In the Devil's Garden_ A Sinful History of Forbidden Food Part 2

THE BLUE PLATE SPECIALHumble Pie A traditional Batalia pie filled with chitterlings, sweetbreads, and sots-l'y-laisse. sots-l'y-laisse. Served with a Florentine sauce. Served with a Florentine sauce.

FOR THE SWEET TOOTHGalette des Rois Traditional New Orleans epiphany cake.

WE FOLLOW A SEGREGATED.

SEATING POLICY.

The Egotist at Dinner What I found surprising while researching the sin of pride was how wrong I was. I mean, I'm usually right about everything. The idea of my being wrong is absurd. I am always always right and invariably superior in every way to my peers, above whom I reign in a cloud of jasmine-scented perfection constantly flickering with the lightning flashes of my creativity and insight. Did I say right and invariably superior in every way to my peers, above whom I reign in a cloud of jasmine-scented perfection constantly flickering with the lightning flashes of my creativity and insight. Did I say peers peers? How tellingly indicative of my modest inclination and my desire to bestow credit on even the most undeserving. But for many, I think, pride is a constant pitfall. Particularly when it comes to dinner. That's why I antic.i.p.ated that this section would be a tale of boorish sn.o.bs who openly sneer at other cultures' cuisine and insist on choosing the wine. A history of France, in other words. Instead, it turns out to be a tale of racism and hatred.

Take the term beaner beaner. The original expression was bean eater bean eater, a reference to the Mexicans' beloved frijoles frijoles, but used as a derogatory label by white racists to suggest Mexicans' supposed laziness and ignorance. Modern English is littered with similar expressions. African Americans deride whites as "crackers," presumably referring to a uniquely Caucasian love of Nabis...o...b..ked goods. Whites slander blacks for their alleged addiction to watermelons. The English are "limeys" because their sailors sucked on limes (to avoid scurvy). The French are "frogs" because of their national dish of frogs' legs. At the height of World War II, with all sorts of vicious and absolutely applicable insults available to hurl at the n.a.z.is, the allies expressed their horror by focusing on Germany's unnatural appet.i.te for pickled cabbage and defamed them with "krauts" (for sauer-kraut). The National Socialists, however, were unapologetic. "Also our n.o.ble sauerkraut," intoned a n.a.z.i-era cookbook called Homeland Homeland Cooking Cooking: We should not forget it A German created it Therefore it's a German dish If such a little piece of meat, white and mild Lies in a kraut, that is a picture As like Venus in Roses.

The meaning is obvious: You are what you eat, and if you don't eat like me-or like what I eat-you're my enemy. In some cultures the word for enemy translates literally as "those with different mouth." Does this mean world peace could be achieved by implementing a Universal Menu? Those humanitarians at the McDonald's corporation seem to think so, which makes one wonder if there are not worse things than an occasional war. At any rate, behaviorists explain the rampant food abuse of hatemongers to the fact that eating among animals is generally a single-species activity, and hence a key definer of group ident.i.ty. Psychologists have reported cases of clinical depression among expatriates that were cured only when the patient went on a steady diet of his or her native food. It's a pretty good indication of how important a role cuisine plays in our sense of self, hence the keen interest in forcing conquered peoples to lose their native dishes, particularly in the United States, where the idea of the "melting pot" demands that immigrants lose their cultural ident.i.ty and become "white bread" Americans both in their hearts and at the dinner table.

The Dirt Eaters The dirt eater is the ultimate sc.u.m of American society. He or she is the outcast, the loser, the one who has not only admitted defeat but made it his daily bread, the lowest of the low, the sucker up of the ground upon which we walk, on which dogs p.i.s.s and garbage is tossed. "Technically, I'd rather eat dirt than food," Georgia's Rena Bronson told the media in 1999. "If I could eat dirt for breakfast, dirt for lunch, dirt for dinner and a little iced tea, I'd be fine." Bronson is a registered nurse who eats three small bags of clay a week. Not just any old dirt. She's an epicure who dines exclusively on creamy white kaolin clay, the flavor of which has been described in truffle-ian raptures. Dirt eaters like Ms. Bronson have been around for centuries and, contrary to current American att.i.tudes, generally have been considered quite respectable. Some African Americans still send bags of clay to expectant mothers, and over a million Mexicans every year partic.i.p.ate in a Christian/Mayan Eucharist ceremony in which clay tablets are eaten in lieu of the traditional wheaten wafer. As in much clay cookery, the Mexicans bake their mud to get rid of excess moisture and concentrate flavors, a craft perfected by the Australian Aborigines who make a white organic loaf that is kneaded and sun-dried before being wrapped in leaves and baked. Women in northern India used to buy a clay pot that imparted a pleasant odor to their water. When their thirst was slaked, they would consume the cup itself. The Kai people of Papua New Guinea string small b.a.l.l.s of clay on a stick and grill them like Middle Eastern kebabs; one would imagine this would go rather nicely with the original potato-chip dip the Peruvian Incas created out of a special riverside mud patch. Mise en scene Mise en scene aside, there are three basic dirt varieties: red (rustic), white (creamy and light), and black (comparable to bitter chocolate). The best, though, are the rare "blue earths" which are full of coal-tar air bubbles that tickle the palate with champagne sensations. aside, there are three basic dirt varieties: red (rustic), white (creamy and light), and black (comparable to bitter chocolate). The best, though, are the rare "blue earths" which are full of coal-tar air bubbles that tickle the palate with champagne sensations.

Tasty and cheap, these foods are rich in minerals; they often played an essential role in diets worldwide. The extreme denigration of dirt eating is primarily a North American att.i.tude, and it probably developed because the food's popularity among African slaves led to its being a.s.sociated with laziness, perhaps because prisoners tend to be undermotivated, or because dirt coating the stomach lining slows absorption of vitamins and can cause lethargy and sometimes death. Some slave owners actually made workers wear iron gags to keep them from excessive snacking. But what makes the American loathing of dirt eating so interesting is that although the habit was heavily a.s.sociated with Africans, the first literary dirt eater was a white man. His name was Ransy Sniffle, and he appeared in an 1833 magazine story called "The Fight" by Augustus Baldwin Longstreet. The writer describes Sniffle as a flat-headed monstrosity with oversize joints, withered limbs, and a complexion a "corpse would have disdained to own." The archetypal white trash, in other words; a "clay-eater, his bloated watery countenance illuminated by the exhilarating qualities of rum." Mr. Sniffle, however, was more than a mere fancy. He was a caricature created as part of a campaign against the Populist democratic movement of Andrew Jackson. There was a whole cadre of writers and magazines involved in this effort, and their primary mission was to portray poor whites as animals whose habits not only made them unsuitable dinner guests but, by a.s.sociation, inappropriate partic.i.p.ants in the political arena. By making Sniffle a "dirt eater" like the disenfranchised Africans, Longstreet was indulging in the hallowed tradition of manipulating food habits to exclude a group from political power.

