The Routledge History of Food

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THE ROUTLEDGE HISTORY OF FOOD

“Whether motivated by an interest in history or food, all readers will find much to stimulate their thinking in this book. Carol Helstosky has assembled a collection of essays that reflects how diverse and rich the field of food history has become and establishes it as a research specialisation in its own right that contributes much to the discipline. Focussed on the last 500 years, the collection provides a synthesis of research that charts the direction of the field and reflects the transformation of the world food system within the broader historical context; a valuable resource that will introduce food history to a broad audience and inspire historians to recognize the significance of food for understanding the past and the everyday.” Adele Wessell, Southern Cross University, Australia

The history of food is one of the fastest growing areas of historical investigation, incorporating methods and theories from cultural, social, and women’s history while forging a unique perspective on the past. The Routledge History of Food takes a global approach to this topic, focusing on the period from 1500 to the present day. Arranged chronologically, this title contains 17 originally commissioned chapters by experts in food history or related topics. Each chapter focuses on a particular theme, idea, or issue in the history of food. The case studies discussed in these chapters illuminate the more general trends of the period, providing the reader with insight into the large-scale and dramatic changes in food history through an understanding of how these developments sprang from a speciﬁc geographic and historical context. Examining the history of economic, technological, and cultural interactions between cultures and charting the corresponding developments in food history, The Routledge History of Food challenges readers’ assumptions about what and how people have eaten, bringing fresh perspectives to well-known historical developments. It is the perfect guide for all students of social and cultural history.

Carol Helstosky is Associate Professor of History at Denver University. Her publications include Food Culture in the Mediterranean (2009), Pizza: A Global History (2008) and Garlic and Oil: Food and Politics in Modern Italy (2004). THE ROUTLEDGE HISTORIES

The Routledge Histories is a series of landmark books surveying some of the most important topics and themes in history today. Edited and written by an international team of world- renowned experts, they are the works against which all future books on their subjects will be judged.

THE ROUTLEDGE HISTORY OF WOMEN IN EUROPE SINCE 1700 Edited by Deborah Simonton

THE ROUTLEDGE HISTORY OF SLAVERY Edited by Gad Heuman and Trevor Burnard

THE ROUTLEDGE HISTORY OF THE HOLOCAUST Edited by Jonathan C. Friedman

THE ROUTLEDGE HISTORY OF CHILDHOOD IN THE WESTERN WORLD Edited by Paula S. Fass

THE ROUTLEDGE HISTORY OF SEX AND THE BODY Edited by Kate Fisher and Sarah Toulalan

THE ROUTLEDGE HISTORY OF WESTERN EMPIRES Edited by Robert Aldrich and Kirsten McKenzie

Forthcoming:

THE ROUTLEDGE HISTORY OF GENOCIDE Edited by Cathie Carmichael and Richard Maguire

THE ROUTLEDGE HISTORY OF EAST CENTRAL EUROPE Edited by Irina Livezeanu and Arpad von Klimo

THE ROUTLEDGE HISTORY OF MEDIEVAL CHRISTIANITY Edited by Robert Swanson THE ROUTLEDGE HISTORY OF FOOD

Edited by Carol Helstosky First published 2015 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2015 Carol Helstosky for selection and editorial matter; individual extracts, the contributors The right of Carol Helstosky to be identiﬁed as author of the editorial material, and of the contributors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identiﬁcation and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data The Routledge history of food. pages cm. – (The Routledge histories) Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Food–History. 2. Food industry and trade–History. 3. Eating customs–History. TX355.R685 2014 394.1’209–dc23 2014019148

ISBN: 978-0-415-62847-1 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-75345-4 (ebk) Typeset in Baskerville by Taylor & Francis Books CONTENTS

List of illustrations vii Notes on contributors viii

Introduction Food and the historian xii CAROL HELSTOSKY

PART I 1 1500–1700

1 The magic of Japanese rice cakes 3 ERIC C. RATH

2 Food production, consumption, and identity politics in Tahuantinsuyu and colonial Perú 19 ALISON KRÖGEL

3 Stimulants and intoxicants in Europe, 1500–1700 42 KEN ALBALA

4 Science, food and health in Chosoˇn Korea 61 MICHAEL J. PETTID

PART II 79 1700–1900

5 Food shortage in colonial Mexico: maize, food policies and the construction of a modern political culture, 1785–1807 81 SARAH BAK-GELLER CORONA

6 “If the King had really been a father to us”: failed food diplomacy in eighteenth- century Sierra Leone 92 RACHEL B. HERRMANN

v CONTENTS

7 Stolen bodies, edible memories: the inﬂuence and function of West African foodways in the early British Atlantic 113 KELLEY FANTO DEETZ

8 Spreading the word: using cookbooks and colonial memoirs to examine the foodways of British colonials in Asia, 1850–1900 131 CECILIA LEONG-SALOBIR

9 The globalization of alcohol and temperance from the gin craze to prohibition 156 JEFFREY M. PILCHER

10 “Peace on earth among the orders of creation”: vegetarian ethics in the United States before World War I 179 BERNARD UNTI

11 Food, medicine and institutional life in the British Isles, c.1790–1900 200 IAN MILLER

12 Industrializing diet, industrializing ourselves: technology, food, and the body, since 1750 220 CHRIS OTTER

PART III 247 1900–present

13 The evolution of a fast food phenomenon: the case of American pizza 249 BONNIE M. MILLER

14 Cooking class: the rise of the “foodie” and the role of mass media 270 KATHLEEN COLLINS

15 Tourism, cuisine, and the consumption of culture in the Caribbean 291 CARLA GUERRÓN MONTERO

16 Food and migration in the twentieth century 313 LARESH JAYASANKER

17 Quick rice: international development and the Green Revolution in Sierra Leone, 1960–1976 332 ZACHARY D. POPPEL

Suggestions for further reading 352 Index 356

vi ILLUSTRATIONS

Figures 1.1 New Year’s decoration of Kagami mochi rice cakes 7 2.1 “An Inca asks a Spaniard what he eats, he replies ‘Gold’” by Guaman Poma 32 3.1 “The King Drinks” by Jacob Jordaens 46 3.2 “Gin Lane,” engraving after Hogarth 50 3.3 “Beer Street,” engraving after Hogarth 51 12.1 Steam thresher 222 12.2 Crossbred wheat 223 12.3 German abridged high milling 226 12.4 Loading ice into refrigerated trucks 229 12.5 Beef refrigeration equipment 231 12.6 Insulated motor van 232 12.7 Boxed apples 233 16.1 Photograph of Charles Phan, founder of The Slanted Door, 2010 315 16.2 Photograph of David Brown inside India House, 1961 322 16.3 Advertisement and menu for India House 323

Tables 4.1 The Five Phases and their associations 63 8.1 Collection of recipes for Indian cookery, 1910 142

Maps 2.1 Map of Tahuantinsuyu, Incan expansion by 1532 20 15.1 Map of Panama 295 15.2 Map of Bocas del Toro, Panama 300 16.1 Map of India following the 1947 partition 319

vii CONTRIBUTORS

Ken Albala is Professor of History at the University of the Paciﬁc in Stockton, California. He is the author or editor of 17 books on food including Eating Right in the Renaissance, Food in Early Modern Europe, Cooking in Europe 1250–1650, The Banquet, Beans (winner of the 2008 IACP Jane Grigson Award), Pancake, and a small book entitled Grow Food, Cook Food, Share Food. Until recently he was co-editor of the journal Food, Culture and Society. He has also co-edited The Business of Food, Human Cuisine, Food and Faith and edited A Cultural History of Food: The Renaissance and The Routledge International Handbook to Food Studies. Albala was also editor of the Food Cultures Around the World series, the four-volume Food Cultures of the World Encyclopedia and is now series editor of Rowman & Littleﬁeld Studies in Food and Gastronomy for which he has written Three World Cuisines: Italian, Chinese, Mexican (winner of the Gourmand World Cookbook Awards’ best foreign cuisine book in the world for 2012). He has co-authored two cookbooks: The Lost Art of Real Cooking and The Lost Arts of Hearth and Home. In 2014, he will publish Food History Reader: Primary Sources, Nuts: A Global History, and a translation of the sixteenth-century cookbook Livre fort excellent de cuysine. Albala is currently editing a three-volume encyclopedia on Food Issues.

Sarah Bak-Geller Corona received her doctorate in history from the École des Hautes Études in Social Sciences (Paris, France). She has written articles and book chapters about cuisine, culture, and power in Latin American colonial contexts; food, body, and race in Mexico; culinary recipes and national identities; the spread of gastronomic models between Iberoamerica and France and indigenous food heritage in America. Bak-Geller Corona is the author of Habitar una cocina (2006) and Nacionalismos culinarios en América Latina, to be published by the Dirección General de Culturas Populares- CONACULTA. Kathleen Collins is an academic librarian at the City University of New York. She has written about food, popular culture, television, and media history in both the scholarly and popular press. Her publications on food culture include Watching What We Eat: The Evolution of Television Cooking Shows; “A Kitchen of One’s Own: The Paradox of Dione Lucas,” Camera Obscura: Feminism, Culture, and Media Studies, 2012, 1–23; and “There’sNo Such Thing as Crack Pie Babies,” 2 Bridges Review, Fall 2012, 89–92. Kelley Fanto Deetz specializes in African American history, foodways, and material culture. She is currently working on a book, Bound to the Fire: Virginia’s Enslaved Cooks and

viii CONTRIBUTORS

Their Kitchens, and is a Research Associate for the President’s Commission on Slavery and the University, at the University of Virginia. She received her B.A. in Black Studies and History from The College of William and Mary, and her M.A. and Ph.D. in African Diaspora Studies at U.C. Berkeley. Carol Helstosky is an Associate Professor of History at the University of Denver in Colorado. She is the author of Garlic and Oil: Food and Politics in Modern Italy (2004); Pizza: A Global History (2008); and Food Culture in the Mediterranean (2009). She is currently working on a book-length study of the art market in nineteenth-century Italy. Rachel B. Herrmann is a lecturer in early modern American history at the University of Southampton. Her ﬁrst book project asks how Native Americans, free blacks, and slaves used food to wage war and broker peace during and after the American Revolution. She has previously written about cannibalism in colonial Jamestown for the William and Mary Quarterly, and is currently editing a book on cannibalism in the early modern Atlantic World. She is a founding member of The Junto: A Group Blog on Early American History. Laresh Jayasanker is an Assistant Professor of History at Metropolitan State University of Denver (Colorado). His publications include “Tortilla Politics: Mexican Food, Glo- balization and the Sunbelt,” in Sunbelt Rising: The Politics of Space, Place, and Region in the American South and Southwest, and “Indian Restaurants in San Francisco and America: A Case Study in Translating Diversity, 1965–2005,” in Food & History. He is writing a book, Sameness in Diversity: Food Culture and Globalization in Modern America. He received his Ph.D. from the University of Texas at Austin. Alison Krögel is an associate professor of Spanish at the University of Denver. Her research includes studies of contemporary Quechua and Kichwa-language poetry and oral traditions, as well as the roles played by food, cooks, and marketwomen in colonial and contemporary Andean literature and culture. The recipient of a Fulbright Research Grant to Ecuador (2013–14), she has published the book Food, Power and Resistance in Quechua Verbal and Visual Narratives, as well as articles in journals such as: Revista de crítica literaria latinoamericana, Journal of Latin American and Caribbean Anthropology, Food and Food- ways, Revista de estudios bolivianos, and Kipus: Revista andina de letras. Cecilia Leong-Salobir is the author of Food Culture in Colonial Asia: A Taste of Empire and is Research Fellow at the University of Wollongong, Australia. She is currently working on a book-length project on the food history of Australia and Singapore. She co-edited “Western Australia in the Indian Ocean World” in Studies in Western Australian His- tory, 28, 2013. Prior to her present position, Cecilia was the Coordinator of the Centre for Western Australian History at the University of Western Australia. Cecilia is a founding member of the editorial board for the journal Global Food History and writes her food history blog on The Digest. Bonnie M. Miller is Associate Professor of American Studies at University of Massachu- setts Boston. She published From Liberation to Conquest: The Visual and Popular Cultures of the Spanish-American War of 1898 in 2011. She has also published articles in the Journal of American Studies, American Studies,andtheBulletin of Hispanic Studies. She specializes in visual culture studies, particularly the history of photography, cartooning, and early cinema, and recently expanded her interests into food histories. Bonnie Miller teaches courses in visual culture/media studies and American social and cultural history from 1600 to the present.

ix CONTRIBUTORS

Ian Miller is a Wellcome Trust Research Fellow in Medical Humanities at the Centre for the History of Medicine in Ireland, University of Ulster. His publications include A Modern History of the Stomach: Gastric Illness, Medicine and British Society, 1800– 1950 (2011), Reforming Food in Post-Famine Ireland: Medicine, Science and Improvement, 1845– 1922 (2014) and Drinking Water: A Global History (forthcoming). Carla Guerrón Montero is a cultural and applied anthropologist trained in the United States and Latin America, specializing in the anthropology of tourism, the anthropology of food, and the African diaspora. Dr. Guerrón Montero is Associate Professor of Anthropology and Director of the Latin American and Iberian Studies (LAIS) Program at the University of Delaware. Dr. Guerrón Montero studies the complex and multiple meanings of identity among marginalized populations in modern Latin American and Caribbean nation-states (Panama, Grenada, Ecuador, and Brazil). She studies representations of culturally racialized and gendered identities manifested through music, cuisine, and festivities, among others. She has also conducted collaborative research on nutritional anthropology in Ecuador. She has published extensively in English and Spanish in professional journals such as Anthropological Quarterly, Bulletin for Latin American Research, Ethnology, Human Organization, Food, Culture, and Society, the Journal of Tourism and Cultural Change, and Ecology of Food and Nutrition, among others. She is currently working on another book, From Temporary Migrants to Permanent Attractions: Tourism and the Construc- tion of National and Transnational Afro-Antillean Identities in Panama. Chris Otter is Associate Professor of History at the Ohio State University. His research interests include food history, the history of science, technology and medicine, and environmental history. He is the author of The Victorian Eye: A Political History of Light and Vision in Britain, 1800–1910 (2008). He is currently completing The Vital State: Food Sys- tems, Nutrition Transitions, and the Making of Industrial Britain 1750–1950. Michael J. Pettid is Professor of Premodern Korean Studies in the Department of Asian and Asian American Studies and also serves as the Director of the Translation Research and Instruction Program at Binghamton University (SUNY). He received his Ph.D. in premodern Korean literature from the University of Hawaii at Manoa. He has published widely on premodern Korean literature, history, religions, and culture, including monographs on the history of Korean cuisine (Korean Cuisine: An Illustrated History, 2008) and an annotated translation and analysis of a seventeenth- century novel (Unyoˇng-joˇn: A Love Aﬀair at the Royal Palace of ChosoˇnKorea,2009).Heis also a co-editor of Confucianism and Women in Chosoˇn Korea: New Perspectives (with Youngmin Kim, 2011) and Death, Mourning, and the Afterlife in Korea: Critical Aspects of Death from Ancient to Contemporary Times (with Charlotte Horlyck, 2014) and author of numerous articles and book chapters. His current research projects include a translation of the Kyuhap ch’ongsoˇ [Encyclopedia of Women’sDailyLives] and a co-edited anthology of premodern Korean prose. Jeﬀrey M. Pilcher is a professor of history at the University of Toronto. His most recent books are Planet Taco: A Global History of Mexican Food (2012) and The Oxford Handbook of Food History (2012). He is also the author of ¡Que vivan los tamales! Food and the Making of Mexican Identity (1998), The Sausage Rebellion: Public Health, Private Enterprise, and Meat in Mexico City (2006), and Food in World History (2006). He is currently writing a history of the globalization of beer.

x CONTRIBUTORS

Zachary D. Poppel is a Ph.D. candidate in the Department of History at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. He is currently completing his dissertation, “From the Soil Up: Sierra Leone and the Rural University in the Wake of Empire.” In Spring 2015 he will start teaching in the History Department at Lewis & Clark College. Eric C. Rath is Professor of Premodern Japanese History at the University of Kansas, specializing in Japanese culture. His research ranges from the traditional performing arts, especially the 600-year-old masked noh drama, to dietary culture, particularly cuisine, regional foodways, sake, confectionery, and tobacco use. His publications include Food and Fantasy in Early Modern Japan (2010) and “Revaluating Rikyu-: Kaiseki and the Origins of Japanese Cuisine,” Journal of Japanese Studies 39.1, 2013, 67–96. His editorial work includes Japanese Foodways Past and Present, co-edited with Stephanie Assmann (2010); he is area editor for the forthcoming Oxford Companion to Sweets; and he serves on the editorial board of the journal Global Food History. Bernard Unti is Senior Policy Adviser to the President and CEO of the Humane Society of the United States and the author of a number of historical essays on cruelty to animals, the humane movement, the development of petkeeping, human attitudes toward animals, the humane education of children, the science of animal welfare, and the place of animal protection within American social reform. He received a Ph.D. in US history from American University in 2002.

xi INTRODUCTION Food and the historian

Carol Helstosky

As human beings, we hold different opinions regarding which foods are acceptable and/or preferable to eat. Our ideas about what constitutes “good food” vary tremendously across all of the standard markers of identity: regional affiliation, socio-economic standing, aspirations, self-image, ethnic traditions, and understandings of health or well-being, to name only a few. Thus, a locavore, an ethical vegetarian, a fast food connoisseur, and a habitual dieter are unlikely to agree on a definition of good food. As students of history, we also differ in terms of what we think is “good food history.” Some orient themselves toward culinary history while others may be interested in the economic impact of a certain food item or the history of human conflict as it pertains to food availability. As is the case with food preference, there is no one formula for “food history” that will satisfy all readers. The field has become too diverse to allow for any one definition of food history that will please multiple constituencies. It may seem strange to begin a collection of chapters with this pre-emptory warning, but this introduction is less of an apology for what is not in this book and more of an explanation of how varied and rich the field of food history has become. Food history has exploded in the last three decades, as evidenced by the number of books, articles, and journals published on the subject, as well as conference panels and entire conferences devoted to a particular aspect of food history. What was seen as a topic of limited interest and impact is now taken seriously as a subject of academic inquiry. The growth and ela- boration of food history, however, has been uneven. Historians of North and South America, as well as Western Europe, seem to have published the greatest number of studies, yet historians of a few nations in other parts of the world have matched these numbers.1 It is clear, however, that the practice of food history for certain regions is either incipient or non-existent; readers hoping to find thorough global coverage of all aspects of food history will have to wait until further interest develops for some areas of the world. This volume is not a guide to what the history of food should look like, but rather is indicative of the direction of the field for the past three decades. Thus, the volume reveals both the strengths and weaknesses of the field in its current state. The authors assembled here come from diverse backgrounds with respect to food history; some have extensive publication records devoted solely to the history of food and drink while others are trained historians who have turned their attention to food only recently. There are also contributors trained in other fields (language, anthropology) who take a historically-based approach to their work. The authors assembled here present us with a wide range of

xii INTRODUCTION analytic interests, from the ways in which food becomes a means of communication between populations to the impact of new agricultural forms on both local and global political situations. If there is a common analytic thread in this collection, it is that the authors of this collection are more concerned about what people do with food than they are in writing a history of the food itself. Thus, the chapter on the history of pizza is less concerned with the history of what ingredients might be put on a pizza and more concerned with the history of how pizza was assimilated into a particular culture. If another commonality unites the work assembled here, it is the fact that most of these chapters constitute case studies of research the author is engaged in presently. Thus, this collection represents one snapshot of the field in its present state. It will become clear to the reader that certain issues and themes recur throughout the volume, indicating that food historians are in the process of building ever more sophisticated analytic frameworks for thinking about, and through, food as a mode of historical analysis. This introduction will present some of the major themes and issues found throughout this volume in the context of broader trends in food history. It would be helpful first to define the general parameters of food history for readers less familiar with the development of the field. This might also be helpful given that the umbrella field of food studies has experienced phenomenal growth in the United States and Europe over the last three decades, leading to some potential for confusion: is the field of food studies similar to, or the same as, food history? Food studies encompasses a broad sweep of academic inquiry, bringing together scholars and students from diverse fields such as sociology, nutrition, agriculture, communications, public health, restaurant management, the culinary arts, and, of course, history among other specializations. There has been a tremendous publishing boom in food studies, including books on specific issues or subjects, journals and periodicals dedicated to general and specific forms of knowledge about food, and reference works for students and scholars. There are also several academic programs at universities and colleges throughout the world, where students can obtain a degree in food studies. Food studies, because of its subject matter and its interdisciplinary nature, retains an understandably broad appeal. Thus, publications in this area are frequently aimed at both academic and popular audiences and authors can be academics or non-academics. Because the field of food studies is new, it was frequently the case that most of the academics working in this field were self-taught and trained. Thus, it would be fair to say that there was, and remains, a range of expertise and standards when it comes to food studies scholarship. The explosion of food studies publications means that the field has become diffuse and potentially confusing for academics and students interested in food history. Some works purporting to be food history are not well supported by accurate evidence and some authors are not always attentive to historically-based arguments, methodology, and historiography. Some food history authors write in a vacuum of food studies/food history, paying scant attention to other relevant fields of history, such as agricultural, environmental, medical, and cultural histories. The publishing boom has raised a few eyebrows among academics who dismiss food history as insufficiently rigorous. These critics might have a point; the rapid growth of publications in food history and in food studies has left little time for scholarly reflection upon or evaluation of prior research or future directions for the field. Some food history books describe a series of interesting anecdotes about a particular food without much analysis, or they might be written by someone without training in historical methods. Yet reasons for scholarly consternation can alternately be

xiii C. HELSTOSKY viewed as a source of potential innovation and invigoration. The practice of food history brings together diverse experts interested in food; it is not unusual for food historians to be informed and inspired by the works of sociologists, nutritionists, and anthropologists. Yet there are also journalists, film-makers, restaurateurs, chefs, and farmers eager to explore the origins and history of the foods with which they are so familiar. Although they might raise eyebrows, diverse perspectives in a collaborative environment have the potential to challenge conventional or established wisdom regarding food history. Like food studies, food history attracts a broad range of academics and non-academics eager to write about the history of food … but what is the history of food? Are there standard practices for writing food history, in terms of locating and analyzing evidence or in terms of choosing a subject suitable for study? What are the recent trends in the field of food history? Which previously-published works in food history and food studies inspire food historians? Are certain types of evidence preferable to others? How is evidence used in food history? Are food historians making valuable contributions to other disciplinary fields and to the study of history more generally? Can food history be considered a research specialization within the field of history, or does it fall under another category, such as cultural or environmental history? The lifespan of food history is long enough, perhaps, for us to take stock of the field and, at the very least, understand some of the diverse practices of food historians.

