able to afford their high fees. For most commonfolk living in small villages or isolated communities, they would have to rely largely on local barber surgeons and their own traditional remedies to treat dental problems. Regardless, the evidence suggests that people living in the Mediæval world understood that dental hygiene was important and took measures to protect their teeth as best they could. The introduction of new, exotic foodstuffs began to change diets, and the uptake of starchy, sugary ingredients did lead to increased tooth decay and loss; a problem still faced today in many western societies. But did all Mediæval people have rotten teeth as the movies and urban myths make out? No, not really.

Bon appétit!

Reference:

Anderson, T., (2004), “Dental treatment in Medieval England”, British Dental Journal 197, pp. 419–425, Available online (accessed 21 September 2024).

Endnotes:

1. Plaque is sticky film deposited on the teeth in which bacteria proliferate.

2. Tartar forms when plaque hardens on the teeth. Tartar build-up can irritate the gums, leading to gingivitis or periodontitis (gum disease) causing pain and discomfort. Tartar can trap bacteria against the tooth surface, leading to tooth decay and cavities, and can expose the sensitive areas of the teeth, leading to increased sensitivity and pain when consuming hot, cold, or sweet foods. In severe cases, tartar can lead to infections that may cause significant pain and swelling.

3. Hippocrates of Kos (c. 460 – c. 370 BC), also known as Hippocrates II, was a Greek physician and philosopher of the classical period referred to as the "Father of Medicine" in recognition of his lasting contributions to the field, such as the use of prognosis and clinical observation, the systematic categorization of diseases, and the (however misguided) formulation of humoral theory.

4. Aelius Galenus (September AD 129 – AD 216), often anglicised as Galen, was a Roman and Greek physician, surgeon, and philosopher from Pergamon. He is considered one of the most accomplished of all medical researchers of antiquity influential in the development of various scientific disciplines including anatomy, physiology, pathology, pharmacology, and neurology, as well as philosophy and logic.