A Dinner Party in Kishan Garhi The use of food to disempower has a long tradition in the American South. "The commonest of these [social] taboos," wrote John Dollard in his study of southern racial segregation, "are those against eating at a table with Negroes." Interracial eating was second only to interracial s.e.x among the taboos of the old South, and a disproportionate number of civil rights battles were fought over segregated lunch counters. The American system of culinary segregation, however, is pretty weak stuff compared to the system devised by India's Hindus, who, at over 1 billion, now const.i.tute about one-fifth of the world's population. Hindu society is divided into four rigidly segregated cla.s.ses called castes. At the top are the Brahmins, or the priest cla.s.s. Then come the Kshatriyas, warriors. Next the Vaisyas, merchants. At the bottom is the servant cla.s.s of Sudras. Within these four uber- uber-castes are also thousands of subcastes (many based on profession), all of which maintain their social standing by snubbing one another's dinner parties. Sociologist McKin Marriott showed what a soap opera this can become in a 1968 study that focused on the tiny village of Kishan Garhi, which, despite containing only 166 families, boasts a whopping thirty-six individual castes. The trouble began when the local goatherds decided to force the village barbers to accept a dinner invitation. Under Hindu social rules, this would have put the barbers below the goat boys. The barbers didn't seem to care-more free grub for us seems to have been their admirably pragmatic att.i.tude- but it put the top-dog Brahmins in a bind. If the barbers lost caste it meant they would no longer be able to trim the Brahmins' hair because, as priests, the Brahmins must follow strict regulations not only about what they eat-and with whom- but also which castes are allowed to touch or even breathe on them.

The village elders conferred. A compromise was worked out. They ruled that the barbers could have dinner with the goatherds but could eat only non-kacca, or unsacred, dishes. This left the hair stylists just enough social rank to continue as the Brahmins' barbers. The goatherds, however, were furious. They fired their local Brahmin priest and replaced him with one from a distant village. Then the plot thickened: a local local Brahmin was seen eating with the goatherds. The village was scandalized. What they didn't know, however, was that the Brahmin in question was blackmailed into accepting the dinner invite to get a money loan from the goatherds. The village eventually found out, and all h.e.l.l broke loose. The Brahmins wouldn't eat with the Brahmins, the barbers were out of work, and the goatherds' position was so confused that they were virtually (gasp!) without caste. Brahmin was seen eating with the goatherds. The village was scandalized. What they didn't know, however, was that the Brahmin in question was blackmailed into accepting the dinner invite to get a money loan from the goatherds. The village eventually found out, and all h.e.l.l broke loose. The Brahmins wouldn't eat with the Brahmins, the barbers were out of work, and the goatherds' position was so confused that they were virtually (gasp!) without caste.

The caste system is not just fun and food fights, of course. Beneath the four main castes are the so-called Untouchables, or Dalits Dalits, a group of about 250 million people who are completely without without caste, and so . . . well, untouchable. They get to clean the latrines, but that's about it. If they take water from the communal well, they are sometimes killed. If they try to eat with caste members, the food is pushed off their plates until they leave in tears. This horrific repression (now illegal) is said to stem directly from the sense of separation caused by the dietary rules enshrined in the ancient laws of Hindu society. "The feelings of Untouchability in the caste system," writes Sundar La Sar in caste, and so . . . well, untouchable. They get to clean the latrines, but that's about it. If they take water from the communal well, they are sometimes killed. If they try to eat with caste members, the food is pushed off their plates until they leave in tears. This horrific repression (now illegal) is said to stem directly from the sense of separation caused by the dietary rules enshrined in the ancient laws of Hindu society. "The feelings of Untouchability in the caste system," writes Sundar La Sar in Hindu Culture and Caste System Hindu Culture and Caste System, "had their roots in the compulsory separation of food-habits among the people." The upside for the Untouchables is that they can eat anything they want without losing social status-beef, caviar, foie gras, even truffles. Compare that to the menu of poor, pitiful Brahmins, who not only must follow a strict vegetarian diet, but also must abstain from things like garlic and onions. No booze, of course. Some are not even allowed carrots or tomatoes because their origin in foreign lands means they have no caste and are therefore "untouchable." Nor is the conversation at dinner likely to make amends for the cuisine. "One should take one's food alone and not in the company of even one's relatives," suggests the three-thousand-year-old Laws of Manu, "since who can know the secret sins of a person in whose company one eats?" Some high-caste Brahmins dine in a room devoted exclusively to that purpose, or at least set up screens to keep impure influences at bay while eating. True blue bloods purify the dinner table with cow dung or, better yet, eat straight off the karma-enhancing excrement by "pouring water over a spot and plastering [leaves] with cow dung."

The only other major group with a comparably strict dining etiquette are ultra-Orthodox Jews, some of whom will not use a plate that a nonbeliever has touched. The similarity of the two groups' food obsessions, plus the fact that the Jews have been called "the Sons of Abraham" (read "A Brahmin"), have led to speculation that both sprang from some prehistoric super-priesthood. While this thought might have some historical basis, what the two really share is a profound awareness of the connection between food, purity, and morality. "The dietary rules [of the Jews] merely developed the metaphor for holiness," wrote scholar Mary Douglas in her book Purity and Danger Purity and Danger, by "keeping distinct the categories of creation." In her view, kosher dietary law forbids the eating of animals like the salamander because the Lord created the world to be in three separate categories: earth, sky, and water. The amphibious salamander violates this organization by living both on earth and in water. Hence, it is a creature created by the Devil and unclean. The Hindu prohibition against castes sharing meals stems from the same concept. Just as G.o.d created separate categories of matter, He created separate groups of humans. It would be as immoral to breach the latter as it would the former. This is particularly true about breaking bread together, because eating is so intimately tied to tribal ident.i.ty and religious wors.h.i.+p. Moreover, this concept of "sacred separation," or boundaries, is the underlying principle of almost all morality, according to Douglas. A lie is only wrong because it pretends to be true, i.e., it mingles two separate categories of nature: falsehood and truth. In Douglas's point of view, the peculiar dietary laws of the Hebrews and the Brahmins were created to force believers into ritualized daily meditations on these great questions-truth, purity, holiness-and return dinner to its roots "as a meaningful part of the great liturgical act of wors.h.i.+p, which culminates in the sacrifice [meal] in The Temple."

The Last Supper The New Testament is littered with tales of Jesus' lousy table manners. He forgets to wash his hands before eating. He takes dinner with hookers. He does lunch with unbelievers. These were more than mere breaches of etiquette; like the Hindu caste code, these rules upheld the society of the time and were taken extremely seriously. Members of the Essenes, a cult that Christ probably studied with, starved to death rather than eat food touched by non-Essenes.