What is food history? Food history assumes many forms. At the most basic or obvious level, food history is the history of a particular food or dish. An author may describe who discovered or popularized a food item or perhaps who invented a specific dish in addition to providing details about the history of the production and consumption of the food in question. Such histories are not new or recent; the classic work that launched this type of focused food history was Redcliffe N. Salaman’s The History and Social Influence of the Potato, first published in 1949. Salaman first traced the adaptation of the plant by humans and its growing popularity before attempting to measure its impact on societies and economies throughout the world. Perhaps not as painstakingly detailed as Salaman’s history of the potato, books focusing on the history of a single food or dish now fill the shelves of libraries and book- stores. Frequently referred to as “commodity histories,” these books might examine the history and measure the impact of a single food over a lengthy or brief period of time, paying particular attention to the global spread and influence of the food item or dish.2 Readers looking for a history of the potato or a history of ice cream now have dozens of books to consider, each with a slightly different regional or chronological focus and each with a different analytic framework. Yet food history is not simply the history of a food. In the 1980s, established historians and students of history were inspired by key works of social and cultural history, in particular the histories of material life and the histories of mass culture, consumerism, and consumption. Such works directed reader attention to the historical relevance or significance of the mundane, the overlooked, or the obvious. Some of the food histories of the 1980s focused on the role of food in everyday life, uncovering, for example, what individuals consumed as well as evidence of how food was prepared. Food historians also drew inspiration from anthropologists, who for decades were asking themselves, what does food or the activities around food tell us about human societies, human interactions,

xiv INTRODUCTION communications, and how do we interpret these interactions? Historians, of course, chose to tell the stories of what happened to these interactions as they changed over time. Some of the early works in food history dealt with the political aspects of food consumption, like food riots or rationing, especially when there was evidence of human conflict over food supplies. As the study of food as a topic of serious inquiry took root in history departments, scholars and students eagerly pursued a number of studies of the many food industries: restaurants, markets, food production and processing, so-called “fast” food, and specialty industries like baby food production or foods for dieting. Scholars interested in chronicling the history of food industries were influenced by the work of historians of business, advertising, and consumerism. Yet historians of food industries were carving out their own field of inquiry which encompassed everything from the production of fine wines to the selling of cheap hamburgers in paper sacks. Many historians of the food industries situated the development of a particular food industry within a broader context, thereby seeking to explain why a particular food, dish, or drink became popular at a particular time in a particular location. Food industry histories relied less on contingency and more on human agency, to shape human tastes for certain foods and even the contours of popular culture. In terms of food production, historians have paid particular attention to the changes in the environment in which food is grown as well as the consequences of cultural exchange between populations. A productive and engaging relationship between the fields of food history and environmental history led to a boom in publications concerning the “Colum- bian exchange” as well as subsequent exchanges of goods and information. Historians have described the mechanics and the consequences of these exchanges, in particular illuminating the delicate relationship between contingency and agency when it comes to describing how the resulting food landscapes came to be. The analytic framework posed by cultural exchange continues to be a popular one, as evidenced by many of the chapters in this collection. Scholars analyze food exchanges in the context of imperialism, globalization, and tourism; they delve deeper into the sources to delineate the creation of a hybridized cuisine, frequently the product of these exchanges. Closely related to the studies of the Columbian and other exchanges are the food histories that seek to understand and measure human interventions in and around food. For example, in opting for mono-crop production or adopting a factory system for meat processing, did certain populations significantly alter the surrounding environment, the options available to consumers, or established labor patterns? What were the consequences of these interventions? No doubt many historians were and remain inspired by Sidney Mintz’s Sweetness and Power: The Place of Sugar in Modern History (1985), which linked the seemingly mundane desire for sugar with the massive historical developments of trade, slavery, and capitalism. Since human intervention in and around food has remained a consistent development throughout history, there is no shortage of possible topics for research and, therefore, this field of inquiry remains a vibrant one. Lastly, a number of historians have been interested in the question of what the presence or absence of food tells us about human activity. What do humans do to obtain more food, to prevent starvation, to make food more affordable, or to make food more responsive to human needs, especially in the context of structural changes? Contemporary observers of our complex food system may surmise that the amount of human activity around the food supply is a fairly recent phenomenon, given the scope of what we now have to consider. Thus debates about GMOs or “happy meat” seem like they are new historical

xv C. HELSTOSKY phenomena when, in fact, human discussion about, and debate over, food systems have existed for centuries. Granted, previous discussions differed in their scope or subject matter but some concerns—like the relationship between food and health or the morality of consumption—persist. This brief description of some of the major trends in food history is by no means exhaustive, nor is it my intent to overly-compartmentalize fields of inquiry. Indeed, several or many of these topics might overlap in a single study: responding to food riots, for example, necessitates human intervention in the food production cycle in order to prevent food shortage. This description of developments over the last three decades suggests that the field is wide-ranging and perhaps too diffuse to be thought of as a well-defined field of study. Rather, it is perhaps more helpful to think of food history from the perspective of its practitioners. Recently, Peter Scholliers suggested visualizing food history as a house with many rooms; the practitioners may occupy different rooms or they might travel freely between rooms, but all of them “make their home” in such a large house.3 Rather than look skeptically at such an edifice, readers would do well to consider the possibilities contained within the house, or field, of food history. Historians who have written about the history of food have not only filled in significant gaps about who ate what when; they have challenged our assumptions about the past and opened new fields of inquiry. And, like most other historians, food historians have had to think consciously about the established methods or tools of historical analysis … are these relevant to the history of food? What problems do food historians encounter and are they successful in resolving difficulties with sources or methods of interpretation? Given the nature of sources for food history, it is not surprising that the study of food has re-arranged the tools available for historical inquiry.

Food and the historian’s toolbox One of the first considerations the historian brings to bear on potential research is the availability of sources. Food historians are no exception. Depending on the region and chronological period, published sources may be scarce or non-existent, hence the uneven terrain of food history in terms of geographical and chronological coverage. Populations may leave behind written records if there is a problem with food supplies that necessitates the intervention of authorities (famine or high prices), but there are limited records per- taining to everyday consumption patterns or seemingly unremarkable events, such as the discovery of brewed coffee or the invention of pizza. Since humans enjoy consuming food, strange or exotic foods and food habits were remarkable, recorded in people’s travel journals or diaries, although such records must be treated with caution, given the subjective qualities observers ascribe to certain foods or dishes. Similarly, humans commented on food crises, like a shortage or famine; few humans recorded the mundane details of everyday diet. Food historians are wary, then, of the written record in terms of what it can accurately represent. The authors assembled here have employed creative approaches to remedy the lack of evidence in some cases, and the reliability of evidence in other cases. For example, in seeking to recover and describe the food habits of enslaved populations in eighteenth-century Virginia, Kelley Fanto Deetz uses a variety of available sources: archaeological evidence from plantations, published receipt books, and findings from scholars working on the history of food in Africa. Historians differ in their opinions on the reliability of receipt

xvi INTRODUCTION books or cookbooks, given that the evidence found within many of these books is prescriptive, not descriptive, in nature. Like Deetz, Cecilia Leong-Salobir uses cookbooks as sources in her exploration of food habits in late nineteenth-century colonialism in India, Malaysia, and Singapore; her careful consideration of how the historian treats contested or debated sources like cookbooks illustrates the resourceful ways in which food historians have had to train themselves to deal with potentially problematic evidence. Historians who focus on more contemporary events in food history may have more sources available to them, but those sources are no less problematic, given the politically-charged atmosphere or context for many of the recent food controversies (GMOs, factory farming, fast food). Still, food historians find creative methods to explore recent controversies. Laresh Jaya- sanker’s chapter on the recent globalization of food habits relies upon evidence from and about restaurants, as restaurants can be interpreted as barometers of both cosmopolitan and popular tastes. After the collection and consideration of evidence, the food historian grapples with the meaning of food in history. What, specifically, changes over time and what does the historian use to measure change? Food, like history, is in a state of nearly constant change even though the food under study may itself remain unchanged. That is, sugar was still sugar whether it was 1500 or 1900, but sugar has taken a multiplicity of forms in that time span and popular attitudes toward sugar and its consumption have changed considerably over time. What, then, do we make of the history of sugar? Of what significance is it to trace the change in food production, consumption patterns, and popular attitudes? One of the first scholars to chart the transformation of sugar in the modern world was not a historian. Anthropologist Sidney Mintz published Sweetness and Power: The Place of Sugar in Modern History in 1985, detailing the history of a seemingly mundane or at least taken-for-granted food, sugar, through an examination of the history of its production and consumption.4 This sounds simple enough, but Mintz’s work inspired generations of scholars and students to understand and use food as a tool linking diverse populations, and to grand historical processes, through the production and consumption of a food. Many of the chapters in this collection draw either explicit or implicit inspiration from Mintz’s book in that they detail how the discovery and production of food, or certain dishes, bring people together in both obvious and unexpected ways. Put simply, food links worlds and food links us to the ever-changing and always complicated world. Food links the complexities of the economy with the visceral processes of the body and, within the individual body, food links the cerebral process of thinking about and through food with the more immediate feelings of hunger or desire. Food history enables readers to see what kind of stake individuals and populations had in the availability of food, the types of interests people cultivated around its consumption, and what risks people took to guarantee its adequate distribution. For some, of course, the stakes are higher than for others. Because food is so important for the survival of a population, the societal activ- itiesaroundfoodenableagivenpopulationtosurvive,topersist,toovercome,orto dominate. Three decades after the publication of Mintz’s work, historians are still thinking about food as a means of connecting individuals and societies to each other and to larger historical processes like slavery, imperialism, industrialization, migration, and globalization. As exemplified by many of the chapters in this collection, food historians consistently think about food in a global sense, as a means of communication or linking worlds. As previously mentioned, food historians have defined the Columbian exchange, the first

xvii C. HELSTOSKY widespread exchange of culinary practice and cultivation of food products, as one of the more significant events in food history. The Columbian exchange, perhaps because of its vast dimensions and impact, set the course for thinking about food as a source of conflict. As cultural exchange led to cultural conflict, food played a significant role in defining the struggles between populations. Yet historians are careful to think about food, not only as a tool of the dominant, but also as a tool of the oppressed. Several authors here examine efforts to control or change food habits under the auspices of slavery or forms of colonialism, but they frame these struggles within a broader context of exchange, negotiation, and contestation. If historians have used food as a means to understand power struggles between societies, they have also begun to explore the ways in which societies reflect on their place in the world by thinking about, and with, food. For example, as a society industrializes and becomes more populous, authorities or elites may begin to think about, and experiment with, greater standardization in food production as well as the uniformity or standardization of food consumption habits, particularly those among the less privileged classes. Ian Miller’s chapter on food and institutions describes scientificefforts in nineteenth-century Britain to adjust the diet of the individuals held in asylums and prisons. Food, he argues, exerted considerable influence in structuring the experiences of the disempowered contained within institutional space. This occurred at a time when the medicalization of diet coincided with structural adjustments in institutional life, thus the institutionalized, already subject to behavioral and moral reform, could be subject to dietary experimentation and reform as well. Bernard Unti traces the history of ethical vegetarianism in the nineteenth- century United States. Like Miller, Unti conceptualizes food as a way for a society to reflect upon power relations, in this case, the dominance of the human species over the rest of the world. In the context of the nineteenth-century United States, food had the power to link humans to the environment, but it also constituted a vehicle for moral reflection, linking the individual to his or her conscience. The contributions by Miller and Unti, like so many of the chapters in this collection, focus on the question of how food can be used as a historian’s tool to discuss the concepts of power and authority. Yet the historians assembled here understand power in complex ways. The availability and consumption of food may represent stark power differentials but they can also represent shared power or an unexpected reversal of existing power relations. Both Rachel Herrmann’s and Kelley Fanto Deetz’s chapters explore how free and enslaved Africans used food to contest and even reverse racially-based power relations. Food becomes a particularly apt tool for illuminating power relations because it is both elemental, and therefore necessary for survival, and unnecessary, because it can be made into a luxury good or object of manufactured desire. Many of the chapters in this collection trace the shifting meanings of food and drink by establishing how meaning might be created and then how meaning might be contested, upheld, or debated. Ken Albala’s chapter details how early modern Europeans changed the meaning of specific alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks through publishing their impressions of their effects; Jeffrey M. Pilcher’s chapter on the globalization of alcoholic beverages suggests that changes in production methods further changed the meaning of distilled alcohol, wine, and beer. And, although the practice of food history is somewhat unevenly developed throughout the world, food historians have, in a short time, demonstrated how humans throughout the world are linked through food systems. Thus, Zachary D. Poppel’s chapter on the Green Revolution links the production of rice in the Philippines to that in Sierra Leone, via the

xviii INTRODUCTION state of Illinois in the United States. And the chapters show us how humans are linked through food, in disparate parts of the world and over vast expanses of time. Michael J. Pettid’s chapter on food and health in pre-modern Korea reminds us that thinking about the link between diet and health was not limited to industrialized post-subsistence Western nations. Rather, humans have considered how food impacts individual and social health for centuries. Today the global dimension of food production seems overwhelming. Standardized fast food outlets like McDonald’s or Pizza Hut can be found in just about every corner of the globe. Consumers in urban or suburban areas might purchase strawberries, asparagus, and other seasonal produce at any time of the year. The eﬀects of unsafe ingredients used in food production at one end of the world can aﬀect hundreds or thousands of consumers many miles away. Every day, at every meal, we are reminded of how much food links the individual to the wider world. Our awareness of food is perhaps not a new phenomenon, but our consciousness of the power of food to impact history is a more recent development, courtesy of food historians. The next three sections will highlight the major themes and arguments from the chapters in each section of the book, suggesting connections between the chapters of the collection and placing the chapters in broader historical context.

1500–1700: what does food mean? The chapters in Part I are concerned with the shifting meanings of food: how meaning might derive from the religious, emotional, artistic and nutritional value of a food; how consumers evaluated competing or multiple meanings; and how people have communicated the significance of food’s meaning to others. Eric C. Rath’s chapter on rice cakes (mochi) in pre-modern Japan focuses on the fundamental question of how people give meaning to food. Rice cakes seem simple enough, they are flat cakes of pounded rice, yet Rath argues that there is something magical about mochi in that people in pre-modern Japan endowed rice cakes with special meanings, through the ways they prepared, mass produced, and consumed them. Composed of a staple food, rice cakes can be prepared and eaten simply or they can be prepared and decorated elaborately. In this respect, rice cakes are somewhat similar to other simple dishes like flatbreads (for example, pizza or tortillas), which can be made simple or fancy depending on the occasion for consumption. Unlike flatbreads, rice cakes were not always consumed immediately, as evidenced by the types of foods used to decorate them. In thinking about how humans bring meaning to food, Rath focuses on the mechanics of making a rice cake, detailing the many variations in form and purpose for mochi; he also investigates the written records of what people said about rice cakes, describing the role that these cakes played in religious rituals, special occasions, and agricultural or seasonal patterns. Producers and consumers gave rice cakes meaning according to the calendar or according to nature. In so doing, they also created an industry, making rice cakes magic by decorating them elaborately or by making the cakes resemble something else. The practices of making, giving, and eating rice cakes possessed symbolic features, certainly, as a staple food took on additional meanings. Yet these same practices served a more practical function as well, fostering the development of confectionery stores which became the largest category of food stores in pre-modern Japan. Alison Krögel is also interested in the symbolic features of food, in her chapter on how food habits and identity change under conquest in Peru. Tracing the language used by

xix C. HELSTOSKY colonizer and colonized to describe cultivated food, Krögel finds evidence of a struggle over the attempted Spanish gastronomic colonization of Peru. Despite the constant efforts by Spaniards to alter the food landscape to suit European taste, indigenous Andeans found creative ways to resist the disruption or stigmatization of their native food landscapes. Like many of the authors in this collection, Krögel uses food to tell us more about uneven power relations, and in so doing, gives us a focused picture of the impact of European interventions in the early modern Andean food system. Even though numerous studies of the Columbian exchange have illustrated the culinary impact in North America, Krögel argues, “(s)cholars of the colonial Andes are just beginning to come to understand the important implications of gastronomic colonization in the viceroyalty of Perú.” Writing about food, specifically the use of food metaphors, became a way for colonizers and colonized to discuss troublesome issues. Describing food became a way to describe one’s loyalties, religion, and ethnic identity, usually in contrast to other populations. Food metaphors also functioned as a means to denounce others, whether for the strange, even monstrous, foods they grew for consumption, or for their unusual habits or rituals when it came to eating and drinking. Although indigenous Andeans were not always successful in controlling the pace or extent of the European colonization of their food landscapes, the historical record they left behind indicates that there was resistance to or refusal of certain foods and habits. Krögel’s work suggests that there is still much to be explored in the history of human refusal or rejection of certain foods or food habits. The “shock of the new,” encapsulated in descriptions of foods as monstrous, bizarre, or inedible, is a common motif for food historians of the early modern era. Krögel examines the writings of those individuals who either denounce or marvel at strange foods or habits; Ken Albala focuses on European individuals who encounter new substances and begin wondering how they might affect the individual body as well as the social body. The early modern history of stimulants and intoxicants reveals much about the efforts to label or categorize these substances. Some of these substances (coffee, tea, alcohol) were introduced slowly to European society, initially as beverages with medicinal benefits and later as stimulants and intoxicants. Other substances, like wine and beer, had long histories within Europe, but the categorization of these drinks shifted as Europeans debated their use in a broader social context. Consequently, these substances possessed multiple meanings at times. Wine, for example, was the blood of Jesus Christ in the miracle of the Eucharist, the cause of inebriation and social disorder, and a healthful beverage according to Galenic principles. Because these substances comprised a special category of food and because their consumption had noticeable effects on consumers, efforts to define these substances seemed urgent. Similarly, official attempts to control their distribution were also urgent, despite the fact that their sale comprised a lucrative business for merchants. Similar to rice cake production, the transformation of substances into intoxicants became a viable and profitable industry within Europe. For example, distilled alcohol became the foundation of beverages labeled “eau de vie,” or water of life, which became popular as substitutes or aids for digestion. Increased demand, along with experimentation and industry, turned the expensive and rare drug of distilled alcohol into a recreational beverage, more readily available to consumers and, therefore, more significant to local economies. Increased production of wine, beer, and alcohol moved these beverages more firmly into the category of recreational beverages, to be consumed for leisure purposes, outside of work hours. As Jeffrey M. Pilcher’s chapter in Part II notes, this re-assignment failed to make the consumption of these beverages any less problematic, at least not in the

xx INTRODUCTION nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Albala’s early history of European responses to intoxicants and stimulants demonstrates how scientific, economic, and moral concerns transformed the meaning of specific drinks, making them perhaps more readily available, but no less controversial or problematic. Like Albala, Michael J. Pettid focuses on individuals in the early modern era who were interested in the relationship between food and health. Historians of Chosoˇn Korea can refer to the Tongu˘i pogam, a massive treatise on health compiled by Ho Chun beginning in 1596, in order to examine the ways in which food was linked to the body through the maintenance of health and the curing of certain illnesses. Food assumed a critical importance in the text of the Tongu˘i pogam and Pettid argues that the advice dispensed by Ho Chun was likely heeded by many in pre-modern Korea, given popular attitudes toward diet and evidence like the common adage from the period, “more than medicine, food maintains health.” The application of dietary principles to the maintenance of health was not particularly difficult, Pettid observes, and it seems that most of the foods recommended for good health were not exotic or rare. The key to health was achieving a balance of prescribed foods: “Diet was a key means to achieve balance in the body, as certain foods would enhance deficiencies of properties in the body.” Not only was the advice in the Tongu˘i pogam relatively easy to follow, it served the very practical purpose of providing excellent nutrition in recommending the intake of a variety of foods. Moreover, Pettid suggests this balance or harmony of foods taught consumers that body and society ought to follow the same pattern; both body and society should remain in harmony, with all parts contributing to health. Knowledge about food not only shaped understandings of how the body functioned, it provided a blueprint for how the individual body might interact or behave in a social context. Examining the histories of staple foods, of rare substances, of magical or unusual foods, demonstrates how people endowed foods with varied meanings. Whether through preparing a food item, or by documenting specific details of the food, or in describing the broader utility of a food, individuals in the early modern era interpreted foods both exotic and mundane. In defining a stimulant or describing a healthful diet, early modern individuals not only thought about how food affected the individual body, but also how food shaped larger communities or societies. Food and its meanings linked human populations and individuals with larger, more powerful forces. One might assume, then, that food became more meaningful, more significant, as global events and processes brought populations into closer cultural contact in the era of industry and empire.

