I expected this book about food (which was published in 1825, and whose author was born in 1755) to be much drier and less funny than it actually was. In her introduction, Anne Drayton (who translated the book) describes it as “a unique combination of recipes and aphorisms, reflections and reminiscences, history and philosophy,” and that sums it up pretty well (12). I like this aphorism, which is seventh in a list of twenty at the start of the book: “the pleasures of the table belong to all times and all ages, to every country and every day; they go hand in hand with all our other pleasures, outlast them, and remain to console us for their loss” (13).

Early in the book, Brillat-Savarin talks about the senses in general, and then the sense of taste in particular: he talks about the relationship between smell and taste, and about taste as being the sense “which, on the whole, gives us the maximum of delight” (45). He then goes on to talk about various kinds of food, both in terms of where it comes from and how it’s prepared and what it’s like. He talks about how chickens are overfed and overfattened: I didn’t know that was a thing before modern factory farms. (He also notes that “It must be admitted that this unnatural rotundity is also delicious,” which cracked me up (74).) He talks about going hunting in Connecticut in 1794 and shooting a wild turkey; he talks about game and fish and truffles and sugar. He talks about coffee and ways of making it, and hot chocolate and ways of making it. There’s a whole chapter on “the theory of frying,” and another on thirst.

Later, Brillat-Savarin moves on to talk specifically about gourmandism, which he defines as “an impassioned and habitual preference for everything which gratifies the organ of taste” (132). It’s an all-around good thing, he argues: it’s pleasurable, and good for the economy (he talks about the Napoleonic Wars as having given Brits, Germans, and others a taste for French food and wine), and good for social life, too (he talks about the pleasures of two married gourmands, who get to eat good food together and talk about good food together and therefore always have something to do and something to talk about). He also talks about the science of eating and living, as it was understood in his time: there are sections on digestion, rest, sleep, dreams, obesity, and thinness, and it was interesting to read his early arguments in favor of a low-carb diet for weight loss (though he doesn’t call it that: he just says to avoid potatoes, flour, and sugar to lose weight, or to eat those same things if you want to gain weight). He then moves on to a history of cooking, and also talks about restaurants as a “completely new and inadequately recognized institution” (266). The end of the book consists of a whole section of miscellaneous anecdotes and recipes, some of which felt too random, but some of which were fun. (At one point he describes being at an inn with some companions and seeing “a very handsome leg of mutton at which the ladies from sheer force of habit darted extremely coquettish glances” (303).)

I liked all the little bits of food history in this book, and I liked its humor, and it was fun to think of the similarities and differences between Brillat-Savarin’s time and now. At one point when talking about chocolate, he talks about how vanilla, sugar, and cinnamon are the only things good for flavoring it (as opposed to things like pepper, ginger, and aniseed, which he says were tried and abandoned): I’d love for him to be able to go to a fancy 21st-century chocolate shop and try all the different flavor combinations.

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