Christ's decla.s.se dinner parties were tolerated as long as he held them out in the boonies. But dining out in the big city, Jerusalem, was another matter. In The Scrolls and Christian Origins: Studies in the Jewish Background of the New Testament The Scrolls and Christian Origins: Studies in the Jewish Background of the New Testament, religious scholar Matthew Black notes a number of odd circ.u.mstances surrounding Christ's Last Supper. First, it appears to have been kept a secret. Christ refused to tell even his apostles where it was to be held, instead making them meet with a stranger who led them to the dinner party's location. Black believes this indicates that the meal was probably an illegal ceremony of some kind. He then reconstructs the calendar of Jesus' time and concludes that, although the Last Supper occurred around Jewish Pa.s.sover, it did not fall on the officially sanctioned holiday. Black then looks at the circ.u.mstances leading to the arrest of Jesus, particularly the behavior of the traitor Judas during the meal. The New Testament notes that "having received the sop he [Judas] immediately went out: and it was night." A curiously bleak turn of phrase, especially when you realize that a sop is just a piece of bread used to soak up gravy. Couldn't Judas just have wanted something to snack on? Hardly. "In carrying off the sop he took evidence with him to the priests and the Pharisees that an illegal feast had been celebrated," Black concludes, "[and] that Jesus was challenging Pharisaic law in its stronghold, Jerusalem itself." Judas took the gravy-soaked crust to prove that Christ was holding an illegal feast-a satanic pa.s.sover- and that if the police acted immediately they could catch this charlatan Messiah red-handed. In this light, the copious amount of biblical ink spilled on the Last Supper appears quite reasonable. Christ's reason for coming to Jerusalem seems to have been to provoke a confrontation with the authorities, but he gets arrested before anything happens. Perhaps the Last Supper was was the planned confrontation. During dinner, he predicts the imminent arrival of the cops. If the soiree had been a deliberate affront, his prophesy is no more clairvoyant than a protester foreseeing jail time after staging a sit-in at the mayor's office. the planned confrontation. During dinner, he predicts the imminent arrival of the cops. If the soiree had been a deliberate affront, his prophesy is no more clairvoyant than a protester foreseeing jail time after staging a sit-in at the mayor's office.

Christianity is unique among the major religions for its almost complete lack of food taboos. This was no accident. The New Testament specifically quotes Matthew as saying, "Know and understand; it is not what goes into the mouth that defiles a man, but that which comes out." Christ's choice of a dinner party to take a theological stand makes sense if you consider that his years of training with the food-obsessed Essene cult would have left him preternaturally aware of the connection between pride and dietary taboos. After all, how can people be truly equal if they can't all eat the same food at the same table? His manipulation of the Pa.s.sover feast for political gain, however, was to prove catastrophic; in the ensuing two millenniums, ignorant Christians mourning Christ's death during Easter routinely ma.s.sacred Jews because their simultaneous Pa.s.sover feast-a joyous event commemorating their release from Egyptian bondage-was mistaken as celebration of Christ's death on the cross.

Humble Pie So here I am in some subterranean dive in Manhattan's East Village. Everywhere you look, there are j.a.panese hipsters in hornrim gla.s.ses sucking on Sapporo beers and munching omelets covered in writhing bonito flakes that look like barf monsters from a bad sci-fi flick. I take a mouthful of my motsu yakitori motsu yakitori . . Motsu Motsu means cow intestines. I love 'em, which is just as well, since each means cow intestines. I love 'em, which is just as well, since each yakitori yakitori-a kind of j.a.panese s.h.i.+sh-kebab-is only three inches long, and I am determined to choke down an entire cow intestine. There's approximately 150 feet of digestive tract per animal, which means I have another six hundred yakitori yakitori to go. The divine Nina J. is my companion in this adventure. She looks as if she's going to throw up. She's a dainty one, that Nina, who doesn't eat meat, and is restricting herself to a shrimp. to go. The divine Nina J. is my companion in this adventure. She looks as if she's going to throw up. She's a dainty one, that Nina, who doesn't eat meat, and is restricting herself to a shrimp.

"That," I say defensively, pointing to the pink body on her spear, "is a bottom feeder. Do you know what it it eats?" Happily, I remember her brother Jerry certifies kosher restaurants for his synagogue. "Jerry would rather be strangled than put one of those in his mouth." eats?" Happily, I remember her brother Jerry certifies kosher restaurants for his synagogue. "Jerry would rather be strangled than put one of those in his mouth."

Nina ignores me and continues eating. I change tactics. Sure, I say to her, few self-respecting Americans would be caught dead eating cow intestine or heart or liver-at least not publicly-but organ meats like these were once the sacrament of the world's most powerful priesthood, the Etruscan haruspex. The Etruscans were the original inhabitants of Italy's Tuscany region. They taught Imperial Rome not only how to read and write but how to foretell future events, and no Roman emperor worth his salt made a political decision without ordering an Etruscan haruspex to read the future in a sheep's entrails. I describe the scene to Nina: the bleating animals, the incense, the priests pulling the organs out of the beast's still-steaming body to examine it for prophetic markings. Then, if the lower intestine gave the go-ahead, the politicians would send an army out to conquer, say, Asia Minor and the haruspex priests would sit back to enjoy a snack very much like the one before me now. Charred heart and liver s.h.i.+sh-kebab, salted and eaten with the grill's ashes still sticking to it.

But that was all a long time ago. Ancient history.

Or so I thought.

The guinea pig took another sip of his beer and rolled his eyes in exasperation-was this never going to end?

"He works better when he's drunk," Senor Villanova explained. "You'll see, senor."

My personal journey into the mystic realm of variety meats began in the village of Husao high in the Peruvian Andes. Peru is probably the last place in the world to continue a Tuscan-like reverence for entrails. The only real difference is that the Etruscan priests used sheep. The Peruvian priests, curandernos, curandernos, prefer guinea pigs. prefer guinea pigs.

Villanova poured another mouthful of beer into his pet's maw. Not all curandernos curandernos get their guinea pigs drunk, but Villanova had been highly recommended. And that was good, because I was beginning to feel skeptical. For one thing, his pants didn't fit. He also seemed tipsy, at least judging by the incomprehensible mix of Quecha (the native Inca language) and Spanish that he mumbled out of the corner of his crooked mouth. In fact, his whole face looked vaguely out of kilter. Nor did his office decor help-nothing but two rickety wooden stools and a table covered with dirty leaves. Every other witch doctor I'd visited had displayed a healthy supply of G.o.ds and talismans. h.e.l.l, I thought, if the walls had been painted white instead of raw cement I could have been in the office of a Western doctor, G.o.d forbid. The most impressive thing about Villanova was how he got his pet to drink the beer. He held the animal by the skin around its shoulders and, when it was time to administer a chug, pulled back on the skin to force its little mouth open. Then he dunked its head straight into the mug. The guinea pig had a h.e.l.luva foam mustache, but in minutes they'd gone through half a large bottle of get their guinea pigs drunk, but Villanova had been highly recommended. And that was good, because I was beginning to feel skeptical. For one thing, his pants didn't fit. He also seemed tipsy, at least judging by the incomprehensible mix of Quecha (the native Inca language) and Spanish that he mumbled out of the corner of his crooked mouth. In fact, his whole face looked vaguely out of kilter. Nor did his office decor help-nothing but two rickety wooden stools and a table covered with dirty leaves. Every other witch doctor I'd visited had displayed a healthy supply of G.o.ds and talismans. h.e.l.l, I thought, if the walls had been painted white instead of raw cement I could have been in the office of a Western doctor, G.o.d forbid. The most impressive thing about Villanova was how he got his pet to drink the beer. He held the animal by the skin around its shoulders and, when it was time to administer a chug, pulled back on the skin to force its little mouth open. Then he dunked its head straight into the mug. The guinea pig had a h.e.l.luva foam mustache, but in minutes they'd gone through half a large bottle of Cuzco cerveza Cuzco cerveza, although I couldn't say whether Senor Villanova or the pig had done most of the drinking.