1700–1900: food, industry, empire Over the span of 200 years, the world food system was transformed. Trade networks expanded to accommodate growing demand for stimulants like coﬀee and sugar, while demographic growth and population transfer necessitated the more intensive cultivation of food, including protein (primarily animal) sources, as well as changes in the way food was shipped and stored. For some populations, change could not occur quickly enough. Poor weather conditions still prompted food shortages and famines, despite improvements in agricultural cultivation. Populations were still vulnerable to starvation or, if the food shortage was less severe, increased risk of disease or decreased reproduction rates. The 1785–7 famine was perhaps not the worst famine experienced in New Spain, but it was

xxi C. HELSTOSKY nonetheless significant in building a greater sense of food- and proto-nationalist consciousness. Sarah Bak-Geller Corona’s chapter on the famine argues that the historical significance of this particular famine lies within the elite response to food shortage. In order to confront and potentially remedy food shortage, elites experimented with local foods, publishing their suggestions and recipes in the newspaper and prompting a broader discussion regarding the means of preparing food deemed “in the style of the country (patria).” The new style of cooking was more than just a means of conserving precious maize supplies; it “implied redefining physical and symbolic boundaries for the colonial community, which would henceforth identify itself with a unique and specific food culture” according to Bak-Geller Corona. Published suggestions, recipes, and commentary coincided with a rash of patriotic measures designed to build a modern society in New Spain and, thus, the foundations of this new food culture, in the style of the country, constituted one of the first experiences of political modernity in Hispanic America. Similar efforts to unite individuals to build a modern society frequently made reference to either the monarchy or the major cities of New Spain. Significantly, a new culinary culture based on maize privileged what Bak-Geller Corona calls a “third nation,” the geographic area of villages and cities affected by the agricultural crisis. Patria food culture made use of local ingredients, attempted to incorporate European taste for bread into popular diet, and retained maize as a foundational grain. This culinary culture, Bak-Geller Corona argues, introduced a new element of cohesion among inhabitants and became a uniting factor between the Spanish settler and indigenous populations. Whereas food shortage and food culture became instruments for reforming and regen- erating colonial society, in part by uniting individuals in eighteenth-century Mexico, the scarcity of food could also become a divisive force. This was certainly the case in eighteenth-century Sierra Leone. Rachel Herrmann’s chapter on food diplomacy reveals a “stark and unexpected power imbalance between Britons and indigenous Africans,” unexpected in the sense that Africans, not Britons, made the rules dictating the terms of food diplomacy. Herrmann’s detailed examination of food diplomacy confirms the relatively weak position of white Britons in Sierra Leone. The study of food diplomacy, however, enables us to understand more deeply the foundations and mechanics of that weakness. The British failure to learn the intricacies of African food diplomacy caused the colonial project to flounder and, frequently, British misunderstandings of African food rituals turned into conflict. Unlike the Spaniards in Peru, who operated with a confidence that they could transform the existing food landscape, the British in Sierra Leone lacked that confidence, perhaps because they were woefully underprepared and seemed unable to provide for themselves once in Africa. Moreover, the British failed to understand that for Africans, food and drink were compulsory for keeping the peace; their unwillingness or hesitancy to learn the customs of African food diplomacy suggests that the British felt it unnecessary, perhaps, to communicate in this way. The British attitude about African foodways and African food diplomacy would have consequences, undermining the success of individual Britons and revealing a pattern of failure among the white settlers. Herrmann finds that the British were typically disgusted by African food and, thus, they tried to change established foodways. Uncovering the significance of food and drink to African communities also informs the work of Kelley Fanto Deetz, who uses historical and archaeological methods to excavate food cultures in eighteenth-century Virginia. For Deetz, that quest involves a variety of methods to uncover enslaved people’s cooking practices, including the publication of colonial receipt books,

xxii INTRODUCTION early cookbooks that ultimately reveal the influences of West African foodways throughout the Atlantic world. Unlike eighteenth-century Sierra Leone, where British and African attitudes toward foreign foods were frequently unbending, culinary boundaries in eighteenth-century Virginia were fluid, as Deetz finds evidence that traditional African dishes were cooked in the homes of planters and in field quarters alike. Deetz charts the ways in which forced interactions, as opposed to cultural exchange, created a complicated web of cultural, economic, and regional differences in food preparation, consumption, and culture. The key to reconstructing this web, Deetz argues, is an examination of the slave cooks, who functioned as intermediaries between the West African foodways of their homeland and the European tastes of their mistresses. In order to understand how cooks operated under these conditions, Deetz compares their working environment to a stage and their work with food to a performance, relying as it did on props, actors, and the staging of domesticity within stringent social boundaries. This staged or ritualistic aspect of food preparation and consumption, also noted in Herrmann’s chapter, confines people or limits them, although it occasionally can be a vehicle for change through creative interpretation. Like many of the subjects of the chapters in this collection, enslaved cooks endowed foods with multiple meanings. Okra, for example, was used as a staple food, a labor adaptor (it easily thickened sauces and broth), and a symbol of cultural inclusion. The metaphor of cooking-as-performance seems an apt one, given that multiple meanings for food were constantly being created and communicated by enslaved cooks. Enslaved cooks in Virginia combined familiar and foreign foods in new ways and the resulting dishes were enjoyed by slave owners. Deetz argues that recipes for hybrid cuisine passed a “cultural test” of acceptance by those in positions of authority, as evidenced by their being published in nineteenth-century cookbooks. Cecilia Leong-Salobir also uses cookbooks to uncover evidence of the acceptance of culinary hybridization, in this instance, in colonial India, Malaysia and Singapore during the second half of the nineteenth century. Leong-Salobir, like Laresh Jayasanker in the last part of the book, attempts to define British/Indian hybrid cuisine. Although they examine the process of culinary hybridization in different contexts, both authors agree that the British appropriated certain Indian foods and turned them into much-favored convenience foods which retained nostalgic or historic meaning over time. The hybridization of British and Indian cuisine evoked a diverse experience of empire, perhaps, for the colonizer and colonized. Like the enslaved cooks and mistresses in eighteenth-century Virginia, the colonial cook and the British memsahib worked together in close quarters. There was of course a central paradox in both types of culinary relationships: the quest for food brought colonized and colonizer together despite the desire of the colonizer for separation or some form of social distinction. The desire for separation was at odds with British dependence on servants for food preparation, a service that was both intimate and vital for health. As the world metaphorically grew smaller through imperialism and the spread of technology, food preparation became a more collaborative effort, largely out of necessity. In the case of British women living temporarily in the colonies, they overcame some reluc- tance (or disgust) for native foods in favor of appropriating the foods into combinations they found appetizing. Leong-Salobir argues that this type of hybridization, born of necessity, became a permanent feature of British cuisine, given that many ex-colonials (men and women) continued to prepare curries and other dishes they had relied upon when living abroad. In Leong-Salobir’s chapter, the cookbook is used as evidence in

xxiii C. HELSTOSKY conjunction with memoirs; both types of writing are convincing as evidence, despite their potential drawbacks. For example, in the context of colonization, geographical isolation from one’s native culture made women more reliant upon prescriptive literature and therefore cookbooks did more than just collect dust on bookshelves. It would seem that in this time period, grand processes or events served to shrink the world, at least in terms of providing more common experiences both good and bad, to be shared by individuals and societies. Food history appears to be a particularly apt way to examine the impact and consequences of these common experiences. Jeffrey Pilcher argues that the production of alcoholic beverages in this time period was a central component of globalization, despite the fact that many consumers did and still do find it hard to accept alcohol as a standardized, and not a local, product. Not surprisingly, perhaps, the increased production and consumption of alcohol ran parallel to “international concerns about the social and health consequences of excessive drinking.” Concern about drinking’s very visible effect was not new (as noted by Ken Albala); what was new was the fact that a global movement for reform of alcohol consumption took shape. Not all reformers agreed upon the best solution to the problems created by alcohol consumption, but Pilcher charts a persistent effort on the part of reformers in response to changes in alcohol production. The democratization of the distilling process played a key role in facilitating the growth of alcohol consumption. Whereas distilling was once available only to the wealthy, the increased availability of distillation to other classes boosted production and prompted concern about excess consumption. As Europeans moved out into the Americas and Africa, through “circuits of trade and empire,” drinking problems, often involving conflicts around labor, status, and even spirituality, followed. Moral reform in response to alcohol consumption was frequently motivated by fear of social disintegration and/or religious sentiment, with restrictions often targeting workers like sailors, soldiers, or merchant crews. With industrialization, “alcohol remained at the forefront of innovation and expansion,” increasing in potency and volume and advertised for purchase by a growing number of consumers, not just workers or those needing a digestive aid. Pilcher finds that European reformers continued to target workers and citizens in the colonies for alcohol reform, while in the United States prohibitionists came to view alcoholism not as a disease but as a moral failing. Alcohol reform societies and organizations constituted an international advocacy network, but there was little agreement over priorities, chief among these being the question of whether one could reform excess drinking through the practice of moderation or abstinence. Pilcher points out that this fear of social dissolution, peaking at moments when alcohol consumption became more democratic (that is, not just the habit of elites or certain types of workers), led to reform efforts. Drink played a powerful role in structuring perceptions of, and ideas about, democracy. Access to alcohol by more segments of the population was made possible by globalization, but this provoked great anxiety on the part of reformers who subjected the masses to closer moral scrutiny about their consumption habits. Alcohol consumption was not the only activity subject to moral scrutiny in the nineteenth century. Bernard Unti charts the rise of ethical vegetarianism, the refusal to eat meat for moral reasons, in the nineteenth-century United States. The practice of vegetarianism has been viewed by several historians as part of a progressive health reform movement, inspired and typified by American dietary reformers like Sylvester Graham. Thus, vegetarians from the nineteenth century were believed to avoid meat mostly for health reasons. Unti’s chapter challenges this categorization by tracing a steady stream of

xxiv INTRODUCTION individuals who renounced meat as an inhumane product and not necessarily an unhealthy one. Using the approach of collective biography, Unti traces a consistent trend toward ethical vegetarianism from the late eighteenth century through the nineteenth century. The genealogy of vegetarianism was complex; individuals of diverse beliefs and political per- suasions refused meat because they thought it was an inhumane and unnecessary food. It is difficult, however, for the historian to categorize ethical vegetarians. Unti finds that ethical vegetarians seldom came together in support of their dietary choices. Their motivations for deciding meat consumption was inhumane varied; some avoided meat because of the teachings of the Bible while others made a private decision based on experience or cir- cumstance. Moreover, ethical vegetarians frequently supported other causes, such as temperance, pacifism, abolitionism, and support for the rights of women. Even though these individuals did not stand together as a coherent group, ethical vegetarians retained inter- related beliefs and arguments. For each individual, dietary choice was conceived as a “political, moral and social act,” one that questioned the “cultural assumptions that had guided and defined the human–animal relationship for centuries.” Ethical vegetarians not only questioned the assumptions of the past, but their dietary choice constituted an explicit critique of a modernizing, industrializing world, in which cruelties in the slaughtering system increased, not diminished, and promised to get worse with passing time. Surprisingly, perhaps, Unti finds that vegetarian advocates were frequently in conflict with animal advocacy groups, such as humane societies and societies for the prevention of cruelty to animals (SPCAs). The presence of this conflict suggests that ethical vegetarians adhered to the prohibition of meat as the means to define their feelings toward animals. Rather than reform the slaughtering system, ethical vegetarians chose to express their morality through the act of food consumption, not through an advocacy or reform role which proposed taking better care of the animals to be slaughtered. Although ethical vegetarianism was not a popular choice, Unti argues that it was an enduring force throughout much of the nineteenth century. The nineteenth century was the era in which dietary habits became subject to clinical and academic study. In the United States and throughout Europe, academic institutions, governments, and charitable organizations all took an interest in what others ate, particularly the laboring and poor classes. Scholars and experts, informed by the latest findings from the scientific study of the digestive system (as opposed to theoretical speculation about the impact of food on the body and health), provided valuable information to authorities who sought to change dietary habits in the interests of economic and political modernization. Experts also examined the diets of the disempowered, to try to understand the link between food and the individual’s sense of mental health and social well-being. Ian Miller argues that food played a powerful role in structuring the experiences of the disempowered, given that this population was in the center of two major developments: the medicalization of diet and the rise of institutional feeding. Miller chronicles writings on diet which emerged from the study of patients at asylums and prisons in early nineteenth-century Britain. Experts who focused on the mentally ill in asylums believed that mental illness had physical, not mental, origins and therefore food possessed great curative properties or possibly deleterious effects. Generally, patients were supposed to eat heartily and avoid any substances that seemed to bring on any expression of a mental disorder. As diagnoses became more nuanced and had less to do with the individual’s food intake, experts advised feeding asylum patients less, but the belief persisted that diet comprised both the cause and cure of many expressions of mental disorder.

xxv C. HELSTOSKY

Prisoners too were subject to greater confinement and medical interventions. Yet the relationship between diet and criminal behavior was not clearly defined. Moreover, public and expert opinion was divided as to the quantity and quality of the prison diet. Many believed that crime should not pay, thus authorities avoided dietary extravagance and attempted to standardize prison diets, but this proved to be a difficult and contested process, given that prisoners had to eat enough to stay healthy but could not drain significant resources in order to do so. Miller’s chapter demonstrates how, in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, the agendas of medical scientists and institutional managers converged when it came to figuring out the dietary arrangements of the institutionalized. The rise of the concept of diet, as a standardized regimen, became significant to Europeans during World War I, when the diets of soldier and civilian alike needed to be controlled or reduced while still maintaining physical health. Miller’s chapter examines the origins of this way of thinking about food, of conceptualizing food as a resource to be managed for a number of possible outcomes and for varied purposes. Chris Otter takes a different approach to understanding the concept of the standardized diet in his chapter on the “industrializing diet,” a regimen high in animal proteins, fats, and refined carbohydrates, made popular first in the West, but now exported around the world. In part, the industrialization of the food industry facilitated the preparation, storage, and transportation of food items, but Otter observes that in some instances, industrialization can also be a process that applies to the food itself. In the case of chicken, the live animal was made easier to raise, handle, and slaughter while the resulting meat was rendered into foods that consumers prefer to purchase, prepare, and consume. The same was true for processed white-flour bread, easily stored and long-lasting. Both white bread and chicken strips are industrialized foods, designed for “mobility and durability,” two characteristics now considered desirable in foods. Otter situates industrial food production within larger historical frameworks, such as the shift from the “organic” economy, powered by renewable forms of energy, to the “mineral” economy, based on non-renewable fossil fuels. Food production and transportation were, in effect, liberated from the less reliable natural energy sources and therefore food production increased, but it could also be outsourced with greater confidence. As new technological developments enabled food to be processed, packaged, stored, and preserved, consumers found themselves becoming “industrialized” eaters. The industrial eater, initially a product of the West, ingests “large amounts of processed, pre-prepared and fast food, which is a chemically heterogenous, engineered product composed of ‘fractions’ of different ingredients.” Although this doesn’t sound like a particularly healthy diet, those who consume the industrialized diet are taller, heavier, and live longer than their predecessors. Still, critics attack the industrialized diet on the basis of taste, medical effects, and the moral consequences of technology and progress. Indeed, the most dramatic impact of the industrial diet is the level of anxiety generated among consumers as well as historians of food. Industrial food, because it has changed so dramatically over time, spurs the historian to consider the moral consequences of technology and progress as well as the impact of industrialization and the increased standardization of our diet.

1900–present: globalization and adaptation Although some consumers were eating a more standardized or industrialized diet in the nineteenth century, food habits seemed to undergo a sea change in the twentieth century,

xxvi INTRODUCTION not only because many populations experienced a dramatic change in food habits and diet (for better or worse), but also because humans had to confront a number of food issues on an increasingly large scale. One of the most significant twentieth-century transformations was the extent to which governments became involved in regulating and controlling food supplies. Most notably, food controls implemented during the two world wars set the precedent for other interventions such as agricultural subsidies, monitoring nutrition levels, and greater international cooperation to end severe food shortages and other crises. Man-made famines in the Soviet Union and China demonstrated the amount of power government authorities could exert over food supplies on a massive (some would say unimaginable) scale. At the same time that national governments became increasingly involved with food issues, the world market and the forces of globalization pushed some food issues out from under the strict control of national or local authorities. Large private entities increased the pace of industrialization when it came to the production and processing of foods. In the United States, in California, a restaurant catering to working families introduced the assembly-line production of hamburgers meant to be taken away in a bag and enjoyed in one’s car or in one’s home. As they increased in popularity, McDonald’s restaurants became emblematic of the phenomenon of “fast food” and, later, spread around the world, threatening to impose a standard means of food production while appealing to a youthful consumer market. While food historians might evaluate positively the hybridization of foods through cultural contact, the spread of American-style “fast food” throughout the world is viewed negatively, most likely because of the imbalanced nature of the cultural contact and because fast food has become, in the words of Bonnie Miller, “a by-product of the quick-paced, mobile American lifestyle,” a lifestyle that has been viewed by some as deleterious or at least indifferent to the pleasurable consumption of food. The second half of the twentieth century witnessed the global spread of the phenomenon of Americanization; food habits were one of the most significant arenas for cultural confrontation. It is perhaps not surprising that several of the chapters in Part III examine criti- cally the notion of “American food habits” so readers can better understand what this term means. Bonnie M. Miller interrogates the term “American fast food” by asking whether the values of a restaurant like McDonald’s have become American values, or is the legacy of McDonald’s and similar restaurants confined to business practices? Are Americans defined by what they eat? In tracing the introduction and spread of pizza in the United States, Miller finds that pizza somehow evaded the label of fast food, even though American businesses like Dom- ino’s and Pizza Hut have rivaled McDonald’s in saturating international markets. Critics of fast food are quick to decry McDonald’s but the same level of outrage directed against chain pizza does not exist. To some extent, pizza’s Italian origins might have something to do with our categorization of this food, but Miller argues that American pizza entrepreneurs played asignificant role in shaping the global image of pizza, in part through their actions in the United States. In the hands of Italian-American immigrants, and later local businessmen, pizza underwent the long and complex process of adaptation as pizza makers attempted to succeed in diverse local markets. The resulting food, Miller finds, contributed to the growing popularity of ethnic foods as a type of hybridized cuisine suited for American consumers. Meanwhile, Italian-Americans found that hybridized dishes like pizza (or spaghetti and meatballs) transformed consumer perceptions of Italian-American identity as well. As a food, pizza’s adaptability made it well suited for both domestic and global markets. Pizza exemplifies “glocalization” or the modification of global production trends to suit

xxvii C. HELSTOSKY local tastes. This was especially apparent in the United States, where local specialty pizzas quickly dominated regional markets, thus Chicago-style pizza, New York pizza-by-the- slice, and the California pizza vie for consumers alongside the traditional Italian or Nea- politan-style pizza.5 Much of the activity around promoting pizza was not accidental but intentional: “Pizza entrepreneurs seemingly leverage pizza’s ‘fast food’ and ‘ethnic’ status as they see fit.” The work of entrepreneurs not only facilitated glocalization, but it also expanded the meaning of pizza into both a social occasion and a form of entertainment for American consumers. Retail outlets where one could have a pizza “party” and restaurant chains which specialized in speedy home delivery complicated the meaning of pizza, from the humble street food of immigrants to a standard and even expected food for casual social occasions. Immigrant and other entrepreneurs didn’t do this alone. Like Laresh Jayasanker and Kathleen Collins in this part, Miller highlights the influence of the media in influencing the way consumers thought about food in the twentieth century. In the case of pizza, the American press loved to spin tales about an Italian “mama” in her kitchen making pizza for her family, even if the article was about a large corporation mass-producing frozen pizzas. These myths assured Americans that ethnic food was safe and they softened the hard edges of fast food. Thus, Americans did not necessarily have to confront the “homogenizing effects of Americanization and mass production” when they popped a frozen pizza in the oven. Kathleen Collins investigates further the role of media in food history by examining the rise of the “foodie” in the late twentieth century. Everyone has some understanding of what a foodie is, but is the foodie a new or modern phenomenon? Food has always been a source of entertainment, but the advent and rapid spread of new technologies in the twentieth century have reinforced the novel qualities of the foodie, perhaps convincing us that this interest is historically unique. In asking whether this phenomenon is at all democratic, Collins finds that while we live in a more democratized food culture because of globalization or the increasingly sophisticated means of communication, interest in certain types of foods can have classist or aspirational qualities. As so many of the chapters in this collection demonstrate, what we eat or the food we talk about can determine or at least affect social status. The rise of the foodie is perhaps a modern phenomenon in the sense that food’s nutritional function (eating to live) has been increasingly subject to the social imperatives of fashion (living to eat) and located within the entertainment industries. A curious late twentieth-century phenomenon, perhaps, is that so many people who seldom cook are interested in watching television and Internet programs about professionals and non-professionals cooking food. When it comes to food programming, the role of the media has not only underscored food’s value as a vehicle for entertainment, it has also expanded tastes and changed attitudes about food and social status. Whereas haute cuisine was definitively French prior to the 1950s, people came to embrace other ethnic foods as sophisticated and epicurean as the result of television programming and the expanding role of the chef as an arbiter of taste. The language of cooking and the construction of identity through food consumption purchases, Collins observes, created imagined foodie communities. “The cultural capital of food knowledge allows people to take on a temporary or illusory identity of a member of a higher social class.” Thus, thinking about food, or food consciousness, also constructs our identity, as powerfully as what and how we eat.