He explained tomorrow's procedure to me. First, he would enchant his pig and rub it over my naked body so it could absorb my illness. This normally kills the beast; then, amid prayers and chanting, Villanova would cut it in half to examine the inner organs for signs indicating the best way to heal me. Villanova compared it to taking an X ray without the dangers of radiation.

Very Etruscan, I thought. Straight out of Bella Tuscany Bella Tuscany. I asked Villanova if he'd ever heard of Tuscany. Frances Mayes? Risotto? He didn't seem to understand, so I pulled out a picture of the Piacenza liver, a two-hundred-pound, three-dimensional bronze reproduction of a sheep's liver made by the Romans around the second century B.C. to teach priests how to prophesize in the Tuscan way. It shows forty-four sections, each of which is sacred to a particular divinity. The idea was to look for prophetic polyps. A distended gallbladder, for instance, was considered propitious for war because martial G.o.ds like Hercle (Hercules) dominated the area. I presume that's why we used to say, "she's got a lotta gall" about someone with an unusually fiery temperament, but I could be mistaken.

I told Senor Villanova all about the Etruscans. I waved my Xerox of the Piacenza liver at him and asked if curandernos curandernos had similar learning aids. But my Spanish must not have been up to the task, because he just gave me a pitying look. had similar learning aids. But my Spanish must not have been up to the task, because he just gave me a pitying look.

"Please stay calm, senor. senor." He patted me on the shoulder. "When you come back tomorrow you will see my wife. She specializes in these kinds of conditions." Then he poured us both out a gla.s.s of the beer. "I suggest you drink this," he said, gulping his down. "It will make you feel much better."

The Romans came to depend on the Etruscan prophets in much the same way we depend on tabloid journalists. It was a haruspex named Spurinna who came up with the famous "Beware the Ides of March!" headline, and Caesar's personal priests warned him to stay home the day Brutus struck because they had disemboweled an animal without a heart. The flavor of these rites is captured nicely by the Roman chronicler Silicus Italicus in a scene in which the great general Hannibal consults a haruspice haruspice (a female haruspex) prior to declaring war on Rome. The divination takes place in a blood-splattered cave full of hissing gases and wailing spirits. "Then a black victim was sacrificed to the G.o.ddess of triple shape; and the priestess, seeking an oracle, quickly opened the still-breathing body and questioned the spirit, as it fled from the inward parts that she had laid bare in haste." Consulting the entrails she plops on the table, the priestess prophesies, "I see the Aetolian field covered far and wide with soldiers' corpses, and lakes red with Trojan blood . . . the river Po runs blood." She was describing the events of the Second Punic War, the most significant conflict in Roman history. (a female haruspex) prior to declaring war on Rome. The divination takes place in a blood-splattered cave full of hissing gases and wailing spirits. "Then a black victim was sacrificed to the G.o.ddess of triple shape; and the priestess, seeking an oracle, quickly opened the still-breathing body and questioned the spirit, as it fled from the inward parts that she had laid bare in haste." Consulting the entrails she plops on the table, the priestess prophesies, "I see the Aetolian field covered far and wide with soldiers' corpses, and lakes red with Trojan blood . . . the river Po runs blood." She was describing the events of the Second Punic War, the most significant conflict in Roman history.

The abrupt disappearance of Etruscan culture around the fourth century B.C. has long baffled some historians, but some now think that when their priests divined their culture's demise in a sheep's liver, the race simply merged with the Romans rather than fight the inevitable. Tuscany's love of chopped-liver, however, seems to have lived on in Europe. The ancient Irish Vision of Mac Conglinne Vision of Mac Conglinne tells in great detail how the king could be satisfied only with "son of fat, son of kidney, son of slender tripe," and how the tribute to the royal ladies consisted of sweetbreads and pig hearts. Organ meats fetched significantly higher prices than chops in the markets of seventeenth-century Paris. The French called these delicacies tells in great detail how the king could be satisfied only with "son of fat, son of kidney, son of slender tripe," and how the tribute to the royal ladies consisted of sweetbreads and pig hearts. Organ meats fetched significantly higher prices than chops in the markets of seventeenth-century Paris. The French called these delicacies parties n.o.bles parties n.o.bles, and every hunter carried a ritual set of knives with which to remove them. He would then present them, on a forked stick, called la fourchie la fourchie, to the most powerful person present and they would be grilled on the spot in a little ceremony meant to honor the n.o.bleman's bravery. We still say a brave man has "guts" or "pluck" (a kind of intestine). Cowards, of course, are "gutless" or "lily-livered."

In fact, the entire world seems to be riddled with a perverse reverence for variety meats. The Scottish have made entrails wrapped in entrails (stomach), called haggis, a national dish, which they eat in a ceremony filled with pomp and bagpipes. The Tongans believed the liver was the finest part of the meal because it was where the animal's courage resided, which is why they gave it to the chief. The heads of the African Masai eat nothing but milk, honey, and roasted livers, for similar reasons. The Turkish high holiday Kurban Bayrami, the Day of Sacrifice, culminates in the ritual eating of a bowl of tripe stew called iskembe corbasi iskembe corbasi. The ancient Greeks claimed Achilles' courage came from a diet of lion intestines. The nomad tribes of Sudan make a delicious dish from giraffe innards that they claim allows them to communicate telepathically with their revered giraffe.

And then, of course, there was the Inca empire of Peru and their sacred guinea pigs.

Senora Villanova was waiting for me when I returned to the curanderno's curanderno's house the next day. She was about four feet tall, a hundred years old, and wearing a ma.s.sive pleated skirt and foot-tall white top hat. Braids to her waist. Now here, I thought, was a witch doctor who knew how to dress the part! She should give her husband some tips. We began the session with some prayers to a pile of coca leaves (the base for cocaine, and considered sacred). These were then laid on a piece of gift-wrapping paper and covered with dried moss, pink cookies, a couple of marbles, the hand off of a Barbie doll, mattress stuffing, and some confetti. This was my symbolic "body." My mind began to wander. I was already feeling rather s.p.a.cy from the three days I'd spent sitting in Husao's single dirt street begging the Villanovas to see me. They actually had quite a following, and I often found myself in a crowd of patients outside-men shaking with palsy, ominously limp infants, boys with purple mold covering their faces. Serious stuff. And not just dirt-poor peasants. Some of these suckers were rich. One even arrived in a BMW. You would think with that kind of money coming in, the Villanovas would spruce up their operation, but no. Roosters wandered in during my seance. A hunchbacked boy stuck his head in the door for a stare. By the single naked lightbulb I could make out some decorative touches. A pink-and-yellow plastic reindeer head. Donald Duck statues covered in muck. Not as grand as the gory altars of the Roman haruspex but an Etruscan priestess would probably find a Day-Glo pink reindeer pretty d.a.m.n impressive. Only a truly powerful deity, they might reason, would possess such an otherworldly color. That strangely dressed duck was obviously a lesser wood spirit. house the next day. She was about four feet tall, a hundred years old, and wearing a ma.s.sive pleated skirt and foot-tall white top hat. Braids to her waist. Now here, I thought, was a witch doctor who knew how to dress the part! She should give her husband some tips. We began the session with some prayers to a pile of coca leaves (the base for cocaine, and considered sacred). These were then laid on a piece of gift-wrapping paper and covered with dried moss, pink cookies, a couple of marbles, the hand off of a Barbie doll, mattress stuffing, and some confetti. This was my symbolic "body." My mind began to wander. I was already feeling rather s.p.a.cy from the three days I'd spent sitting in Husao's single dirt street begging the Villanovas to see me. They actually had quite a following, and I often found myself in a crowd of patients outside-men shaking with palsy, ominously limp infants, boys with purple mold covering their faces. Serious stuff. And not just dirt-poor peasants. Some of these suckers were rich. One even arrived in a BMW. You would think with that kind of money coming in, the Villanovas would spruce up their operation, but no. Roosters wandered in during my seance. A hunchbacked boy stuck his head in the door for a stare. By the single naked lightbulb I could make out some decorative touches. A pink-and-yellow plastic reindeer head. Donald Duck statues covered in muck. Not as grand as the gory altars of the Roman haruspex but an Etruscan priestess would probably find a Day-Glo pink reindeer pretty d.a.m.n impressive. Only a truly powerful deity, they might reason, would possess such an otherworldly color. That strangely dressed duck was obviously a lesser wood spirit.

I suppose it was sometime during my little daydream that two other women, identical to Senora Villanova in every respect, sneaked into the room. Before I knew it, they were all jabbering away with one another and throwing golden flower petals at me. I felt as if I was on Mars-three sisters bent double with age, their wrinkled faces glowing a bright parchment yellow and dressed in matching white top hats and blue velour dinner jackets. Blue velour dinner jackets. Blue velour dinner jackets. Where, I wondered, did they get outfits like that? One of them pulled out a jet-black guinea pig and started pouring beer down its gullet. Another tied a ma.s.s of pink and green ribbons to each of its paws. Then a bundle of pink ribbons was knotted about its waist. Where, I wondered, did they get outfits like that? One of them pulled out a jet-black guinea pig and started pouring beer down its gullet. Another tied a ma.s.s of pink and green ribbons to each of its paws. Then a bundle of pink ribbons was knotted about its waist.

Then they told me to take off all my clothes.

"Mr. Leopold Bloom ate with Relish the inner organs of beasts and fowl. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liver slices fried with crustcrumbs. . . ."

James Joyce Ulysses, 1922. 1922.

It was at some point during the late 1700s that the sacred meats of Tuscany began their long journey into disgrace. The most logical explanation for this demotion was Europe's increasing urbanization and the propensity of organ meats to spoil. Where in the past the European elite had enjoyed them deep in the forest after a kill, they now became the dish of people who lived near the cities' enormous slaughterhouses in 'hoods called "shambles," mazelike arrondis.e.m.e.nts puddled with coagulating blood and the stench of death. Hearts, kidneys, liver, udders, spleens, and blood pudding became Europe's soul food, both loved and hated. There were curious remnants of its former glory-it was considered an honored dish on St. Patrick's Day in parts of Ireland, where butchers would celebrate the holiday by decorating pigs' heads with top hats and placing a tobacco pipe in their mouths. "I'd bring [it] over and I'd eat it like chocolate. I'd eat it like chocolate," told one elderly resident of Cork to historian Regina s.e.xton. "With a hot potato and the cabbage and as for the pig's tail, I'd eat every bit of the fat on the pig's tail and I didn't eat a pig's tail now for ten years." Younger generations developed an aversion to their grandpa's "chocolate," and some households began serving two separate dinners, one with offal for the elders and another offal-free for the youngsters. The popular seventeenth-century delicacy Batalia pie took its name from beatillae beatillae, a reference to the small precious things hidden under the crust-c.o.c.ks...o...b.., sweetbreads, and such. By the late 1800s an identical dish was called 'umble pie, 'umbles 'umbles, or numbles numbles, being English slang for various organ meats. This treat soon became the symbolic "humble pie" we all enjoy from time to time when abjectly humiliated before large crowds of gloating spectators. Organ meat cuisine today verges on the extinct, at least in the English-speaking world. Americans are so terrified of eating "humble pie" they consume its ingredients only via the alarmingly pink anonymity known as the hot dog. Followers of America's Nation of Islam have banned this kind of food because of its a.s.sociation with the diet once forced on slaves in the South.

I've never had a pet guinea pig, but I must say I quite enjoyed having one give me a ma.s.sage. The warm fur felt absolutely divine as they ran it over my legs, my chest, the small of my back. Behind my ears. Not only did it feel good, but as the three witches from Husao rubbed the tipsy beast over my body, I felt all bad energies depart and my inner organs fill with a radiant light that sang like a thousand angels. The air above their top hats began to crackle and glow with electrical discharges. The Earth shook. And then it was done. The guinea pig was dead. The ladies laid it reverently on the table and prepared to cut it open to examine its entrails. I grew terribly excited as they whetted an evil-looking knife. Finally I would experience the same thrill of Hannibal, of Caesar, of Nero! Then I looked down at the doll-size body lying still upon the table. Poor little guinea pig, I thought; you have died for my sins. I noticed it seemed to look back at me.

"He's not dead," I said.

One of the ladies picked him up.

"I thought they absorbed the disease and it killed them," I said. "That's part of what makes me better, no?"

The ladies conferred. It seemed that my illness had been so mild that the packet containing the coca leaves and pink cookies had ameliorated it. This would be burned and since the pig had survived the ordeal (save for a possible hangover), it would be released into the wild. Or so they said. When I indicated I wanted to escort it to freedom, I noticed some hesitation. Indeed, I suspect they were secretly planning to recycle my pig on the next patient. A special fee took care of the problem, however, and I was soon walking with the hunchback boy to the fields beyond the village. We watched the pig stagger off, its colorful ribbons flas.h.i.+ng bravely in the brown stubble. He seemed headed for the snowy mountains that ringed the valley. Won't all those ribbons about make him easy prey for hunters? I asked. Peruvians consider guinea pig a delicacy and eat about 60 million a year.

"No, senor, he is safe," the boy replied. "Any person who sees those ribbons will know he is possessed by bad spirits. He will live to be the oldest guinea pig in Peru."