xxviii INTRODUCTION

The relationship between food consciousness and identity is integral to Carla Guerrón Montero’s study of food and tourism in the Caribbean. Although humans have always traveled, the twentieth century witnessed a powerful surge in tourism and a worldwide network developed to accommodate people’s desire to travel for pleasure, for enlightenment, for social status. Not surprisingly, some regions and nations received a significant economic boost from cultivating a local tourist industry. In the Caribbean, tourism replaced mono-crop production (bananas, coffee, cacao, and sugarcane) throughout the region as a significant source of revenue. Many countries are now economically dependent on tourism. Because food is both a destination and a vehicle for tourism, local residents have had to adapt food culture to suit the tourist’s food consciousness. Given that the “average” tourist travels to so many places, or perhaps because of the globalization of food habits and specific food items, specialties offered to travelers are more likely to reflect international trends and tastes instead of local traditions or habits. Ironi- cally, perhaps, the local traditions and food habits of the Caribbean were already international. Panama, for example, has great cultural and ethnic diversity, given that its population consists of eight indigenous groups and peoples from five different African migration waves, as well as immigrants from China, Greece, Spain, Italy, and India. It is not surprising that the cuisine of Panama is equally diverse. Yet in many parts of Panama, culinary diversity is not likely to be offered to tourists. In particular, indigenous and Afro-Panamanian dishes were and remain less frequently explored although that situation is changing, at least in the region of Bocas del Toro, where Afro-Antillean food is promoted and marketed to tourists. The desirability and popularity of ethnic cuisine among tourists has meant that for locals, old ways of eating have changed, as restaurants shift to accommodate travelers. In Bocas del Toro, many local convenience or “fast food” restaurants have slowed down to cater to the food consciousness of the tourist seeking something authentic or meaningful on the menu. Guerrón Montero points out how the mobility of some relies upon the immobility of others when it comes to the history of tourism and/or the history of food. The paradigm is not a new one in the Caribbean, for the European search for “edible and pleasurable substances” led to colonization, the widespread practice of forced labor and slavery, and the distortion of agricultural production to meet the unrelenting demand for export crops. In more recent decades, the tourist’s quest for unusual, authentic, ethnic, or familiar foods does more than inconvenience local residents. Culinary tourism can impact local economies and business practices; it can also dramatically alter foodways, and therefore identity, among native residents. Laresh Jayasanker also uses the twentieth-century phenomenon of mobility as a tool to explore changing food tastes in the cosmopolitan city of San Francisco, California, in his analysis of the city’s restaurants. On an obvious level, social mobility played a role in this narrative, given that increasing numbers of consumers in affluent times dined out more frequently and tried restaurants for aspirational as well as gustatory reasons. Jayasanker is also interested in mobility in the more literal sense of the word. By focusing on the role of restaurateurs, Jayasanker describes how the dramatic, political, and economic upheavals around the world eventually shaped the evolving American taste for diverse ethnic foods. In the decades after 1945, waves of immigrants from non-European nations arrived in the United States, bringing with them the ability and determination to offer more hybridized dishes or foods. As Kathleen Collins describes them, these decades of heightened food consciousness, along with media attention to ethnic cuisine, laid the foundation for

xxix C. HELSTOSKY

American consumers to “reorder their palates” and consider something other than French cuisine a standard for fine dining. Of course, the story of the immigrant restaurateur or entrepreneur played out in many corners of the globe in the decades after World War II. Neapolitan pizza makers sought to establish their reputations in Japan and Turkish cooks made the doner kebab a standard fast food throughout many cities in Germany. What makes the immigrant experience in the United States remarkable, perhaps, is the amount of media coverage given to immigrant entrepreneurs in the food industry. There was, for example, generous media coverage of Charles Phan, proprietor of the Slanted Door, San Francisco’s most famous ethnic restaurant. Newspapers, magazines, and food specialty publications told and re-told the story of his voyage to America and described his contributions to changing American tastes. Like so many of the authors in this collection, Jayasanker describes the complex process of adaptation as one affecting both the palate and the brain. That is, the nature and circumstances of food hybridization or creolization condition human response to, and understandings of, certain foods and dishes. The circumstances of Indian migration to the United States were dramatically different than those of Indian immigration to Britain. Unhindered by a legacy of colonialism, Indian immigrant entrepreneurs in the United States emphasized the grandeur and richness of the Mughal Empire in enticing customers to try Indian cuisine. Without the same migration dynamic and without similar historical baggage, the act of introducing Indian food in the United States assumed a different character. It is perhaps difficult for the historian to conclude definitively that the presentation of Indian cuisine in this manner resulted in a more enthusiastic response, but the historian might reasonably conclude that in the various countries where Indian immigrants settled, food consciousness varied. Several of the chapters in this final part deal with aspects of what we might call conspicuous consumption. Only in a post-subsistence economy do consumers dine out in expensive or touristic restaurants, or watch someone prepare an elaborate meal on the television or Internet purely for reasons of entertainment. Zachary D. Poppel’s chapter reminds the reader that the struggle for subsistence remained very much on the political agenda of many world leaders for much of the late twentieth century, under the auspices of something called the Green Revolution. In challenging the reader to understand the Green Revolution as a decidedly non-linear event or process in which multiple, sometimes competing, motives and outcomes can be discerned, Poppel uses the case study of Sierra Leone to argue for a fresh interpretation of this event. The Green Revolution appears less of a unified movement to end world hunger and more the product of the tension emerging between international development programs, agricultural corporations, independence movements, and local farmers. The mission was to remedy hunger, certainly, but the impact was decidedly uneven, so much so that Poppel points out how many conclude the Green Revolution was either unsuccessful in, or never came to, Africa. The experience of Sierra Leone, however, indicates that the Green Revo- lution was tried in Africa, although for local farmers, the price to be paid for transforming rice crops and adjusting to new market conditions was simply too high. Like Jayasanker, Poppel remains attentive to the broader geopolitical context, in this case demonstrating how the Cold War led to biological or agricultural warfare, which in turn paved the way for the agricultural developments of the Green Revolution. It is perhaps fitting that the last chapter in the collection harkens back to some of the themes raised by the first two chapters. The staple food of rice possesses important

xxx INTRODUCTION symbolic and pragmatic functions. In the context of the Green Revolution, rice was simultaneously magical and monstrous, sufficiently adaptable to address food shortages yet subject to scientific manipulation for a type of gastronomic colonization seeking to disrupt native food landscapes. The power struggle that transpires over rice production sounds familiar enough. Because the chapters in this collection focus on what people do with food, they frequently describe conflicts, struggles, negotiations, and collaborations. The chapters that follow present a variety of approaches to writing food history. The authors represent the dynamic range of interests displayed by food historians today in terms of topics studied, creative approaches to research questions, and theoretical inspiration. Not every region of the world is represented here, nor is every topic relevant to the history of food covered, but it is hoped that there are enough chapters assembled to provide readers with a sense of the field of food history as it is constituted today, after three decades’ worth of intellectual work. By “sampling” a broad range of approaches and topics, the reader will more fully understand what food history is, how it connects to other fields of historical inquiry, and what areas of research still need to be pursued. The focus on the last 500 years of history provides ample opportunity for the reader to trace recurrent themes over a long period of time, given that some concepts and ideas (cultural contact, expert knowledge, food shortage) appear in multiple chapters throughout the collection. Hopefully, the selection of case studies or current research projects will inspire and instruct readers interested in pursuing food history on their own. Most importantly, perhaps, the chapters in this collection will illustrate clearly how food connects us to other worlds as well as to the familiar and the mundane, both today and through time.

Notes 1 For a recent overview of the state of food historiography in a global context, see Kyri W. Claflin and Peter Scholliers, eds, Writing Food History: A Global Perspective, London: Berg, 2012. 2 Redcliffe N. Salaman, The History and Social Influence of the Potato, 2nd edition, Cambridge: Cam- bridge University Press, 1985. Readers interested in a more recently published book on the potato can choose from such dramatic titles as John Reader’s Potato: A History of the Propitious Esculent, New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011 and Larry Zuckerman’s The Potato: How the Humble Spud Rescued the Western World, New York: Northpoint Press, 1999. Mark Kurlansky’s books, Cod: A Biography of the Fish that Changed the World, New York: Penguin, 1998, and Salt: A World History, New York: Penguin, 2003, were two such commodity histories which sold briskly to popular audiences. Many single food histories followed suit, too many to list here, and, in 2003, Reaktion Books launched the “Edible” series, designed to appeal to popular audiences, with each book tracing the globalization of a single food or dish in an abbreviated format. 3 Peter Scholliers, “The Many Rooms in the House: Research on Past Foodways in Modern Europe,” in Claflin and Scholliers, Writing Food History, pp. 59–71. 4 Many historians have taken up that approach and now we have entire book series that chart the global spread of a mundane food object and sometimes a special one. These works answer our most fundamental questions shared by academics and non-academics alike: where does a particular food come from, how did it become popular, what impact did this food have on history? Sometimes, books about specific foods might rely on anecdotal information or they might contain recipes. Academic authors are interested in delving further in their studies, in asking what the (perhaps mundane) history about this particular food item tells us about the past, about humans as historical actors, and about the state of the world at a particular moment in time. 5 It is not the same situation in Italy, the birthplace of pizza. While restaurants in cities like Flor- ence or Milan may feature a “local” pizza featuring representative ingredients from the region, the idea of a distinctly different “Florentine” or “Milanese” pizza hasn’t caught on in the same way that Chicago-, St. Louis-, or California-style pizza has in the United States.

xxxi This page intentionally left blank Part I 1500–1700 This page intentionally left blank 1 THE MAGIC OF JAPANESE RICE CAKES

Eric C. Rath

In Japan there is no food as magical as the rice cake.1 The eighth-century Record of the Geography and Culture of Bungo (Bungo fudoki) tells the story of a man who wanted to use a rice cake as a target for archery practice only to watch as the rice cake transformed into a bird and flew away.2 Aristocrats at the Heian-period (794–1185) court placed a small Fifty Day Rice Cake (ika no mochii) in the mouth of a baby fifty days after its birth to ensure the child’s good luck and prosperity.3 Until the youth was six years old and had passed through the critical years that many children in that age failed to survive, every New Year a rice cake would be touched to the child’s head three times for good luck.4 On the third day of the New Year aristocrats ate Teeth-strengthening Rice Cakes (hagatame mochi), acknowledging that the Chinese character for tooth was similar to the one meaning a century of life, and recognizing the connection between strong teeth and longevity. At festivals and celebrations at religious institutions, rice cakes remain the focus of elaborate displays on ritual altars; they are consumed and sometimes even thrown to parishioners.5 In the early modern period (1600–1868) a rice cake could serve for a contest of good luck like a turkey wishbone: when two people tried to break a dried rice cake held between them, the person who snapped off the larger portion won.6 Folk beliefs held that a woman would lactate in the evening if she ate a special Vitality Rice Cake (chikara mochi) in the morning.7 The power of rice cakes to nourish was especially in demand in dire circumstances when foodstuffs resembling rice cakes, but filled with items almost unpalatable, were consumed as a last resort during famine. The fact that the steamed glutinous rice used to make rice cakes can be stretched like taffy means, according to traditional belief, that rice cakes impart a long life to those who consume them, but the rice cake’s elasticity also points to the ways that the cakes can be molded into a variety of shapes and take on a wealth of meanings depending on the context.8 This chapter profiles the magic of rice cakes within the context of traditional Japanese dietary culture, which refers here to patterns of eating and ideas about food that originated in the premodern period (before 1868) but continue to be salient today. Made according to the traditional methods described below, rice cakes are time-consuming to create and the refined rice used to make them is less economical to prepare than brown rice. Therefore rice cakes were traditionally reserved for celebrations rather than eaten as a daily foodstuff. Rice cakes demonstrate a truism of traditional Japanese dietary culture that foods, especially ones prepared for ceremonies or celebrations, cannot be reduced to a single meaning but can be viewed as a type of conceptual art comparable to rock gardens, Zen- inspired monochrome paintings, and the masked noh theater – media that may have an underlying narrative but also leave the reasons for many artistic choices unspecified so as

3 E.C. RATH to allow and even encourage multiple explanations of appearances. Before the late nineteenth century Japan may have lacked any regional or national cuisine, but it did have a sophisticated culinary culture in which food preparation and consumption could express religious, emotional, and artistic values beyond the nutritional importance of the foods cooked and eaten.9 Rice cakes exemplify the complex layers of meaning in traditional dietary culture that gave purposes to food, which might begin with the most basic means for survival and expand to include attempts to work magic as well as to communicate with, embody, and even consume divine forces. Rice cakes were also one of the earliest food commodities. Specialist rice cake makers plied their trade by the late medieval age in the early 1500s. In the early modern period, rice cakes became the basis for the development of the confectionery trade, which grew by the end of the nineteenth century into one of the most prominent types of retailers of prepared foods. This chapter examines how a simple recipe of pounded rice could fulﬁll all of these roles. After taking a close look at the composition of rice cakes and how they are made, the chapter surveys the many varieties of rice cakes and the magical properties that have been ascribed to them since ancient times. Then, to demonstrate that rice cakes reveal their magic not just in their supernatural powers, but also as one of the earliest and most popular processed food commodities sold in Japan, the chapter traces the importance of rice cakes to the development of the confectionery trade from the sixteenth century. The chapter concludes with some comments about the perceived centrality of rice cakes to modern ideas about Japanese civilization.

What is a rice cake? The Japanese word for rice cake, mochi (餅), is a homonym for the word glutinous (mochi, 糯), and reflects the fact that the stickiness of glutinous grains helps bind them together into a cake. Japanese rice (japonica) has both glutinous and non-glutinous varieties. The distinction does not refer to gluten, the mix of two proteins in wheat, which gives bread its elasticity and helps trap air allowing the bread to rise. Instead, glutinous indicates the proportion of the starches amylose and amylopectin in the rice. The stickier, more glutinous, forms of rice have a higher percentage of amylopectin, up to 83 percent.10 Glutinous rice is best prepared steamed as when making rice cakes, as described below. When glutinous rice is boiled, it becomes pasty; but when it is steamed it becomes firm and sticky.11 Non-glutinous rice is tastiest when boiled or simmered with a lot of water to make porridge. Japanese table rice today is the non-glutinous variety, which when prepared in a rice cooker, is first boiled then steamed to bring out the best flavor and consistency.12 Yanagita Kunio (1875–1962), the founding father of the study of folklore in Japan, surmised that the origin of the word mochi was from the Japanese word meaning to hold or own (motsu). In traditional households, he contended that rice cakes were one of the few foods created for people to hold and eat solely by themselves. Except for rice cakes, all the other foods, such as the pots of porridge eaten on a daily basis, were made for the household’s collective consumption.13 However, the word mochi is actually the shortened form of the ancient word mochii meaning “rice cake of steamed rice,” a redundant term shortened to its modern form mochi in the seventeenth century.14 The Chinese character used to designate mochi in Japan referred in China to foodstuffs like dumplings and crackers made from wheat flour and

4 THE MAGIC OF JAPANESE RICE CAKES fried in oil.15 Likewise, in Japanese the word mochi can signify other dumpling-like food- stuﬀs besides rice cakes. For clarity this chapter will use the English term rice cake to distinguish them from other types of mochi created from diﬀerent ingredients.16

Making rice cakes The technology to make rice cakes arrived at the same time that rice came to Japan around 400 BCE, and the basic method is still in use today.17 The traditional way of de- hulling rice or any other grain is to pound it in a wood mortar with a large pestle. Further pounding removes the bran, which turns brown rice into white rice. Polishing rice is the necessary first step in making rice cakes, but it is a time-consuming process by traditional methods, requiring two hours for one person using a mortar and pestle to mill just under five gallons of rice.18 Consequently, households that follow tradition and make rice cakes at home today will use rice that is already milled, but poorer households before World War II would have had to mill their own rice. Polishing rice is less economical than eating brown rice because the milling process reduces the size of the grain by some eight percent, leaving less rice to eat.19 Today, of course, inexpensive rice cakes can be purchased year- round, but given the labor and expense, it is no wonder that up through the first half of the twentieth century rice cakes were treats reserved for rare occasions, especially for poorer households. The image of an impoverished farming family laboring to make rice cakes provides one of the most evocative scenes in Nagatsuka Takashi’s 1912 novel, The Soil (Tsuchi). The novel depicts the hardscrabble existence of a tenant farmer named Kanji, who, “longing for the taste of vegetables,” subsists instead on stolen sorghum.20 Before the autumn festival of obon, a celebration for the spirits of the dead, Kanji struggles to follow custom and provide rice cakes for his family. After a hard day of work, Kanji pounds the steamed glutinous rice in a mortar with his daughter Otsugi’s help and with her brother Yokichi observing.

By the time the rice was cooked it was almost dark inside the house. The moon, which had appeared white in the sky before sunset, was now tinged with yellow, its light casting shadows from the persimmon and chestnut trees in the yard. Standing outside under the eaves of the house Otsugi ladled sticky spoonfuls of rice from the straining basket into the mortar. Every now and then she gave a little bit to Yokichi who was standing eagerly beside her. After licking off whatever had stuck to her finger she went on ladling. Then with steam rising up around him Kanji started to work with the pestle, pounding away at the hot, sticky mass as hard as he could. Whenever the end of the pestle got covered with rice Otsugi would scrape it clean with a wet spoon and push the rice in the mortar back down into a ball. Kanji would then begin pounding again. On and on they worked, the metal mortar gleaming in the moonlight, as the shadows around them deepened. Finally Otsugi reached down into the mortar and began twisting off pieces of smooth, translucent rice cake. These she placed on ginger leaves and lined up one by one on the tray beside her.

In the light of the moon that is almost full, Otsugi takes the ﬁnished rice cakes and places them on the home altar as an oﬀering to the spirits of the dead.21

5 E.C. RATH

The reader may share the relief of Kanji’s family in accomplishing this task undertaken late at night after a hard day of work, but the reader can also recognize the beauty of the scene in a way denied the characters. The moon overhead offers only light for Kanji and his family to work by, but the autumn moon bears special significance and is linked closely with creating rice cakes. One of the most familiar autumnal images is of the rabbit, said to live on the moon, who is always pictured holding a pestle and standing near a mortar ready to make his own rice cakes.22 “Harvest moon” (mochizuki) is a homonym for the word “pounding rice cakes,” and round rice cakes are moon-like in appearance.23 Such autumnal references suggest that a long hot summer of farm labor for Kanji and his family has drawn to a close. “For the time being there was no more work to be done in the fields.”24 But Kanji remains too busy to pause and gaze up at the moon, which nonetheless shines on the rice cakes he has toiled to produce. Nagatsuka’s descriptions capture the physicality of pounding rice cakes integral to making them. Aristocrats in the premodern era, who might never even witness the creation of a rice cake let alone engage in that task themselves, nonetheless referred to rice cakes as kachin,a term supposedly derived from the sound of a pestle hitting a mortar filled with mushy rice.25 Among commoners, the physical energy required in the repetitive act of pounding rice lent itself to ready comparisons with other sensual activities. According to one old saying there are “two things one cannot do by oneself: pound rice cakes and have an argument.”26 Another expression, “pounding the rice cake” (mochi o tsuku), referred to sexual intercourse.

New Year’s Mirror Cakes The most symbolically invested form of rice cake are Mirror Cakes (kagami mochi), white rice cakes shaped like fat discs created to celebrate the New Year and other holidays.27 Mirrors are sacred objects in Japanese ritual used within religious institutions since ancient times as representations of the divine; they are the totems where a deity (kami) might take residence and be worshipped. That Mirror Cakes are meant to represent actual mirrors was accepted wisdom according to the 1697 book on pharmacology Mirror to Native Food- stuffs (Honcho- shokkan) by Hitomi Hitsudai.28 Mirror Cakes developed in the Muromachi period (1336–1573) from the ancient courtly custom of Teeth-strengthening Cakes mentioned earlier, when a rice cake made into the shape of a mirror took on a votive and decorative function as described below.29 There are many variations in the ways that Mirror Cakes are displayed at New Year, but typically two round white cakes are placed on a small wooden offering stand (see Figure 1.1). The rice cakes symbolize the sun and moon, yin and yang, and female and male. Between the cakes and the offering stand are a layer of leaves from a fern-like plant called urajiro on top of a piece of folded white paper. Perched atop the rice cakes is a type of small citron called a daidai, meaning of “generation after generation,” a name expressing a family’shis- tory and hopes for its future continuity. Sometimes a rock lobster is added to evoke not only luxury but longevity, since the second Chinese character in the word lobster can be read literally as the “old man of the sea.” Dried persimmons, dried chestnuts, dried konbu seaweed, and other foodstuffs that evoke happiness, blessings, and protection can be added to the display of Mirror Cakes along with small strands of white folded paper called shide,which are used to demarcate sacred spaces such as shrines. In Kansai, the area around Osaka and Kyoto, ten dried persimmons are strung together on a stick or piece of bamboo, with two persimmons at either end and six in the middle. The strand of persimmons is laid diagonally

6 THE MAGIC OF JAPANESE RICE CAKES

Figure 1.1 New Year’s decoration of Kagami mochi rice cakes. © Datacraft Co. Ltd./Getty Images across the top of the Mirror Cake and under the citron. Grouping two persimmons at each end suggests two and two (fu, fu) – a homonym for the word for married couple (fufu). The six (mutsu) persimmons in the middle of the strand recall the word for harmony and intimacy (mutsumajii), thereby evoking happy relations between husband and wife.30 Dried chestnuts (kachiguri) signify victory (katsu) while the konbu, also called kobu, indicates happiness (yorokobu). Chestnuts and konbu were symbolically important to samurai in premodern Japan who served them at banquets for their auspicious qualities in hopes for success in future military campaigns or for celebrating their triumphal completion.31 The fact that most of these foodstuffs were in dried form indicated that their meaning was symbolic and they were not meant to be consumed until their ritual purpose was completed.32 Uneaten but potentially consumable, Mirror Cakes serve as a reminder of the power of food to sustain life, a spiritual force that is magnified when put on display in a ritual context. The utilitarian function of actual mirrors remains when they are used on the altars of Shinto shrines as a representation of a deity, but the sacred context indicates the mirror’s hallowed purpose and its potential to become not simply a symbol of the divine but also a temporary home for a deity (shintai). New Year’s Mirror Cakes are likewise set apart from mundane space, making them so pregnant with spirituality that they can become the temporary dwelling place for the deities of the holiday, the divinities responsible for agriculture and the ancestral spirits of the household, according to folklorist Yanagita Kunio’s interpretation.33 Thus, New Year’s Mirror Cakes not only signify the power of food and the prosperity of the household, they temporarily become the residence of the deities responsible for these functions. Besides the main display of Mirror Cakes, in some farming households New Year’s rice cakes were made as offerings to the animate and inanimate objects necessary to the household economy. The family’s horses or cows received rice cakes as did the mortar, pestle, hoes, and sickles. So-called Adding a Year Rice Cakes (toshitori mochi), these rice cakes reflected the traditional view that everything and everyone became a year older on the first day of the New Year.34 For similar reasons, wealthy merchant houses in Kyoto

7 E.C. RATH made a display of three stacked Mirror Cakes on top of their brick stoves and offered smaller sets of Mirror Cakes decorated with sacred ropes to the household well, bathtub, sink, and toilet.35 Households made their New Year’s rice cakes on the twenty-eighth or thirtieth day of the twelfth month, avoiding the twenty-ninth day, which was thought to be inauspicious because “mochi produced on the ninth” (ku mochi) were believed to “hold suffering” (ku mochi).36 On the eleventh day of the New Year, the Mirror Cakes are removed from their ritual context and consumed. Since rice cakes represent longevity by virtue of the fact that the rice dough can be stretched, it is bad luck to cut Mirror Cakes lest one shorten one’s life. Instead, Mirror Cakes are broken apart by hand or with a small pestle, and then added to a warm, sweet azuki bean paste soup called shiruko, which softens the cakes so that they can be eaten.37 Consuming the Mirror Cakes can be viewed as a type of holy communion because the New Year’s divinities still reside within them, providing the householder a way to invigorate their own life force by eating the spirit of the deities.38 The previous interpretation of the meaning of Mirror Cakes is typical of folklorists and owes much inspiration to the ideas of Yanagita Kunio who began taking an interest in food culture in the early 1930s. In a 1932 essay, “Foodstuffs and the Heart” (Shokumotsu to shinzo-), Yanagita explained that rice cakes were so spiritually powerful because they represented the most important human organ, the heart, by which Yanagita meant the equivalent of the soul as opposed to an actual physical part of the human body.39 Rice cakes, according to Yanagita, were a means not only to sustain life but could also serve as a way of spiritual renewal and an avenue of communication with the divine when they were consumed at the end of the New Year’s holiday.40 Writing 700 years earlier than Yanagita, Zen Master Do-gen (1200–253) offered a Bud- dhist teaching titled, “Painting of a Rice-cake,” which confirmed that rice cakes could stand both as a physical object and as a representation of spiritual truth. Do-gen introduces the famous Zen saying, “a painting of a rice-cake does not satisfy hunger,” to explain that words cannot point toward enlightenment just as staring at a picture of a rice cake is no substitute for eating. But by the end of his discourse, Do-gen affirms the opposite position that words can express the truth just as a painting of a rice cake could satisfy hunger. Words are the Zen master’s means for teaching the path to enlightenment. Do-gen concludes, “there is no remedy for satisfying hunger other than a painted rice-cake.” Typical of any Zen master, Do-gen leaves his audience with the task of trying to comprehend the full meaning of his statements. He writes, “satisfying hunger, satisfying no hunger, not satisfying hunger, and not satisfying no-hunger cannot be attained or spoken of without painted hunger.” While Do-gen’s ideas are hard to penetrate, he confirms the power of rice cakes to signify, writing: “a rice-cake is wholeness of body and mind actualized. A rice-cake is blue, yellow, red, and white as well as long, short, square, and round.”41 Do-gen’s essay about rice cakes resonates with Yanagita’s observation that Mirror Cakes represent the soul or, in Do-gen’s words, “wholeness of body and mind actualized.” But Yanagita, who sought to recover a popular “culture that does not depend on writing,” eschewed written records as elitist and useless for reconstructing the ideas of ordinary people.42 Consequently, Yanagita did not support his theories about rice cakes with textual evidence, preferring to synthesize his own conclusions based on oral testimony from rural informants. Premodern culinary texts may not have been helpful to Yanagita anyway, because they do not provide support for his ideas about the sanctity of Mirror Cakes, but a few writings

8 THE MAGIC OF JAPANESE RICE CAKES mention the magical powers of a diﬀerent New Year’s food that featured a rice cake, a soup called ozo-ni, literally “a variety of simmered things.” According to several interpretations from early modern culinary writings, the vegetables and chicken or pheasant meat used as ingredients in ozo-ni represented the internal organs of the King of Demons, and consuming the dish was a way to ensure physical health and proper bodily functions.43 One is tempted to imagine that the association of the rice cake in ozo-ni with a demon is due to the fact that eating ozo-ni can be as dangerous as it is healthy. Today, Japanese television newscasters at the New Year warn elderly people to be careful when consuming the sticky rice cakes in ozo-ni, yet every year several people choke to death on them. Happily, more pleasant thoughts usually come to the mind at mention of ozo-ni, which include both the felicity of this New Year’s dish and pride in local recipes for it because there are many regional variations of ozo-ni around the country. Round rice cakes in miso soup are preferred in the Osaka and Kyoto region for ozo-ni, but Tokyo residents favor square cakes in a clear broth. Regional preferences in ozo-ni recipes are so pronounced in Japan that some food scholars have attempted to map them.44 Another invention besides Mirror Cakes and ozo-ni that derives from the ancient custom of Teeth-strengthening Rice Cakes are Flower Petal Rice Cakes (hanabira mochi), which also took form in the Muromachi period as a New Year’s treat. The eponymous ﬂower petal of the sweet is suggested by a very thin, circular white rice cake with a smaller round red rice cake placed on top of it. A narrow slice of simmered burdock is also added next to the red rice cake. The white rice cake is then folded in half to hide the red rice cake inside so that the tips of the burdock barely protrude from the ends giving the treat the appearance of a small soft-shell taco. Red and white are part of the traditional color scheme of the New Year and signify female and male, yin and yang. Thus Flower Petal Cakes represent the amalgamation of the two basic principles of the universe and suggest that the sexual union of male and female will lead to prosperity and healthy descendants for a family.45

Varieties of rice cakes Yanagita Kunio observed that one of the chief characteristics of rice cakes was their many forms.46 A rice cake museum in Akita prefecture claims to display more than 400 varieties of rice cakes and other mochi.47 Beyond the flat flower petals of hanabira mochi, the round and thick Mirror Cakes, and the round or square varieties used in ozo-ni already mentioned, rice cakes can be decorated with different wrappers to change their appearance. Rice cakes served between two camellia leaves are called Camellia Cakes (tsubaki mochi), a confectionery dating to at least the Heian period and mentioned in the ancient novel Tale of Genji composed around the year 1000. Camellia leaves are inedible but a convenient way to hold the sticky rice cakes. The oak leaves wrapping rice cakes in the sweet kashiwa mochi are likewise discarded and not consumed, but Cherry Leaf Cakes (sakura mochi) use cherry leaves made edible by pickling them in salt and these are meant to be eaten. Instead of rice cakes, modern versions of these confections often feature a ball of dough made from rice flour, which is stuffed with an, sweetened azuki bean paste. Sweetened azuki bean paste is the most typical filling for Japanese confectionery today, and the recipe for an-filled rice cakes dates from perhaps as early as the seventh century, but the ancient dish would have been more savory than sweet in that era. In the ancient and medieval periods sugar was known only as a rare imported medicine. Rice cakes

9 E.C. RATH derived any sweetness from the glutinous rice itself and by the addition of honey, malt, or a syrup derived from sweet arrowroot (amazura).48 The happy marriage of sugar and rice cakes occurred in the late sixteenth century when Portuguese merchants began importing Chinese sugar to Japan and helped demonstrate the potential uses of the sweetener in cooking.49 Japanese were keen to experiment with sugar, creating various types of sweetened rice cakes. Cookery Collection (Ryo-rishu-), a culinary text authored in 1733 by Kikkawa Fusatsune, a chef in the service of the warlord (daimyo-) of Sendai domain, contains recipes for rice cakes stuffed with strawberries, apples, and even daikon radish.50 The modern versions of these rice cakes are the strawberry, azuki bean paste, or soybean filled Great Fortune Cakes (daifuku mochi): plump sweets made from rice flour dough and stuffed with a filling, which are sold year-round even in convenience stores. (Daikon stuffing never caught on as a popular flavor for rice cake confectionery.) Mochi ice cream, now perhaps the most familiar stuffed rice flour confection sold outside of Japan, was invented in Los Angeles’s Japan Town in the early 1990s. Besides foods using pounded glutinous rice or the dough made from rice flour, mochi can be made from non-glutinous rice alone or in combination with glutinous rice. A famous rice cake made from non-glutinous rice is Gohei Cake (gohei mochi), created by mashing cooked rice in a small, serrated mortar (suribachi) until sticky and then forming the rice into balls. The rice balls are grilled, then glazed with soy sauce flavored with walnuts or miso mixed with sesame seeds.51 A traditional way to cook Gohei Cakes is to grill them by skewering the rice ball at one end of a stick and planting the other end of the stick near an open fire.52 Gohei Cakes are said to take their name from a woodcutter named Gohei who accidentally dropped his lunch on the ground. Despite wiping the dirt off his rice, Gohei lost his appetite until he noticed that a lump of rice near his campfire had started to grill and smelled good enough to eat. The taste of the grilled rice ball improved further when he added soy sauce or miso.53 Onigiri, also called omusubi, are rice balls made from non-glutinous rice. Onigiri remain a popular snack in Japan and a quick way to turn leftover rice into a portable meal by hand- forming the rice into a triangular wedge or flattened sphere. Wetting the hands with salty water before forming the rice balls helps avoid the rice sticking to one’s fingers and the salt adds flavoring, but these days perfectionists can use plastic molds to form perfectly shaped onigiri. Onigiri are best eaten with a large piece of nori as a way to avoid getting rice stuck to one’s hands, or the rice ball can be covered with black or white sesame seeds. Onigiri can also be grilled like Gohei Cakes. Common today are the many types of stuffed onigiri, which can be filled with tuna salad, bonito flakes, chopped Japanese pickles, salmon, or pickled apricot (umeboshi). Convenience stores, train stations, and other places that sell prepared meals offer customers a variety of inexpensive onigiri.

Mochi beyond rice cakes Almost anything in the shape of a dumpling made from a glutinous variety of a grain or something that is naturally sticky such as taro that is mashed and formed into a ball can be called a mochi. Cooked grains or flours, beans, nuts, tubers, roots, and herbs are some of the many possible ingredients for mochi.54 Mochi can be made from kudzu or bracken (warabi) when these are dried and ground into flour.55 Grilling is the most typical way of eating the wide variety of mochi. Before World War II, a typical farmer’s breakfast was grilled mochi made from the flour of any number of ingredients on hand including wheat,

10 THE MAGIC OF JAPANESE RICE CAKES buckwheat, foxtail millet, barnyard millet, ordinary millet, or even the leftover husks from milling rice. These mochi could be plain or have a cooked vegetable filling. Mochi were a convenience food since they could be made earlier in the day or the night before and then simply grilled quickly before heading into the field for work.56 People in mountainous regions such as the Hida area in the north of Gifu prefecture made mochi from chestnuts and acorns, which were important sources for carbohydrates and protein in the local diet.57 Guides to surviving famines issued by the warrior government in the early modern period offered directions on how to make mochi from straw, although one family died of constipation from eating too much straw as described in a record of the Tenmei Famine of the 1780s.58 Such mochi are the types of lowly foodstuffs referred to in the old saying, “cook a mochi for a beggar, but grill a fish for a lord.”59 Only the most desperate would be willing to eat straw mochi, but one of the oddest recipes for mochi is for Paper Mochi, which is found in the cookbook Anthology of Special Delicacies (Ryo-ri chinmishu-) published in 1764. The paper in question, called ho-shogami, is pure white and one of the finest qualities available, so this clearly was not an inexpensive dish to prepare or a survival food. The directions indicate to soak the paper in water for three days until it dissolves into pulp. Kudzu is added as a thickener and miso for flavoring, and the mush is kneaded like dough and divided into pieces for simmering in a broth to make a sort of dumpling soup. The recipe asserts that anyone eating the dish would be protected against illness for a year. A modern commentator adds, perhaps facetiously, that the paper dumplings would also be a good source of dietary fiber.60

The four seasons of rice cakes Rice cakes, created to celebrate festivals and to reflect the change of seasons, exemplify the importance of seasonality in traditional Japanese dietary culture. Accordingly, certain varieties of mochi and sweets are available only during select times of the year. Limitations of space prevent mentioning more than a few of these seasonal mochi here, but there are hundreds of varieties available today. Four days after the Mirror Cakes have been removed from their place of honor in the household and consumed, another New Year’s decoration takes their place, the ornaments called Rice Cake Flowers (mochibana) created to celebrate the agricultural New Year (kosh- o-gatsu) on the fifteenth day of the first month. To make Rice Cake Flowers, small pink and white rice cakes are attached to willow branches.61 Mochibana resemble a branch covered with tiny cotton balls or puffs of colorful snow, and are meant to serve as a decorative substitute for real flowers in the cold winter. On the third day of the third month, diamond-shaped rice cakes in pink, green, and white are consumed in celebration of the doll festival (hina matsuri), a holiday honoring girls. By the time of the doll festival, Camellia Cakes are a distant memory of the previous month, but one can anticipate the Cherry Leaf Cakes served later in the spring when the cherry blossoms are in bloom. Oak Leaf Cakes are associated with the boys’ festival, which is on the fifth day of the fifth month. The sixteenth day of the sixth month marked the holiday of kajo- when the early modern warrior government distributed sixteen varieties of sweets to regional warlords and its highest-ranking vassals at a ceremony at Edo Castle. Eating the sweets was thought to ward off the illnesses that tend to flourish in the summer heat.62 Today, June 16 is Japanese Sweet Day.