A Prophetic Chicken One of the more popular snacks in Tuscany is called Crostini di Fegato Crostini di Fegato, made of chicken livers, a dish that is believed to have evolved from the Etruscan method of divination. Religious chicken livers might seem like a stretch, but it turns out Imperial Romans had whole cadres of prophetic roosters. Before every major battle they'd offer some poultry a bowl of grain. If the birds ate with good appet.i.te, victory was a.s.sured; if not, defeat was inevitable. Before one famous battle a couple of chicken oracles who'd lost their appet.i.te were thrown into the sea to drown by P. Claudius Pulcher, an irate general who remarked, "May they drink if they won't eat." Pulcher went down to defeat.

The following recipe comes from the grandmother of writer Giuseppina Oneto of Rome, who writes: "My grandmother, Faustina Ciampolini, was born in a little Tuscan town south of Florence, Certaldo-Etruscan area. Truthfully she didn't look like an Etruscan, and looking like an Etruscan in Italy means that you are not very beautiful, and probably she didn't know much about them either. She was afraid of mysteries and ancient tombs. But she did like mummies. Anyhow, she taught her daughter this recipe and added, 'You cook this only during Christmastime!' No explanation about that, but in Italy modern sacrifices appear to happen only at Christmastime. She had her own chickens, and she used to add their precious livers to the ones bought at the local butcher's-'a malicious man,' she used to add."

2 tablespoons olive oil 2 bay leaves 1 clove of garlic, crushed (optional) 7 ounces (200 grams) chicken liver 3.4 ounces ( 1 110 liter) red wine 2 cloves (optional) Black pepper Salt

Put olive oil and bay leaves (and garlic, if you like it) in a clay pot and heat. Add the chicken liver cut in pieces, and salt and pepper. Heat. Add the red wine (and the cloves, if using) and let mixture cook at high flame for four to five minutes. Take the bay leaves out (and garlic and cloves, if added). Crush the rest with a fork; while still warm, spread on a crostino (small slice of bread dried in the oven). Buon appet.i.to!

Impure Indian Corn Native Americans revered corn above almost anything on Earth. They believed the first humans were made from the plant and considered it so sacred that when the first Europeans fed it to their horrible monsters (horses), they almost attacked them for blasphemy. Not that the white men were being consciously disrespectful. In fact, Columbus quite liked corn, although he believed it was a curiously large ear of wheat. That changed as Europeans went from being guests to invaders and felt compelled to demonize the enemy's favorite snack. "The barbarous Indians which know no better are constrained to make a vertue of a necessitie, and think it a good food," wrote the author of the influential Gerard's Herbal Herbal of 1597, "whereas we may easily judge that it nourisheth but little and is of hard and evil digestion." Others claimed "Indian wheat" caused scabs and burned the blood. When they grew bored with blaming those red-skinned barbarians for the stuff, Europeans renamed it "Turkish wheat" after their archenemies in Istanbul and many nineteenth-century Irish preferred starvation to eating "brimstone yellow" corn bread. of 1597, "whereas we may easily judge that it nourisheth but little and is of hard and evil digestion." Others claimed "Indian wheat" caused scabs and burned the blood. When they grew bored with blaming those red-skinned barbarians for the stuff, Europeans renamed it "Turkish wheat" after their archenemies in Istanbul and many nineteenth-century Irish preferred starvation to eating "brimstone yellow" corn bread.

European colonials in America were too reliant on corn to completely snub it, so they a.s.signed it to the lower cla.s.ses. "Gentlemen's houses," noted Robert Beverley in 1705, "usually had bread made of wheat," while corn bread was "mostly reserved for the servants," an observation borne out by the African-American adage, "we grow the wheat and they give us the corn." It was so decla.s.se that no American cookbook bothered to print a single corn recipe until the eve of the nineteenth century. It's an att.i.tude still reflected in corn's relative scarcity at the dinner table. Maize's primary solo role is as "junk food," like popcorn and chips, or as animal feed. The prejudice against it is so pervasive that we've made "corny" synonymous with "trite." The message seems clear enough. Pig food, junk food. This is hardly food at all. It's garbage.

It is impossible to definitively identify the cause of social att.i.tudes and taboos. But psychologists generally agree that parents identify "bad food" to their children based not so much on nutrition but on cla.s.s a.s.sociations, which in the United States is usually coded by race. In this regard, it's interesting to note the very different fate of New World foods like chocolate and tomatoes. Both were first adopted by the European elite who then reintroduced them to North America, where they quickly became among our most popular foods. Corn and turkey, introduced directly from Native American cuisine, remain in many ways marginalized.

"Not a.s.similated yet-still eating pasta," a New York social worker wrote in 1920 about the dangerously un-American dinners enjoyed by a family of Italian immigrants. Just as the early Jews had used dietary taboos to give their far-flung people a cohesive ident.i.ty, white Americans intent on creating an ethnic melting pot have tried to eliminate alien foods that threatened their social construct. All non-European cultures received similar treatment-the current governor of Was.h.i.+ngton State, Chinese-American Gary Locke, still reminisces about a third-grade teacher who beat him for eating un-American breakfasts like rice porridge and dried shrimp-but the Native Americans bore the brunt of this intolerance. The most appalling example was how big business and the government deliberately reduced the original 100 million American buffalo to a mere 21 animals during the 1800s. The buffalo was more than just food to the Native Americans, it was a crucial symbol of cultural ident.i.ty. The Cherokee leader Black Elk described his famous Ghost Dance as a racial prayer for "the return of the buffalo" and the culture it represented, a movement that ended when American soldiers gunned down hundreds of women and children in the Wounded Knee Ma.s.sacre of 1890. "A peoples' dream died then. It was a beautiful dream," he wrote. "And I, to whom so great a vision was given in my youth-you see me now a pitiful old man who has done nothing, for the nation's hoop is broken and scattered, and the sacred tree is dead."

Once the government forced Indians onto reservations, they began banning their feasts and traditional foods. "These dances or feasts, as they are called, ought to be discontinued," wrote Secretary of the Interior Henry Teller to the Commission on Indian Affairs in 1882, referring to events like the green corn dance of the Cherokee tribe. When Smithsonian anthropologist Frank Cus.h.i.+ng "went native" among the Zuni in the early 1900s, he found an entire culture/cuisine based on corn. There were hot-pink corn cakes and green ones and blue and white. The latter were made extra pale by adding kaolin clay, but the most prized were the purple-colored pastries called he-wi he-wi or or piki piki, a kind of mille-feuille mille-feuille made of layers of thin blue corn crepes. There was a vast array of dumplings and biscuits and even "ice cream" breads made by freezing rather than baking. There were creamy corn biscuits laced with lamb's milk and "salted buried bread" called made of layers of thin blue corn crepes. There was a vast array of dumplings and biscuits and even "ice cream" breads made by freezing rather than baking. There were creamy corn biscuits laced with lamb's milk and "salted buried bread" called k'os-he-pa-lo-kia k'os-he-pa-lo-kia made of the best white corn cooked in corn leaves and flavored with licorice or wild honey. There was even a psychedelic pancake, which was made by pouring red, green, white, yellow, blue, and purple corn batters into a design on a hot stone and then frying it as an enormous flapjack. People expressed themselves in ideas and language directly derived from their beloved cuisine. Just as we say a woman has creamy smooth skin, the highest compliment a Zuni girl could receive was to be told her cheeks were "smooth and silky as the made of the best white corn cooked in corn leaves and flavored with licorice or wild honey. There was even a psychedelic pancake, which was made by pouring red, green, white, yellow, blue, and purple corn batters into a design on a hot stone and then frying it as an enormous flapjack. People expressed themselves in ideas and language directly derived from their beloved cuisine. Just as we say a woman has creamy smooth skin, the highest compliment a Zuni girl could receive was to be told her cheeks were "smooth and silky as the piki piki stone" used for cooking maize crepes. stone" used for cooking maize crepes.