11 E.C. RATH

A type of inside out mochi, with a rice cake on the inside and a topping of sweetened azuki bean paste, soybean flour, or sesame seeds on the outside, is called Peony (botan)in the spring and Bush Clover (ohagi) in the autumn. Although they are consumed year-round in Japan today and generally referred to as Bush Clover regardless of the season, traditionally these inside out mochi were made for the seven days preceding the spring and autumn equinoxes as a Buddhist offering to be used in rituals for remembering the dead at those times of year.63 Once placed on the home altar, even momentarily, the sweet could be removed for consumption, allowing the eater to earn some benefits of good karma by practicing generosity before enjoying the delicacy. In the lunar tenth month of the year, practitioners of the tea ceremony hold a New Year’s ceremony for tea (now celebrated between September and November), when they open the vessels containing fresh tea and serve New Year’s sweets such as Flower Petal Rice Cakes. The tenth lunar month also marked the festival of gencho, which mandated the consumption of Offspring of the Wild Boar Rice Cakes (inoko mochi) on the first day of the boar of that month.64 Like many other seasonal rice cakes, the confections for this holiday served as a protection against disease and bad luck, but they also celebrated fertility since wild boar have large litters of offspring. The rice cakes for this holiday are traditionally made with sesame seeds and azuki beans. The custom of consuming inoko mochi is mentioned in the Tale of Genji, but eating the cakes became more widely observed in the early modern period when the shogun distributed Offspring of the Wild Boar Rice Cakes to warlords and high ranking vassals; and the emperor gifted the cakes to aristocrats. Today, the sweets are eaten in November.65

“For rice cakes, visit the rice cake seller” The popularization of consuming different varieties of rice cakes to celebrate the change of seasons grew hand in hand with the development of the confectionery trade in Japan. Required for various ritual observances and considered delicacies to eat, rice cakes proved to be ideal commodities for entrepreneurs in medieval cities, which had diversified labor forces and classes of people who could afford to let someone else handle the laborious task of polishing, steaming, and pounding rice into cakes. “For rice cakes, visit the rice cake seller” (mochi wa mochiya), a time-honored saying that directs one to call on an expert for specialized goods or simply spend money to purchase something that would otherwise be too time-consuming and troublesome to make oneself. One of the earliest rice cake dealers in Japan we have record of was a former samurai named Watanabe Susumu who received a license from the Muromachi shogunate to operate a rice cake store in Kyoto in 1512. Watanabe founded the Kawabata Do-ki lineage of confectioners, a business still in operation today, and famous for making the Flower Petal Rice Cakes mentioned earlier. The Kawabata household grew prominent when they became official purveyors of rice cakes to the imperial court, a post they held until the modern era, providing all of the rice cakes and other confections needed for imperial rituals.66 Another rice cake maker in Kyoto named Cho-goro- became famous by cultivating a relationship with Toyotomi Hideyoshi (1536–98), the warlord who unified Japan in 1590 after more than a century of civil war. Cho-goro- established his business near Kitano Shrine where Hideyoshi hosted a massive outdoor tea party for all of the country’s tea masters in 1587. A shop near the shrine still sells the famous rice cakes, which are stuffed with bean paste and named after Cho-goro-.67

12 THE MAGIC OF JAPANESE RICE CAKES

Other Kyoto sweet makers plied their trade near religious institutions to cater to the pilgrims and tourists who visited them. In the early modern period, vendors near Seiganji Temple and Ho-ko-ji Temple sold Big Buddha Cakes (daibutsu mochi), large rice cakes with the image of a Buddha branded on top. Two confectioners that still stand facing each other at the entranceway of Kyoto’s Imamiya Shrine specialize in Toasted Cakes (aburi mochi) made from soybean flour, grilled on a charcoal fire, and then glazed with sweet white miso. The skewers used for toasting aburi mochi are said to be carved from bamboo used in ceremonies at the nearby shrine, thereby imparting protection against disease for those who consume the cakes.68 The late seventeenth century marked the takeoff point for the growth of the confectionery business in Japan as native experience working with rice cakes combined with imported knowledge from the Portuguese about how to use sugar, which stimulated a vibrant sugar trade with China and later spurred the development of a domestic sugar industry from the eighteenth century in Japan.69 A published listing of occupations in Kyoto in 1690 shows the specialization of the confectionery business into sweet makers (kashishi), rice cake makers (mochishi), makers of rice or kudzu sweets wrapped in bamboo grass (chimakishi), cracker makers (senbeishi), makers of dried, ground glutinous rice (do-myo-- jishi) used in confectionery, candy makers (ameshi), and grilled rice cake makers (yaki- mochishi).70 One counting of famous food shops in Edo dating to 1824 lists 120 confectioners (kashiya), the largest of any category of food stores.71 The legacy of Japan’s confectionery culture that developed in the early modern period is evident in the traditional Japanese sweet makers of today who sell a bewildering variety of treats in different colors, shapes, and designs but created basically from the same ingredients as rice cakes, except that rice flour has replaced pounded rice as the dough to which sugar and mashed azuki beans are added. “The culture of early modern confectionery begins and ends with mochi,” as one food historian has observed, but traditional Japanese confectionery also includes sweets inspired by Iberian prototypes such as cakes (kasutera), cookies (bo-ro), and sugar candies (aruheito-, konpeito-).72 Chinese recipes are represented by a variety of baked and steamed buns (manju-) usually stuffed with sweet azuki paste, and yo-kan, a gelatinous sweet made from azuki beans, sugar, and flour or agar-agar. So-called dry sweets such as rakugan made from highly refined sugar and flour also became popular in the early modern period while “moist sweets,” made from refined rice flour mixed with sugar and azuki bean paste, provided a medium to create a range of soft confections of different shapes, colors, and decoration to delight the eye and palate. Integral to the marketing of traditional sweets were the poetic names (mei) given them. By the late seventeenth century, when the confectionery business was being established in Japan’s major cities, sweet makers had come up with a bewildering number of names for traditional sweets that referenced famous people, natural phenomena, locales, and abstract concepts. Some of these sweets were adaptations of popular recipes; others were the fanciful invention of the confectioners or the suggestions of their clients. Whale Meat Cakes are rice cakes prepared to suggest the appearance of cooked blubber. The cakes are made from a mixture of glutinous and non-glutinous rice that is soaked overnight in a sauce of brown sugar and soy sauce. Chopped walnuts are added the next day before the cakes are steamed.73 A mid-eighteenth-century kabuki actor from Edo (now Tokyo) named Arashi Otohachi is credited with inventing Fawn Cakes (kanoko mochi). Fawn Cakes have a sweet azuki filling and are covered with whole azuki beans, giving the sweet a dappled look said to be reminiscent of the coat of a baby deer.74 Confectioners became masters at coining

13 E.C. RATH such artful designations for sweets, requiring consumers to familiarize themselves with the plethora of popular sweet names. Namura Jo-haku listed the names of 250 sweets in his guide to refined knowledge for gentlemen, Treasury for Men (Nancho-ho-ki, also called Otoko cho-ho-ki), first published in 1693. Besides including familiar favorites such as Cherry Leaf Cakes, Camellia Leaf Cakes, and Whale Meat Cakes, Namura described such artfully named confections as Mountain Trail Cakes (yamaji mochi), Strong Mountain Wind Cakes (yamaoroshi mochi), Village Rain Cakes (murosame mochi), Plum Blossom Cakes (baika mochi), Chinese Lotus Cakes (to-hasu mochi), the alliterative Capering Course Cakes (mau michi mochi), Travel Companion Cakes (michitsure mochi), Memo Paper Cakes (koshikishi mochi), and Edge of the Marsh Cakes (sawabe mochi) to name but a few examples.75 Some of the names suggest ingredients, but others demonstrate the degree to which rice cakes could, through the imagination of the confectioner, suggest abstract concepts including natural settings, environmental phenomena, and humor. A visit to a traditional confectioner today in Japan reveals a wide assortment of sweets that look quite similar except that their names vary according to the season or store indicating that the premodern custom of using clever names for sweets is well suited to modern marketing. For example, the sweet called Ogurano looks exactly the same as the confection called Fawn Cakes mentioned earlier, but rather than a baby deer, the azuki beans on the outside are meant to symbolize the autumn leaves covering Mount Ogurano.76 Recipes for a wide variety of mochi are found in early modern culinary texts. Culinary writings catered to both professional chefs and armchair gourmands who enjoyed reading about food, and by the nineteenth century the latter had become the principal audience for the hundreds of published texts on cookery, recipe collections, and model menus.77 The five-volume recipe collection, Assembly of Standard Cookery Writings (Go-rui nichiyo- ryo-risho-), published in 1689, dedicates its second volume to mochi, noodles and sweets; and it contains recipes for seventeen different types of mochi made from rice, sorghum, foxtail millet, horse chestnuts, kudzu, burdock, Japanese pepper, and wheat gluten.78 Other recipe collections provided more specialized knowledge created for and by professional confectioners but also read by general readers. The representative printed works on confectionery include two anonymous texts, Secret Writings on Famous Japanese Confectionery New and Old (Kokon meibutsu gozen gashi hidensho-, 1718) and its sequel, Schema of Famous Japanese Confectionery New and Old (Kokon meibutsu gozen gashi zushiki, 1761). Sweet-maker Funabashiya Orie popularized the treats sold in his shop through his recipe collection, The Story of Funabashi Sweets (Kashiwa funabashi), also translatable as For Sweets, it’s Funabashi, published in 1841. The popularity of the genre provided an incentive for one comic novelist to try his hand at writing a cookbook for sweets. Collection of Quick Recipes for Rice Cakes and Sweets (Mochigashi sokuseki teseishu-), published in 1805, is by Jippensha Ikku (1765–1831), who later became much more famous for his witty travel novel Shank’s Mare (Hizakurige). Some modern scholars fault Jip- pensha Ikku for his defective recipes, many of which simply do not work. But he fore- warned his readers, “success or failures will happen, but that does not mean that the recipes are impossible to make. Please try different approaches, and come up with a way of creating them yourself.”79 The largest writing on confectionery published in the early modern period, the two-volume Secret Text of New Recipes for Famous Sweets New and Old (Kokon shinsei meika hiroku), printed in 1862, contains an extensive selection of mochi recipes with fanciful names including Divination Rod Rice Cakes (sangi mochi), Whale Meat Cakes, uiro- mochi (a soft sweet made from rice flour, brown sugar and kudzu starch, which resembled a cough medicine by the same name), Bracken Flour Cakes (tsukeko mochi), Sorghum Cakes,

14 THE MAGIC OF JAPANESE RICE CAKES

Brocade-Chinese Rice Cakes (nishikito- mochi), Grilled Wheat Gluten Cakes, Chestnut-Flour Cakes, Tangerine Cakes (cakes made from rice flour dyed orange with gardenia and formed into the shape of tangerines), and Grass Cakes made from rice infused with mugwort, to name a few of the recipes.80 Rice cakes may not strike the modern reader to be a junk food, but some critics in the early modern period worried about the health effects of eating too many of them. Con- fucian scholar Kaibara Ekiken (1630–1714), who authored over 100 books on subjects including philosophy and natural history, preached moderation as the key to health. He urged readers of his book Lessons on Nurturing Life (Yo-jo-kun), written in 1713, to show restraint in eating rice cakes, dumplings, and other sweets. Kaibara also instructed readers on where to go to the bathroom, how often men should ejaculate, and how frequently to bathe so his warnings against rice cakes did not indicate that they were necessarily dangerous as long as they were consumed within the fitness regime that he outlined. Kaibara’s advice is no longer heeded, except for his notion that one should eat until 70 to 80 percent full: “If you give yourself over to complete satiety, disaster will follow.”81 Mizuno Nanboku (1757– 1834), a fortune-teller turned healer and life coach, eschewed rice cakes completely, claiming that he had never eaten them and that he subsisted instead on a coarse diet of barley and wheat. Mizuno preached moderation with a shriller voice than Kaibara, exhorting readers that the human mouth was “the entrance to the toilet.” He advised someone who could not cut down on their rice consumption that they should throw a cup of rice on top of their feces to remind them what the rice becomes. “Wasted food becomes nothing but excrement, never directly benefiting society,” Mizuno chided.82 By preaching moderation or complete abstention from rice cakes, Kaibara and Mizuno confirmed that rice cakes were more than simple foodstuffs, but delicacies whose consumption they thought should be controlled. Despite the criticisms of a few moralists, the popularity of rice cakes and other sweets only grew during the course of the early modern period as evidenced by the spread of sweet makers described earlier. Rice cakes and mochi remain central to traditional dietary culture today.

Rice cakes and Japanese culture The ability of rice cakes to signify other meanings may be indicative of traditional dietary culture but it is no less pronounced in modern academic debates about the character of Japanese civilization. Watanabe Tadao, a specialist in agriculture, and ethnologist Fuka- zawa Sayuri began their book Rice Cakes (Mochi) by highlighting the central importance of rice cakes in ceremonies marking key transitions in people’s lives in Japan. The authors exclaimed, “one can say that we Japanese are a people unable to be born and even unable to die without rice cakes.”83 It is no longer tenable to claim that rice cakes are unique to Japan as some scholars once did.84 More recent research postulates that Japan is part of a larger “mochi culture” that encompasses East and Southeast Asia.85 The very prominence of rice cakes in Japanese culture prompted ethnologist Tsuboi Hirofumi (1929–88) to suggest that locales within Japan that did not celebrate the New Year with rice cakes represented the vestiges of an ancient culture that relied on dry ﬁeld farming as opposed to growing rice in paddy.86 Later scholars countered Tsuboi by explaining that even communities that do not consume rice cakes on New Year’s Day might eat them a few days later, indicating that rice cakes are important for these populations as well.87 Reducing Tsuboi’s argument to an attempt to debunk the centrality of rice cakes within Japanese

15 E.C. RATH civilization is a simplification of his research that attempts to assert the cultural significance of dry field farming. Nonetheless, Tsuboi’sefforts to uncover a sub-culture within Japan partially on the basis of a presumed lack of rice cakes represents his tacit acknowledgement of the focal place of rice cakes in the celebration of rituals, community identity, and national foodways. One would be hard pressed to find a similar foodstuff in Japan that is as simple in its manufacture as a cake pounded from steamed rice, but so infused with meanings and significance to the point that one could say, following Zen Master Do-gen, that a rice cake is “all inclusive.”88 Or one can simply conclude that the rice cake is magical.

Notes 1 I use the word magical not in a pejorative sense but simply to describe both the spiritual potential of rice cakes and their power to signify, especially when formed into various shapes and given fanciful names. 2 Tokihiko Oto, Folklore in Japanese Life and Customs, Tokyo: Kokusai Bunka Shinkokai, 1963, p. 24. 3 Aoki Naomi, Zusetsu wagashi no konjaku, Kyoto: Tanko-sha, 2000, p. 32. 4 Watanabe Tadao and Fukazawa Sayuri, Mochi,Tokyo:Ho-sei Daigaku Shuppankyoku, 1998, pp. 221–2. 5 Suzuki Shigeo, “Mochi no hanashi are kore,” Koko chishin 15, 1978, p. 23. 6 Matsushita Sachiko, Iwai no shokubunka, Tokyo: To-kyo- Bijutsu Sensho, 1994, p. 51. 7 Suzuki, “Mochi no hanashi are kore,” p. 24. 8 Ogura Kumeo, Komatsuzaki Takeshi, and Hatae Keiko, eds., Nihon ryo-ri gyo-ji, shikitari daijiten, Tokyo: Purosata-, 2003, vol. 1, p. 46. 9 For a discussion of the nature of cuisine in premodern Japan, see Eric C. Rath, Food and Fantasy in Early Modern Japan, Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010, pp. 11–37. 10 Alan Davidson, The Oxford Companion to Food, second revised edition, ed. Tom Jaine, New York: Oxford University Press, 2006, pp. 342–3, 665. 11 Asaoka Ko-ji, Nabe, kama, Tokyo: Ho-sei Daigaku Shuppankyoku, 1993, p. 71. 12 Sake making relies on non-glutinous rice exclusively but the sweet rice vinegar (mirin) used in sauces for grilled foods and for flavoring simmered dishes and pickles is made from glutinous rice mixed with distilled spirits (sho-chu-). 13 Yasumuro Satoru, Mochi to Nihonjin: “Mochi sho-gatsu” to “mochi nashi sho-gatsu” no minzoku bunka ron, Tokyo: Yu-zankaku, 1999, p. iv. Scholarship after Yanagita has critiqued his hypotheses for their lack of historicity and overgeneralization. See Ian Reader, “Folk Religion,” in Nanzan Guide to Japanese Religions, ed. Paul L. Swanson and Clark Chilson, pp. 65–90, Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2006, pp. 66–7. 14 Yasumuro, Mochi to Nihonjin, p. iv. 15 Kurosawa Fumio, Kome to sono kako-, Tokyo: Kenpakusha, 1982, pp. 206–7. Chinese-style wheat bread treats and foods made from rice flour fried in oil were eaten at court in ancient Japan and remain in use as ritual offerings to deities at some religious institutions. The character the Chinese used for rice cake (粢), pronounced shitogi in Japanese, referred in Japan to a specific type of rice cake used as an offering to the deities. Watanabe and Fukazawa, Mochi, p. 211. 16 Today, mochi generally refers to rice cakes, but historically sometimes the terms “rice mochi” (kome no mochi) and “white mochi” (shiromochi) were used to specify mochi made from glutinous rice. Masuda Sho-ko, Zakkoku no shakaishi, Tokyo: Yoshikawa Ko-bunkan, 2011, p. 26. 17 Nakayama Keiko, Wagashi monogatari, Tokyo: Asahi Shinbunsha, 1993, p. 13. 18 Miwa Shigeo, Usu, Tokyo: Ho-sei Daigaku Shuppankyoku, 1978, p. 78. 19 Yunoki Manabu, Sakezukuri no rekishi (shinso-pan), Tokyo: Yu-zankaku, 2005, pp. 161–2. The powder produced from milling rice was not discarded but used to make crackers or as animal feed. 20 Nagatsuka Takashi, The Soil: A Portrait of Rural Life in Meiji Japan, trans. Ann Waswo, Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989, p. 67. 21 Nagatsuka, The Soil, p. 96. 22 By the turn of the eighteenth century, a hammer-shaped pestle became more typical than the straight pestle since it was easier to use. Ishige Naomichi, Men no bunkashi, Tokyo: Ko-dansha, 2006, p. 106.

16 THE MAGIC OF JAPANESE RICE CAKES

23 Celebrations of the harvest moon were on the fifteenth day of the eighth month of the lunar calendar (now September), a time for moon viewing and for making offerings outdoors to the moon of Moon Viewing Dumplings (tsukimi dango), taro, edamame, and chestnuts. 24 Nagatsuka, The Soil, p. 95. 25 Suzuki, “Mochi no hanashi are kore,” p. 28. - 26 Nishiyama Matsunosuke, ed., Tabemono no Nihonshi so-kan, Tokyo: Shinjinbutsu Oraisha, 1994, p. 428. 27 Mirror Cakes are made on occasions besides the New Year, as for example, offerings to deities on festival days, on raising the roof of a new home, or to celebrate a wedding. Yanagita Kunio, Shokumotsu to shinzo-, Tokyo: Ko-dansha Gakujutsu Bunko-, 1977, p. 24. 28 Watanabe and Fukazawa, Mochi, p. 245. 29 Suzuki, “Mochi no hanashi are kore,” pp. 25–6. 30 Ogura et al., Nihon ryo-ri gyo-ji, shikitari daijiten, vol. 1, pp. 46, 78. 31 Rath, Food and Fantasy in Early Modern Japan, pp. 66–71. 32 The spiny lobster probably would not have been consumable after several days on display. The dried persimmons could be eaten immediately, but the dried chestnuts would need to be soaked in water overnight to soften them while the konbu is usually boiled. Konbu is one of the chief ingredients to make stock as for miso soup. 33 Yasumuro, Mochi to Nihonjin,p.6. 34 Yanagita, Shokumotsu to shinzo-, pp. 30–1. - 35 Omura Shige, Kyo- no obansai, Tokyo: Chu-o- Ko-ronsha, 1996, pp. 128–9. 36 Mori Motoko, Kikigaki Gifu no shokuji, vol. 21 of Nihon no shokuseikatsu zenshu-, Tokyo: No-san Gyoson Bunka Kyo-kai, 1990, p. 67. 37 Matsushita, Iwai no shokubunka, p. 87. 38 Suzuki, “Mochi no hanashi are kore,” p. 25. 39 Yanagita, Shokumotsu to shinzo-, p. 28. 40 Yasumuro, Mochi to Nihonjin,p.5. 41 Kazuaki Tanahashi, ed., Moon in a Dewdrop: Writings of Zen Master Do-gen, Berkeley: North Point Press, 1985, pp. 134–9. 42 Alan Christy, A Discipline on Foot: Inventing Japanese Native Ethnography, 1910–1945, New York: Rowman & Littlefield, 2012, p. 7. 43 Rath, Food and Fantasy in Early Modern Japan, pp. 83–4. 44 Ichikawa Takeo, “Shoku bunka ni miru chiikisei,” in vol. 12 of Zenshu- Nihon no shokubunka, ed. Haga Noboru and Ishikawa Hiroko, pp. 17–26, Tokyo: Yu-zankaku, 1996, p. 18. 45 Most modern versions of the sweet also include sweetened bean paste made from white azuki with white miso added. Nakayama Keiko, Jiten wagashi no sekai, Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2006, pp. 118–19. 46 Yanagita, Shokumotsu to shinzo-, p. 31. 47 The mochi museum, called Mochi no Yakata, is in Daisen City, Akita prefecture, Watanabe and Fukazawa, Mochi, p. 209. See www.obako.or.jp/ota/motinoyakata1.htm. 48 Aoki, Zusetsu wagashi no konjaku, pp. 22, 28. 49 Rath, Food and Fantasy in Early Modern Japan, pp. 91–3. 50 Matsushita Sachiko, “Edo jidai ryo-risho ni miru kashi,” Wagashi 12, 2005, pp. 78–9. 51 Sakamoto Sadao, Mochi no bunkashi, Tokyo: Chu-o- Ko-ronsha, 1989, pp. 79–80. - 52 Yoshikawa Seiji and Ohori Yasuyoshi, Zoku Nihon, shoku no rekishi chizu, Tokyo: Nihon Ho-so- Shuppan Kyo-kai, 2003, pp. 23–31. 53 Zenkoku Ryo-ri Kenkyu-kai Hiiragikai, Nihon no kyo-do ryo-ri, Tokyo: Domesu Shuppan, 1974, p. 140. 54 Watanabe and Fukazawa, Mochi, pp. 230–1. 55 Yasumuro, Mochi to Nihonjin, pp. vi–vii. 56 Ichikawa, “Kaisetsu,” p. 6. Seijo- Daigaku Minzokugaku Kenkyu-jo, ed., Nihon no shokubunka: Sh?wa shoki, zenkoku shokuji shu-zoku no kiroku, Tokyo: Iwasaki Bijutsusha, 1990, p. 329. 57 Matsuyama Toshio, Ko no mi, Tokyo: Ho-sei Daigaku Shuppankyoku, 1982, p. 193. 58 Harada Nobuo, Edo no shokuseikatsu, Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2003, p. 217. 59 Nishiyama, Tabemono no Nihonshi so-kan, p. 428. 60 Matsushita Sachiko, Edo ryo-ri tokuhon, Tokyo: Chikuma Shobo-, 2012, pp. 233–4. 61 Yasumuro, Mochi to Nihonjin, p. 79. 62 Harada, Edo no shokuseikatsu, p. 121.

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63 Yanagihara Toshitake, “Minkan gyo-ji to ryo-ri,” in Teihon Nihon ryo-ri: Yo-shiki, pp. 204–8, Tokyo: Shufu no Tomo, 1979, p. 205. 64 The twelve animal signs of the zodiac designated years, months, days, and hours. The boar was the last of the twelve signs. The zodiac signs follow their own cycle rather than align with the numerical days of the month. Consequently, the first day of the boar varied from year to year. 65 Nakayama, Jiten wagashi no sekai, pp. 19–20; Nakayama Keiko, Edo jidai wagashi dezain, Tokyo: Popurasha, 2011, p. 192. 66 Hayashi Jun’ichi, “Edoki no kyu-tei to kashi: Kawabata Do-ki no monjo- kara mite,” Kashi, cha, sake, vol. 6 of Zenshu- Nihon no shokubunka, ed. Haga Noboru and Ishikawa Hiroko, pp. 39–57, Tokyo: Yu-zankaku Shuppan, 1996, p. 40. Jinnai Tomiko, Shoku o tabi shite: Kokoro o hikaeru yonju-go hanashi, Kyoto: Kamogawa Shuppan, 2003, p. 135. 67 Kamei Chihoko, Engigashi, iwaigashi, Tokyo: Ko-dansha, 2000, p. 41. 68 Rebun, Kyo-to jo-to- na wagashi, Tokyo: Meitsu Shuppan, 2005, pp. 128–9. 69 For a discussion of the influence of Portuguese foods on the traditional Japanese diet, see Rath, Food and Fantasy in Early Modern Japan, pp. 85–111. 70 Akai Tatsuro-, Kashi no bunkashi, Kyoto: Kawara Shoten, 2005, p. 116. 71 Aoki, Zusetsu wagashi no konjaku, p. 12. 72 Ebara Kei, Ryo-ri monogatari ko-: Edo no aji kokon, Tokyo: San’ichi Shobo-, 1991, p. 13. 73 Whale Meat Cakes are a fixture of the Doll Festival in Yamagata prefecture. Yoshikawa and - Ohori, Zoku Nihon, shoku no rekishi chizu, pp. 163–6. 74 Nakayama, Jiten wagashi no sekai, p. 41. 75 Namura Jo-haku, Onna cho-ho-ki, nancho-ho-ki, ed. Nagatomo Chiyoji, Tokyo: Shakai Shiso-sha, 1993, pp. 326–8, 331–3. 76 Nakayama, Jiten wagashi no sekai, p. 41. 77 Historian Harada Nobuo, who surveyed the 182 culinary books that can be conclusively dated to the early modern period, discerned that most of these texts were published after the late 1700s, particularly in the first three decades of the nineteenth century. Harada Nobuo, Edo no ryo-rishi: Ryo-ribon to ryo-ri bunka, Tokyo: Chu-o- Ko-ronsha, 1989, pp. 10–11. For an overview of early modern culinary texts, see Rath, Food and Fantasy in Early Modern Japan, pp. 112–20. 78 Go-rui nichiyo- ryo-risho in vol. 1 of Issunsha, ed., Nihon ryo-ri hiden shu-sei: Genten gendaigoyaku, pp. 95–217, Kyoto: Do-ho-sha, 1985, pp. 127–33. 79 Jippensha Ikku, Mochigashi sokuseki teseishu-, in vol. 1 of Kinsei kashi seiho-sho shu-sei, ed. Suzuki Shin’ichi and Matsumoto Nakako, pp. 221–307, Tokyo: Heibonsha, 2003, p. 228. 80 Kokon shinsei meika hiroku, in vol. 2 of Kinsei kashi seiho-sho shu-sei, ed. Suzuki Shin’ichi and Matsumoto Nakako, pp. 133–386, Tokyo: Heibonsha, 2003, pp. 312–13, 319–27. 81 Kaibara Ekiken, Yojokun, Life Lessons for a Samurai, trans. William Scott Wilson, New York: Kodansha International, 2008, pp. 93, 110. 82 Michio Kushi and Aveline Kushi with Alex Jack, trans., Food Governs Your Destiny: The Teachings of Namboku Mizuno, New York: Japan Publications, Inc., 1991, pp. 20, 33, 60. 83 Watanabe and Fukazawa, Mochi,p.1. 84 In a 1965 publication, Moriyasu Tadashi argued that mochi were unique to Japan; Moriyasu Tadashi, Okashi no rekishi (jo-), vol. 10 of Shoku no fu-zoku minzoku mecho- shu-sei, Tokyo: Tokyo Shoin, 1985, pp. 24, 31. 85 Sakamoto Sadao posited an Asian “mochi culture” that encompasses Japan, Korea, China, Taiwan, and Southeast Asia, regions typified by the consumption of glutinous rice. Sakamoto, Mochi no bunkashi, pp. 128–9. 86 Tsuboi Hirofumi, Ine o eranda Nihonjin, Tokyo: Miraisha, 1982; Yasumuro, Mochi to Nihonjin, pp. 9– 10. For a brief overview of Tsuboi’s ideas in English, see Emiko Ohnuki-Tierney, Rice As Self: Japanese Identities Through Time, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993, pp. 35–6. 87 Yasumuro Satoru, “Mochi nashi sho-gatasu: Saiko- – fukugo- seigyo- ron no kokoromi,” in vol. 12 of Zenshu- Nihon no shokubunka, ed. Haga Noboru and Ishikawa Hiroko, pp. 197–239, Tokyo: Yu-zankaku, 1996, pp. 197, 223. 88 Tanahashi, Moon in a Dewdrop, p. 136.

18 2 FOOD PRODUCTION, CONSUMPTION, AND IDENTITY POLITICS IN TAHUANTINSUYU AND COLONIAL PERÚ

Alison Krögel

The use and application of power frequently enter into changes in a society’s food consumption habits. Where this power originates; how it is applied and to what ends; and in what manner people undertake to deal with it, are all part of what happens when food habits change. Sidney Mintz, Tasting Food, Tasting Freedom

When Francisco Pizarro and his small band of Spanish conquistadores first arrived in 1532 on the shores of a land which would soon be known as “Pirú,” they discovered that the inhabitants of the Andean region of South America had developed a stunningly diverse array of agricultural products, many of which serve today as important food staples throughout the world. These agricultural innovations included more than twenty varieties of maize, at least 200 potato cultivars, numerous varieties of squash, beans, peppers, peanuts, cassava and highland tubers, and high altitude grains and legumes such as quinua, cañihua, tarwi, and kiwicha (amaranth).1 Pre-conquest Andean agriculturists carefully tended, selected, and cultivated a wide variety of both highland and lowland fruits including: papaya, pineapple, chirimoya, lúcuma, avocado, guava, tomato, and tree tomato. Most highland communities enjoyed seasonal access to wild and cultivated greens and seaweeds (either from the ocean or from highland lakes), and protein from wild game, guinea pigs, fish, and alpaca.2 Pizarro’s arrival to South American shores precipitated the conquest of one of the world’s great empires—the Inca “land of the four suyus (or regions)” known in the Que- chua language as Tahuantinsuyu (see Map 2.1).3 In the sixteenth-century Andes—as in many other regions of the world throughout history—conquistadores, priests, and colonial administrators attempted to realize their respective ambitions through a combination of the military, spiritual, linguistic, and gastronomical colonization of indigenous Andean peoples and their cultures. Spanish colonizers initially encouraged the spread of the Que- chua language in order to further their evangelization efforts and to facilitate the collection of tribute payments and other administrative duties. After the indigenous insurrections of the 1780s, however, attempts were made to restrict the dissemination and performance of Quechua theater, songs, and narratives in the hopes of preventing future uprisings.4 Although historians and linguists have made important inroads into the study of the sociocultural and political impacts of colonial-era language policies, scholars of the colonial Andes are just beginning to come to understand the important implications of gastronomic

19 A. KRÖGEL

Present-day country borders Incan expansion

Quito

Cusco

Miles 0 500 Santiago

0 500 Kilometers

Map 2.1 Map of Tahuantinsuyu, Incan expansion by 1532. From Alison Krögel, Food, Power, and Resistance in the Andes: Exploring Quechua Verbal and Visual Narratives (Lanham: Lexington Books, 2011). Cartographer: Luke Kaim colonization in the Viceroyalty of Perú.5 Food practices, like language, possess important symbolic and pragmatic functions and features—attributes which a colonized or sub- jugated people must often aggressively defend in the face of the destructive ambitions or homogenizing intentions of a hegemonic power. Similar to their attempts to restrict the use of the Quechua language for purposes not directly linked to the church, Spanish colonial policies also sought to reorient Andean agricultural production practices toward the cultivation of European crops.6 The Andean food-landscape—a term I use to refer to the multitude of nuanced details involved in cultivating, preparing, serving, and consuming diﬀerent foods—became one of the many spaces where Spanish colonial power-holders sought to exercise dominance, while also serving as a medium for both the conquerors and the conquered to express their own cultural, religious, and political identities and loyalties. The term food-landscape rein- forces the important connection between alimentary and agricultural practices, and in my discussion of food production, consumption, and identity politics in Tahuantinsuyu and

20 FOOD PRODUCTION AND IDENTITY POLITICS colonial Perú, I use the term to refer to the ways in which both discursive meanings associated with food, as well as pragmatic food practices, were altered or redefined within the colonial context.7 During the early years of the conquest and throughout the colonial era, the unbridled chaos and violence, devastating epidemics, cultural trauma, methodical destruction of Andean religious practices, sites and relics, and general plundering of Andean institutions and economic, political, and social structures greatly disrupted the carefully administered and ritually vital food-landscape of Tahuantinsuyu. Moreover, colonial Spanish administrators disturbed intricate cultural and religious aspects of Andean alimentary practices and cycles by disrupting pre-conquest production and distribution systems and by controlling or inhibiting the consumption of certain food items. Yet indigenous Andeans did not passively accept Spanish attempts to impose changes on their alimentary and agricultural practices and preferences and, indeed, during the colonial period indigenous Andeans often found creative ways to resist efforts to disrupt or stigma- tize their food-landscapes. Moreover, sixteenth- and seventeenth-century accounts of the food-landscapes of early colonial Perú written by indigenous, mestizo, and Spanish chroniclers often reveal indigenous Andeans’ deep pride and preference for their own food-landscapes, as well as their frustration with Spanish attempts to interfere with Andean food culture. In order to better understand the interplay between food production, consumption, and identity politics in both Tahuantinsuyu and colonial Perú, this chapter explores the deep ambivalence expressed by three colonial-era chroniclers—Felipe Poma de Ayala, El Inca Garcilaso de la Vega, and Bernabé Cobo—as they struggle to comprehend and describe the rapidly changing Andean food-landscape in colonial Perú. A close reading of the levels of meaning contained within these writers’ descriptions of Andean food-landscapes reveals how their relationships to and assessments of particular foods can provide us with a useful opening for coming to understand how individuals and groups struggled to define and defend their identities and agendas within the context of complex and ever-shifting colonial power hierarchies and social orders. The indigenous author and artist Guaman Poma (writing in the early 1600s until 1615) was both a rigorous critic of Spanish colonialism and a convert to Christianity, while Garcilaso (1539–1616)—a mestizo master of renaissance prose—sought to exalt the Inca culture of his mother while also defending the good name of his conquistador father. The Spanish Jesuit missionary Cobo (1580–1657) was also an exceedingly complex figure. The chronicler resided in the Andes for more than sixty years, spoke at least two Andean languages (Quechua and Aymara), and although he also served as one of the church’s “extirpators of idolatries,” he also clearly respected many elements of Inca architecture and infrastructure, as well as Andean agricultural, metallurgical, and weaving practices.

Food production and distribution in Tahuantinsuyu and colonial Perú Prior to the arrival of the Spaniards, the Andean exchange economy did not distribute foodstuﬀs within market spaces.8 Instead, Andean economies in pre-Inca, Inca, and even colonial and contemporary times have been organized around systems of reciprocity and redistribution.9 Instead of maintaining a system of marketplaces similar to European or Mesoamerican models, Andean communities gained access to the food products of a variety of ecological niches by establishing members from their group in diﬀerent micro- climates.10 John Murra refers to these ecological niches as part of a “vertical archipelago”;

21 A. KRÖGEL in order to facilitate the exploitation of diverse resources located at disparate elevations, communities established a series of permanent colonies or “periphery communities” at a distance of one to several days’ journey from their primary population centers. The islands of this vertical archipelago, as well as those who worked within the periphery communities, remained functionally linked as part of an integrated system which provided the more densely populated “nucleus community” with a variety of foodstuffs, building materials, wool, guano, wooden dishware, and other necessary products.11 In addition to a carefully planned and regulated system for the planting, irrigating, and harvesting of crops, the Incas also created a remarkably extensive system of roadways which snaked through roughly 15,997 kilometers (9,940 miles) of the treacherous Andean cordillera and provided access to the many storehouses strategically located along its spine.12 The weatherproofed storage sheds protected agriculture products from fluctuations in wind, sun, altitude, and humidity and could indefinitely house surplus foodstuffsas insurance against a lean year in one particular region or serve as a temporary repository for food in transit to another area of Tahuantinsuyu in need of supplementary sustenance. As Murra points out, this system of tambu storehouses was so effective that even in 1547 (fifteen years after Francisco Pizarro captured the Inca ruler Atahualpa), tambus near Jauja, Perú, held enough food to sustain 2,000 Spanish soldiers for a period of seven weeks.13 As is the case for any government, the stability of the Incas’ reign depended on their ability to maintain stable socioeconomic and political conditions and to assure their subjects’ reliable access to food. By creating a meticulously regulated system of cultivation, production, and distribution of agricultural and textile products, the Incas succeeded in expanding and sustaining their vast empire. Although they did not completely dismantle the Andean vertical archipelagos that fueled an economy of reciprocity and redistribution, the Spanish conquistadores delivered a severe blow to the integrity and efficiency of Tahuantinsuyu’s food-landscape.14 The numerous extirpation campaigns aimed at vigorously rooting out “idolatrous” Andean religious practices, coupled with colonial policies requiring onerous tribute payments in the form of both food and draft labor (mita service), as well as the forced resettlement of entire communities, had calamitous effects on indigenous communities seeking to produce enough food to sustain themselves and their deities. Following the arrival in 1569 of Francisco de Toledo, the fifth viceroy of Perú, colonial administrators began to impose the Crown’s policy of the forced and often violent resettlement of indigenous Andeans into villages known as reducciones de indios.15 The reducciones were intended to facilitate the assimilation, indoctrination, and taxation of indigenous subjects. Moreover, as far as the state and the church were concerned, the resettlement policy also provided the additional benefit of permitting “abandoned” indigenous lands to be expropriated by the colonial state.16 While colonial sources suggest that most indigenous Andeans (particularly in the southern Andes) preferred their own diet to the new European foodstuffs and were reluctant to cultivate new crops or cede their pasture lands to cattle, horses, and sheep, the pressures of forced draft labor, the disorientation following resettlement onto reducciones, and the obligation to pay onerous tributes in food often impeded the production of Andean crops within indigenous communities.17 Beginning with the reign of Viceroy Toledo, the Crown levied tribute on all “able- bodied men between the ages of eighteen and fifty” and collected these payments twice a year.18 These tribute assessments were vigorously opposed by Andeans, for although indigenous communities were already accustomed to paying tributes under Inca rule,

22 FOOD PRODUCTION AND IDENTITY POLITICS unlike the Spaniards, Inca rulers had demanded tribute in labor on fields designated for the production of state crops and levied these taxes on communities, not individuals. Thus if harvests were poor in a particular year the state absorbed the loss; communities were never asked to pay tribute in food produced on lands designated for their own subsistence.19 However, following the conquest, many Andeans as members of ayllus (kinship lineages which foment reciprocity, collective labor efforts, and the redistribution of goods) found themselves obliged to alter their agricultural practices by cultivating European crops such as wheat, not for their own consumption, but for tribute payment.20 Yet it is interesting to note that evidence from colonial era documents suggests that after the conquest, ayllus continued to designate a portion of their land for state tribute payments (now handed over to the Spanish), while cultivating largely Andean crops on lands allocated for ayllu subsistence.21 The discovery of silver in Potosí in 1545 (and to a lesser extent, the mercury deposits found in Huancavelica in 1560) also rapidly transformed the Andean highlands into an active, international marketplace and led to the displacement of between one-sixth and one-seventh of the adult male indigenous population who were drafted to work in the mines for six-month periods of service.22 By the late 1500s, well over 100,000 people lived and worked in Potosí, a number that rivaled the population of sixteenth-century European metropolises such as London and Amsterdam.23 Potosí’s demand for both imported and local goods and services led to the insertion of the southern Andean region into the global political economy just a few decades after the arrival of Pizarro.24 The Spanish colonial chronicler Pedro de Cieza de León describes the Potosí market as “the richest market in the world,” claiming that “during the time when the mines were prosperous, each day twenty-five and thirty thousand pesos of gold [worth of goods] were sold … and I think that no other fair in the world equaled the trade of this market.”25 He describes Potosí’s central plaza as a marketplace divided into areas for selling coca (deemed “the most important treasure of these parts”), finely woven cloth, shirts, blankets and mountains of maize, dried potatoes, and other foods.26 Quechua farmers from the Cusco region produced and transported many of the food crops and textiles purchased in the Potosí marketplace and these merchant farmers quickly became adept participants in the inter- regional mercantile economy of the early colonial era.27 In order to avoid unfavorable market conditions, Quechua men and women often became shrewd participants in colonial markets as transportation providers and vendors of foodstuffs, prepared meals and beverages, raw materials, and finished textiles.28 While some indigenous Andeans living in rural villages permanently moved to urban centers in the early colonial era in order to escape family or ayllu tensions (or to seek a more com- fortable and economically secure existence), participation in the mercantilist market economy did not necessarily mean that Quechua entrepreneurs abandoned the organizational and subsistence strategies of their ayllus. On the contrary, market participation often served as a tactic by which Quechua families managed to accumulate enough currency to satisfy Spanish tribute requirements without having to pay with their own agricultural products.29 Thus, ironically, indigenous Andeans’ participation in the mercantilist economy instituted by the Spaniards seems to have oftentimes alleviated further outside interference in their ayllus’ economic, political, and cultural practices. The rise of food markets and prepared food stalls in the Andes parallels the emergence of large concentrations of transient populations in colonial mining and commercial centers such as Potosí, Huancavelica, and Cusco in the late sixteenth century. The indigenous and

23 A. KRÖGEL

Spanish workers living in these cities were unlikely to have the time or the knowledge to prepare their own meals, and as Cieza de León disapprovingly remarks, many of the indigenous men working in Potosí spent their daily wages by indulging their cravings for any number of dishes sold by the Quechua cooks in the plaza: “And since they earned daily wages, and since these Indians are such friends of food and drink … they spent all their wages on the [foods] which were brought to market.”30 Although the emerging market economy in colonial Latin America encouraged the exploitation of indigenous labor, it also created economic opportunities for indigenous women who worked as independent sellers, market women, cooks, owners of dry goods stores, or even long-distance traders.31 Indeed, the economic and social opportunities and relative freedom of movement that often accompanied an indigenous woman’s employment in colonial maize beer taverns (chicherías), market food stalls, and restaurants, remained beyond the reach of higher-class women whose social position precluded them from working in public spaces.32

Food consumption and status hierarchies in Tahuantinsuyu and colonial Perú Evidence gleaned from archeological research and testimonial evidence compiled in early colonial chronicles indicate that the intricate agricultural production and distribution systems maintained throughout Tahuantinsuyu allowed most Inca subjects to enjoy a rich variety of nutritious foodstuffs throughout the year.33 Hans Horkheimer, one of the first scholars to thoroughly study Andean foods and cooking practices, praises pre-conquest Andean agronomists as brilliant observers of all of the possibilities offered by the flora of their environment:

taking advantage of wild or cultivated [plants] to eat or drink, for their ﬁbers or wood, as a stimulant or medicine, as a colorant or auxiliary technology, or simply as an adornment. Rarely has a people utilized its ﬂora so intensively, in so many ways and across such an expanse.34