When the American government made the Hopi language illegal in 1910 and began pus.h.i.+ng "American" foods like white flour and potatoes and roast beef and sugar, it not only spelled an end to a historic cuisine, it undermined an entire way of life. Ironically, corn-based cuisine of the Southwest survived, only to have the Europeans actually make the plant itself almost inedible. Scientists in the area now believe that the high-sugar corn hybrids introduced in the 1950s have helped cause a ma.s.sive outbreak in diabetes and other diseases because the Native American's digestive system has trouble breaking down sugar. Prior to 1950 diabetes was unknown among native populations of the American Southwest. It now has among the highest rates in the world.

The b.u.t.terfly People They first appeared among poor Spanish shepherds in the eighteenth century. But it didn't stop there, and the so-called "b.u.t.terfly people" were soon seen everywhere: dazed peasants marked on the bridge of the nose with a curious b.u.t.terfly design, which soon spread to the rest of their body in huge throbbing scabs. Some drowned themselves to stop the itching. Others went slowly insane. By 1881 an estimated one hundred thousand people in Italy were affected, and corn, which had become a staple among the poorest of the poor, was fingered as the cause. Some said the vegetable's "impure Indian" nature lay at the root of the horrible disease. Others claimed moldy kernels were the culprit. In America, where the disease was rampant among the poorer people in the South, South Carolina actually put the vegetable on trial. "Corn stands indicted!" wrote the state's agricultural commissioner in 1909, "the original wild gra.s.s of Aztecs and given to us by the Indian. You are here a.s.sembled to try the case and render a verdict . . . for the charge of murder. . . ." It wasn't until the mid-1900s that n.o.bel nominee Joseph Goldberger proved that the disease, now called pellagra (rough skin), was caused by the absence of the vitamin niacin in corn. The mystery, however, was why there were no cases of pellagra among the Indians, who for centuries had been relying so heavily on the stuff. The answer lay in how the plant was processed. Indians always soaked the kernels overnight in a bath made of water and lime or wood ashes before grinding it into meal. The European invaders had a.s.sumed this was merely to make the maize easier to grind and had taken it as an example of "Indian laziness." It turned out that the step of soaking the grain with ash, called nixtamalization, was what released the niacin "bound up" inside corn and turned the plant into a kind of universal superfood that met almost all nutritional requirements. The Indians were well aware of this-they used a similar process with coca (cocaine) leaves to activate its chemical stimulants-but the European invaders were apparently so arrogant they hadn't bothered to ask.

Sky Blue Corn Flakes The greatest exception to Euro-American contempt for corn is, of course, cornflakes. Not that the cereal didn't meet initial resistance; it was called "horse food" when introduced in the late 1800s by John Harvey Kellogg (brother to Will Kellogg of Kellogg's cereal fame). Food writer Margaret Visser credits the cereal's triumph to the fact that it was served submerged in milk, because "in North American culture, nothing bathed in fresh milk can be threatening or bad." The original cornflakes, however, were sky blue and invented by the people of the American Southwest, who took the leftover crumbs of their blue piki piki bread (a kind of crepe) and dried them to a crunchy texture. Traditional bread (a kind of crepe) and dried them to a crunchy texture. Traditional piki piki is rather difficult to make-for one thing, you need to polish a four-hundred-pound stone to a silky smoothness without speaking-so you might try this recipe for is rather difficult to make-for one thing, you need to polish a four-hundred-pound stone to a silky smoothness without speaking-so you might try this recipe for someviki someviki dumplings. Some tribes served it with fermented fruit pastes called dumplings. Some tribes served it with fermented fruit pastes called tsu'-pi-a-we tsu'-pi-a-we, but it's good with blueberry preserves.

2 cups blue corn flour 24 teaspoons of honey 112 cups boiling water 36 corn husks soaked overnight in water and shaken dry

Combine corn flour with honey and mix well. Add the hot water slowly and mix. Knead until very thick. Place two tablespoons dough in a corn husk and wrap it up tight, using rubber bands if necessary. Drop in simmering water and cook for 45 minutes.

To test for doneness, slice a dumpling in half; if you can see dry or uncooked flour, cook further.

Ghost at the Dinner Table!

I was writing a magazine piece on the political alliances between white supremacists and the environmental movement ("A Pure Environment for the Pure White Race" is one of the more catchy slogans) when I heard my first antibean sentiment in many, many years. It was on a prerecorded message from San Diego's White Aryan Resistance (W.A.R.). Recorded messages are quite popular among hate groups and W.A.R.'s was the typical five minutes of brain-dead racist drivel followed by a pitch for contributions. Its only memorable feature was that most of the abuse was directed at Mexican immigrants. Mexicans, the tape informed me, were lazy and criminal. They were drug dealers. They bred like rabbits. They were, moreover, "beaners." As soon as the tw.a.n.gy voice on the tape said these words, I felt a wave of nostalgia sweep over me-the stereotype of a do-nothing man snoring on the couch while engulfed in a miasma of bean-inspired flatulence was standard fare during my California youth. I'd never actually considered calling someone a bean eater to be particularly insulting, or at least no more so than calling a Frenchman a frog or a Brit a limey. So I was puzzled at W.A.R.'s belief that Mexico's supposed predilection for beans was seriously defamatory. The Mexicans themselves, the original ones, had a very high opinion of the legumes. The Mayans called them their "little blackbirds."

Bean baiting, however, has an ancient pedigree among European types. It all began with Pythagoras. Everybody knows Mr. P from high school geometry where his self-named theorem about triangles is taught ad nauseam. But the Greek philosopher was also the founder of a religious cult that espoused s.e.xual equality, vegetarianism, reincarnation, and the well-tempered musical scale millenniums before it was fas.h.i.+onable to do so. He was also the first to publicly theorize that humans reproduce through "seeds," which I suppose makes him the discoverer of s.e.x. His most controversial belief, however, was that no one, under any circ.u.mstances, should ever eat a bean. There are a variety of theories explaining this curious taboo-it was about politics, or some peculiar disease-but the generally accepted reason was the one given by his near peer, Diogenes Laertius. "One should abstain from eating beans," wrote the Roman scholar around the first century B.C., "because they are full of the material which contains the largest portion of that animated matter of which our souls are made." The key words in this explanation are "animated matter" and "soul." The Greek word for soul is anemos anemos, which also means "wind." The "animated matter" Diogenes refers to is the intestinal ululation a.s.sociated with bean eating. Thus the reasoning behind the Pythagorean ban becomes clear. The buried dead were thought to release their souls in the form of gases or winds that, drifting up through the soil, got sucked into delicious little fava beans and frozen. When these beans were eaten and processed by a human's intestine, these soul winds were released and-eager to resume their ascension to Heaven-headed straight for the nearest opening, from which they exited with a cry of joy.

This belief puts our horror of flatulence in a new light-does it derive from the same "horror" we feel when we see (or hear or smell) a ghost? A number of our rules of etiquette make it seem rather likely. We think it merely good manners to cover our mouths when yawning, but the gesture was originally meant to prevent evil spirits from slipping inside. Likewise, we say "Gesundheit!" when someone sneezes to prevent devils from jumping into the breach. At any rate, Pythagoras' peers viewed the situation with the utmost gravity. The philosopher himself compared eating beans to biting off the head of one's mother, and he apparently allowed himself to be beaten to death rather than escape by walking across a field of fava beans. Historian Reay Tannahill seems to believe that the Greeks let their fields go fallow rather than plant the haunting vegetable.

Equally interesting is how the rise of Christianity shaped the culinary treatment of the bean. Early Christian Romans cooked fava or broad beans with sage and then tossed them in olive oil on the Day of the Dead (November 2). A distinctly adult, serious dish and quite delicious. But as the pagan G.o.ds became the stuff of fairy tales this dish morphed into a sweet called Fava Fava alla Romana o dei morti alla Romana o dei morti because sweets, like fairy tales, are the provender most a.s.sociated with childhood. It was traditional to leave a bowl of these because sweets, like fairy tales, are the provender most a.s.sociated with childhood. It was traditional to leave a bowl of these morti morti out overnight for the spirits, with the children inheriting whatever the ghosts left. Not that there weren't more adult manifestations. Romans continued to spit out black beans at midnight ceremonies while chanting "Deliver me from evil, protect me and mine from death, oh ye beans!" As late as the sixteenth century, Cardinal Gabriele Paleotti called the practice of giving beans to a dead person's relatives heresy. Even the "bean-fests" British employers still throw for departing employees are said to derive from the Celts' traditional funerary food called Beano. And while it's hard to believe they're related, there are similar practices in Buddhist countries, and many j.a.panese still scatter beans around the house to drive out bad spirits during their Setsubun winter festival- out overnight for the spirits, with the children inheriting whatever the ghosts left. Not that there weren't more adult manifestations. Romans continued to spit out black beans at midnight ceremonies while chanting "Deliver me from evil, protect me and mine from death, oh ye beans!" As late as the sixteenth century, Cardinal Gabriele Paleotti called the practice of giving beans to a dead person's relatives heresy. Even the "bean-fests" British employers still throw for departing employees are said to derive from the Celts' traditional funerary food called Beano. And while it's hard to believe they're related, there are similar practices in Buddhist countries, and many j.a.panese still scatter beans around the house to drive out bad spirits during their Setsubun winter festival-"Oniwasoto, f.u.kuwa-uchi!" shouts Dad as he tosses red beans about (Devils outside, good luck inside!). shouts Dad as he tosses red beans about (Devils outside, good luck inside!).

So this, I thought, was the context of W.A.R.'s "beaner" remark about Mexican immigrants. What I'd taken to be teenage racism was actually a richly allusive a.n.a.logy with multiple interpretations; W.A.R. was obviously a group of erudite Cla.s.sicists whose obscure pre-Christian allusions had been disgracefully misrepresented by the popular press. But when I called their headquarters to inquire, there was no answer. It appears the White Aryan Resistance has gone out of business.

King's Cake Le gateau de roi, or the King's Cake, has the most convoluted, scandal-ridden history in the Annals of European pastry. The trouble comes from the tradition of hiding a bean in the cake. The child who gets the slice with the hidden legume is crowned king for a day. It sounds innocuous, but the attendant rituals are loaded with references to Pythagorean beliefs, like addressing the child as Apollo (Pythagoras was known as the Thigh of Apollo) and treating him or her as an oracle. Christians sanitized these pagan overtones by restricting the cake's consumption or the King's Cake, has the most convoluted, scandal-ridden history in the Annals of European pastry. The trouble comes from the tradition of hiding a bean in the cake. The child who gets the slice with the hidden legume is crowned king for a day. It sounds innocuous, but the attendant rituals are loaded with references to Pythagorean beliefs, like addressing the child as Apollo (Pythagoras was known as the Thigh of Apollo) and treating him or her as an oracle. Christians sanitized these pagan overtones by restricting the cake's consumption [image]

Spirit in the Bean porcelain fava in porcelain fava in a fin de siecle a fin de siecle Paris catalog. Paris catalog.

to the Epiphany celebration following Christmas. The bean was then replaced with a porcelain figurine that showed a ghostly face emerging from the tip of a fava bean. When this failed to appease the priests, the bean figurine was changed to a crowned head in honor of the biblical three kings. This made the priests happy, but the politicians began to raise a fuss during the French Revolution when a king's head, whether in a cake or on the guillotine, became controversial. In 1794 the mayor of Paris urged the people to end the holiday and "discover and arrest the criminal patissiers patissiers and their filthy orgies which dare to honor the shades of the tyrants!" The French, to their credit, ignored him, and he had to settle for renaming the cake and their filthy orgies which dare to honor the shades of the tyrants!" The French, to their credit, ignored him, and he had to settle for renaming the cake le Gateau des Sans-Culottes le Gateau des Sans-Culottes or "the Cake of the Men-Without-Pants," in honor of the ill.u.s.trious beggars of Paris. or "the Cake of the Men-Without-Pants," in honor of the ill.u.s.trious beggars of Paris.

Almost every European country has a version of the cake, from the port-flavored bolo rei bolo rei of the Portuguese to the fruitcake preferred by the English. The following recipe is from of the Portuguese to the fruitcake preferred by the English. The following recipe is from La Bonne Cuisine de Madame E. Saint-Ange La Bonne Cuisine de Madame E. Saint-Ange, who claimed it came from "a good old cookery book from the time of Louis XV."

134 cups (550 grams) flour 1 teaspoon (10 grams) salt 2 tablespoons sugar (optional) 7 ounces (250 grams) unsalted b.u.t.ter 1 egg yolk for dough (optional) 2 egg yolks, beaten with 2 tablespoons water for glazing About 1 cup water 1 dried fava, broad, or lima bean

Mix flour, salt, and sugar in a slightly chilled bowl. Make a well in the flour and put the slightly softened b.u.t.ter into it with the egg yolk (optional). With your fingers, roughly mix the b.u.t.ter and flour, adding water as needed, graduall