Thus, thanks to carefully maintained networks of redistribution and reciprocity along Andean vertical archipelagos, most ayllus in pre-Inca and Inca times enjoyed access to a highly varied and nutritious diet. Two of the most important staple foods in Tahuantinsuyu (and still today in rural, Andean communities) included potatoes and maize. Undoubtedly the most economically, socially, and nutritionally significant of these foodstuffs in the pre-conquest, colonial, and contemporary Andes is the potato (called papa in Quechua and Latin American Spanish). More than 30,000 tons of potatoes were produced annually in the pre-Inca Andean city of Tiahuanaco near Lake Titicaca before it collapsed more than 1,000 years ago, and by the time the Spaniards arrived in Perú, more than 200 varieties of potato were cultivated—a few at altitudes of 4,500 meters (approximately 14,760 feet).35 Centuries before European populations came to depend on the nutritional richness of the potato, it had long served as an essential staple in the Andes and a key to the success of Inca armies fighting battles and seizing new territory throughout western South America. By the beginning of the seventeenth century, the tuber had become a vital food source not only for indigenous Quechua families, but also for Spaniards living in the Andes.36 Moreover, the potato’s resistance to cold, as well as its nutritional density, eventually made it an indispensable staple food for millions of people across the globe.37

24 FOOD PRODUCTION AND IDENTITY POLITICS

In his Historia del nuevo mundo [completed in 1653, selections of which have been translated as History of the Inca Empire and Inca Religion and Customs], the Jesuit priest, missionary, and ethnographer Bernabé Cobo reveals the importance of the potato in Tahuantinsuyu by describing how the tubers served as a standard for measuring time throughout the pre- colonial Andes:

the time then, that it takes to cook the potatoes, they use to measure the duration of the things that are done quickly, responding that they have spent doing this or that thing the amount of time necessary to cook a pot of potatoes.38

In his Comentarios Reales [1609, translated as The Royal Commentaries of the Incas], the mestizo chronicler El Inca Garcilaso de la Vega attempts to describe high-altitude crops for a European audience unfamiliar with such foods and explains: “when the land is very cold, it cannot produce maize, [but] much quinua is harvested, which is like rice, and other seeds and fruits that become fruitful below ground and among them there is one that they call papa: it is round and very humid.”39 Indeed, the potato was capable of sustaining large population centers and extensive armies of soldiers throughout the Andes thanks to two unique features: its tolerance of extreme temperatures and altitudes and its nutritional value—it is one of the world’s few foodstuffs which, if eaten in sufficient quantities, provides all of the nutrients required by the human body.40 Although planting, tending, harvesting, and protecting maize from the elements and from pests and pilferers requires much more intensive labor than potato cultivation, maize was also an important staple and key ritual element of the pre-conquest Andean food- landscape. In Tahuantinsuyu, the relative prestige or ritual value of a particular food appears to have been linked to the identity of the elite and specially trained cooks who prepared it, or to the location in which it was cultivated. For instance, maize harvested at improbable elevations of more than 3,800 meters (approximately 12,500 feet) on the sacred Island of the Sun in Lake Titicaca, or select batches of the prized beverage known as chicha—fermented from top-quality maize by the Incas’“chosen women” or aqllakuna— were considered sacred and reserved for consumption by the Inca and his court.41 Although chicha—known as aqa in Quechua—can be made from fermented maize, quinua, the highland grain cañihua, dehydrated potatoes known as ch’uñu, peanuts, carob, or even the seeds of the molle bush, the Incas preferred maize chicha which, when brewed by the aqllakuna, could be offered to the gods as a deferential sacrifice.42 Father Bernabé Cobo claims that the aqllakuna were responsible for using maize to brew “much fine Chicha for offering to the gods and so that their priests might drink it, and they cooked each day the delicacies that they offered in sacrifice saying: ‘Eat, Sun, this which your women have cooked for you’.”43 Chicha brewed by the aqllakuna was considered a sacred food to be enjoyed exclusively by Inca leaders, and although its preparation and consumption by commoners was highly regulated by Inca administrators, in the years following the conquest chicha consumption and production became increasingly widespread—a trend generally criticized by Spanish, mestizo, and indigenous chroniclers alike.44 For thousands of years and even in the most inhospitable of environments, tubers such as the potato have faithfully provided life-sustaining energy to the Quechua families who cultivate them. Yet they are rarely fermented into alcohol for use during religious celebrations or offered as sacrifices to placate the gods. Indeed, Quechua speakers in contemporary Cusco use the phrase “ch’uñullata mihuq” (“he who eats only ch’uñu”)asa

25 A. KRÖGEL disparaging insult. The early colonial Huarochirí manuscript [1608] mentions a similar phrase as a derogatory description for a man who “lives eating miserably, only roasted potatoes” (“huacchalla micuspapas huatyacuspalla causaptinsi”).45 Similarly, in his nearly 1,200- page chronicle entitled El Primer nueva corónica i buen gobierno [completed in 1615], the indigenous chronicler Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala describes the Andeans living in the Collasuyo—the southeastern quadrant of Tahuantinsuyu—as weak and lazy due to their uncouth diet, “large bodied and fat, greasy because they eat only chuño [dehydrated potato] and they drink chuño beer.”46 While these descriptions and insults seem to reflect the potato’s lack of status within the Andean food-landscape, evidence from both colonial dictionaries and contemporary interviews reveal that it is not the potato itself that is dis- paraged in these phrases, but the status of someone who only has access to one type of food. For instance, Diego Gonçalez Holguín’s colonial Quechua dictionary [1608] explains that Quechua speakers consider the consumption of a variety of foods as a sign of a fine (“misqui”) meal, while the words “Miccurcarini” or “miccurcayani” indicate “To eat many foods and braises together, or splendidly.”47 While potato plants are astonishingly forgiving with regards to altitude, soil type, and the amount of precipitation they require, maize seedlings are much more exigent and, perhaps as a result, more prized by Andean farmers, cooks, and diners. Although maize plants cannot usually withstand the frost of high-altitude valleys and tablelands and require levels of humidity which most highland regions cannot provide, the Incas fastidiously tended their maize fields even though they realized that limited highland yields could never provide them with the nutritional value offered by the humble, dependable potato.48 The sheer number of words that exist in the Quechua lexicon to describe the maize plant’s numerous varieties and preparations suggests its importance in Andean culture. Bernabé Cobo notes the Andean practice of carefully naming each different variety and preparation of a plant food, “being so curious and intelligent in agriculture and their knowledge of plants, they have given a name even to the herbs which seem the smallest and most neglected.”49 Indeed, Gonçalez Holguín’s Quechua dictionary lists nineteen entries for different maize varieties, dishes made from maize, useful parts of the plant, terms for describing diseases which may afflict maize plants, and unusual cob forms which may signal death omens.50 Guaman Poma’s references to maize reveal a similarly rich vocabulary associated with the difficulties of cultivating the crop, for example: “ch’usu sara” (“empty maize”), “hut’u sara” (“wormy maize”), “ismu sara” (“rotten maize”), “chucllo sua” (“cob thief”), “sara q’iwiq” (“he who pulls up maize”).51 Although the Quechua language reflects the importance of both potatoes and maize in highland culture, in his essay “Maíz, tubérculos y ritos agrícolas,” (“Maize, Tubers and Agri- cultural Rites”), Murra notes that colonial chroniclers provide very little information regarding potato cultivation and that the rituals, calendars, and ceremonies they recount almost exclusively describe maize.52 He insists, however, that we should not assume that the Incas did not dedicate some ceremonies to their indispensable tuber crops. Instead, he argues, we should recall that most of the chroniclers’ informants were descendants of the recently vanquished Inca elite and were thus more focused on presenting impressive state mechanisms (such as the sophisticated terracing and irrigation required for the cultivation of maize), while ignoring the subsistence agriculture which cultivated crops such as the potato at the level of local ayllus.53 It also seems likely that the Incas accorded more ritual attention to maize due to its close association with the sun god Inti. In contrast to the subterranean, earthen-colored potato,

26 FOOD PRODUCTION AND IDENTITY POLITICS the maize cob with its golden kernels and protective blond tassels matures above ground, clutching onto a stalk that seems to stretch continually skywards. Since maize cultivation in the Andes was an arduous, uncertain undertaking, the fruits of this labor could not be depended upon as a staple food source, yet when the Inca state did harvest a successful crop, each cob was all the more esteemed. Just as Quechua hostesses today serve their guests the finest dishes they can offer, the Incas sought to present their gods with their most prized, luxury foodstuff through the ceremonial use of maize. Like the Inca ritual specialists, Spaniards in colonial Perú also preferred maize to the potato, and often referred to the grain as “the wheat of the Indies” (“trigo de las Indias”).54 Bernabé Cobo compares the Spaniards’ preeminent grain to maize since “all of the lands hospitable to wheat are also hospitable to maize, and those that are so cold as to preclude the production of wheat, are also not suitable for maize cultivation.”55 The Inca Garcilaso describes the laborious process carried out by indigenous Peruvians in order to process Andean maize crops and prepare bread for the Spaniards. Apparently, Spaniards required their indigenous cooks to remove the thin outer peel of each kernel and then carefully sift the grounded meal.56 Garcilaso scoffs at such finicky tastes, asserting that no one had bothered with such an unnecessary process before the arrival of the Spaniards, since the Incas “were not so fastidious so that the maize bran offended them, the bran isn’t even so rough that it is necessary to remove it, especially that of fresh maize.”57 Thus, while maize held the preeminent position within the status hierarchy of staple foods in Tahuantinsuyu, the potato was less highly regarded within both Tahuantinsuyu and colonial Perú as a foodstuff, tribute item, or religious offering. Yet chroniclers of colonial Perú suggest that in both pre-conquest and colonial Andean society, the consumption and cultivation of Andean foods such as maize and the potato served to mark regional and cultural identities as well as an individual or family’s relative access to a varied or high-status food supply.

Monstrous radishes and gold-eating Spaniards: food metaphors in the chronicles of the Inca Garcilaso and Guaman Poma de Ayala In Comentarios reales—the Inca Garcilaso de la Vega’s most well-known text—the author refutes, critiques, and corrects the works of Spanish chroniclers writing during the conquest of Perú and the early colonial era, prior to the arrival of the Viceroy Francisco de Toledo in 1569.58 Born in the former Inca capital city of Cusco just seven years after Pizarro’s arrival in Perú, Garcilaso is a self-conscious narrator and throughout the Comentarios he repeatedly asserts that his unique family tree, with its maternal branches of Inca royalty and paternal roots in Extremadura, provides him with singular qualiﬁcations “as an Inca Indian” for accurately describing Inca rites and customs.59 Writing from Córdoba some twenty-ﬁve years after having left his homeland for Spain at the age of twenty-two, in his account of Inca history and society, Garcilaso takes great care to present the inhabitants of Tahuantinsuyu as intelligent, hardworking, and benevolent people living in a society more sophisticated, in many aspects, than that of Renaissance Europe. Interestingly, in many instances throughout Comentarios reales, descriptions of the Andean food-landscape serve as a narrative device for introducing Garcilaso’s European readers to positive aspects of Tahuantinsuyu, and to unseemly traits of the Spanish. In this way, the intricately crafted representations of food in Comentarios reales serve as a valuable window into the complex and often devastating

27 A. KRÖGEL sociopolitical, economic, and cultural aftershocks felt throughout the Andes in the years following the conquest of the Incas. Throughout the Comentarios reales, Garcilaso uses his representations of food as a tool for presenting Inca rulers as capable administrators and benevolent conquerors, while indirectly presenting Spanish conquistadores as inept and irrational in their attempts to disrupt pre- conquest methods for administrating the Andean food-landscape. For instance, when chronicling pre-conquest military practices, Garcilaso explains that Inca soldiers often over- took their poorly equipped adversaries quite easily. In order to spare their wives and children from the threat of death or starvation, the ill-prepared and vanquished enemy would often quickly surrender. Always eager to present the Incas as benevolent colonizers in contrast to the brutishness of Spanish conquistadores, Garcilaso asserts that once enemy soldiers laid down their arms, “The Incas … gave them gifts and soothed them and fed them.”60 In the ﬁfth book of the Comentarios reales, Garcilaso explains that as soon as a new territory had been conquered, the Inca ruler would dispatch engineers from Cusco to begin the construction of irrigation canals.61 Census takers would appear soon afterwards in order to determine the new province’s population. An Inca ruler and his provincial administrators could then use this demographic data to make decisions regarding the quantity and type of agricultural infrastructure required in the region, as well as the number of manual laborers needed to complete the arduous process of creating arable, mountain terraces.62 While Inca rulers did require subjects to divide agricultural plots into three sections belonging to the sun god Inti, the Inca ruler, and the local population, Garcilaso insists that this practice was always carried out with careful attention to the needs of each ayllu:

so that they would have a surplus rather than be in want. And when the people of the town or province increased in number, they [the rulers] would take away the Sun’s portion and the Inca’s portion for the [beneﬁt of the] vassals; in this way the King did not take anything for himself, nor for the Sun except for the lands that would have remained deserted, without an owner.63

As in many parts of the Comentarios, here too Garcilaso leaves unsaid what may have been his principal point: that, in contrast to Inca policies, Spanish colonial agricultural administration and taxation practices often left many indigenous Andeans in want, while the Spanish king (and his administrators) profited handsomely from the land and labor of Andean vassals. Garcilaso dedicates chapters IX–XVI of the Comentarios’ Book Eight to a description of the varieties of fruits, vegetables, grains, and livestock native to Perú. He carefully describes each foodstuff, notes any medicinal value it may possess, and details the necessary steps for preparing each item. Garcilaso scoffs at the careless manner in which the Spanish dese- crated the original names of various foods to the extent that “nothing remains but a corruption of all the other names they have given them.”64 He also chastises himself when he cannot recall the names of certain fruits, “because of the distance of the place and the absence of my people I will not be able to find out the answer very easily.”65 Garcilaso enthusiastically praises Andean foodstuffs such as llama meat and the uchu pepper as finer than similar foods available in Europe; even the Spaniards, he tells us, realize that the Peruvian uchu is superior to the “oriental varieties.”66 Garcilaso dedicates several chapters of the Comentarios reales to outlining the competition between Andean foods and those brought from Europe.67 He sardonically relates the

28 FOOD PRODUCTION AND IDENTITY POLITICS

“anxiety” which plagued the Spaniards until they were able to cultivate their own Iberian fruits, vegetables, and grains.68 In order to illustrate his portrayal of Spanish colonizers’ dreams of achieving a large-scale agricultural and gastronomical transformation in the Andes, Garcilaso cites a royal decree in which Carlos V oﬀers two silver bars of 300 ducats each to the ﬁrst Spaniard who could successfully produce “medio cahíz” (approximately 9.5 bushels) of wheat or barley, or “cuatro arrobas” (approximately 12 gallons) of olive oil or wine:

The Catholic Monarchs [Ferdinand and Isabella] and the Emperor Carlos V had declared that the ﬁrst who, in any town of Spaniards, could reap a certain quantity of new Spanish fruits such as wheat, barley, wine or oil would be given from the royal treasury [a jewel and two bars of silver worth three-hundred ducats each].69

While the Inca Garcilaso admits that the new Spanish crops initially impressed indigenous Andeans, he primarily emphasizes the Europeans’ amazement at the astonishing abundance and high quality of the Iberian crops which they soon began to harvest in Perú. The introduction of Spanish seeds into Andean soils, however, could also wreak havoc on native species. Garcilaso laments that many Spanish ﬂowers and herbs proliferated to such an extent that:

now there is such abundance that many of them are now very damaging … they have spread so much in some valleys that they have defeated human force and diligence, everything possible has been done to pull them out, and they have prevailed to such an extent that they have erased the name of the valleys and forcing them to be called by their name, such as the Valley of Mint [yerbabuena]on the seacoast which used to be called Rucma, and other [valleys are] the same.70

Immediately following this tale of botanical and appellative assault, in which the Spa- niard’s yerbabuena mint plant supplants both the valley’s native name and crop (the fruit called rucma or lúcuma), Garcilaso relates the shocking case of a disproportionately large radish. He describes the root as being “of such strange greatness that in the shade of its leaves five horses were tied up … a monstrous thing.”71 Garcilaso corroborates his report by citing the testimony of a “gentleman” named Don Martín de Contreras, “nephew of the famous Governor of Nicaragua Francisco de Contreras” who declared to the chronicler, “I am an eyewitness to the greatness of this radish from the valley of Cuzapa.”72 Garcilaso’s witness even suggests that such gigantic vegetables are not particularly unusual in colonial Perú, affirming that he once “ate from a head of lettuce that weighed seven and a half pounds” and that in the Ica valley he once witnessed a melon so huge that its size was recorded by a notary “in order to document such a monstrous thing.”73 As Roberto González Echevarría points out, in Comentarios reales, Garcilaso almost always uses the adjective “monstrous” to refer to inordinate size.74 Yet his use of the adjective also reflects the negative, “unnatural” connotations which have been associated with the word since Roman times and which are evident in the definition of monster provided by Sebastián de Covarrubias Orozco’s early seventeenth-century Spanish dictionary (Tesoro de la lengua castellana, o española), published just five years before the death of Garcilaso in 1616. In his dictionary, Covarrubias defines “monstro” as: “Any birth which goes against natural law and order.”75 While one may argue that Garcilaso’s descriptions of the “strange

29 A. KRÖGEL greatness” (“extraña grandeza”) of these giant cultivars may be interpreted as an example of his admiration of the great scale of Spanish cultivars harvested in Perú, this seems unlikely given that his testimonies of the unnatural births of these monstrous vegetables immediately follow his account of the “damaging” abundance of many Iberian plants which “have vanquished human strength and diligence in spite of all efforts to uproot them.”76 More- over, the juxtaposition of the noun “greatness” with the adjective “monstrous” in this chapter creates the clever effect of linking these two qualities in the reader’s mind in order to suggest that at some point, the enormous sizes of these vegetables leads one to deem them as “frightening and incredible” (“espantables e incréibles”).77 Julio Ortega refers to these same passages as part of Garcilaso’s “discourse of abundance,” arguing that descriptions of the “abundance of Spanish transplants” (gigantic radishes, lettuces, and Spanish herbs) growing in the Andes reflect the chronicler’s attempts to present “more proof of historic providentialism” resulting from a fertile mixture of European seeds and Andean soils.78 According to Ortega’s analysis, gigantic vegetables and rapidly spreading herbs signal a new “abundance” which resulted from a mixture of the “new” (world) and the “old,” and that Garcilaso’s descriptions of vegetable abundance serve as a natural model for hybrid cultural processes and reinforce his argument that the mixing or mestizaje of plants, humans, and cultures can breed positive results.79 I would argue that Garcilaso—keenly aware of the censorial powers of the Inquisition—took advantage of these pages of seemingly innocuous alimentary descriptions in his Comentarios to laud the virtues of the Andean food-landscape, and to condemn the monstrous invasion of foreign seeds (and soldiers) that decimated indigenous Andeans, as well as their flora and fauna. It seems quite plausible that in these passages of the Comentarios’“Book Nine,” monstrous radishes and lettuce, and the insatiable spreading of mint plants, serve as a metaphor for the greedy appetites of Spanish conquistadores and colonists whose plants caused great destruction to the food-landscape of many regions throughout the colonial Andes. Like other Golden Age writers such as Calderón de la Barca, Garcilaso’s use of the adjective monstrous to describe Spanish cultivars likely signifies the chaos and confusion of the sociohistorical context in which the plants took root. Moreover, Garcilaso’s hyperbolic descriptions of these foods are intended to shock and surprise his audience into realizing both the startling fertility of his Andean homeland, as well as the unnatural consequences of Spanish transplants onto (and into) New World soil.80 As in the Inca Garcilaso de la Vega’s Comentarios reales, many passages of Guaman Poma’s Nueva corónica also feature alimentary descriptions that critique the greedy excesses of Spanish colonial policies and practices. The indigenous chronicler Guaman Poma praises the stunning variety of crops cultivated in the Andes and denounces the Spaniards’ callous destruction of the Inca alimentary infrastructure in a much more direct and caustic tone than that used by Garcilaso. One of the key critiques of Spanish colonialism advanced by Guaman Poma centers around his denunciation of what he perceives as the Iberians’ excessive greed and dishonorable treatment of indigenous Andeans and their pre-conquest way of life. Often times, Guaman Poma uses descriptions of food to illustrate Spanish injustices perpetuated against and prejudices toward indigenous Andeans. One of the more humorous of the 398 illustrations included in Guaman Poma’s Nueva corónica depicts an encounter which the author imagines as having taken place between the Inca ruler Huayna Capac (father of Húascar and Atahualpa) and a Spanish explorer who preceded Pizarro’s arrival. Through both words and image, Guaman Poma highlights Huayna Capac’s observation of the Spaniards’ insatiable interest in gold. In Guaman Poma’s

30 FOOD PRODUCTION AND IDENTITY POLITICS representation of the exchange, the words of the Inca ruler reveal his assumption that the strange, bearded man’s voracious appetite for the gleaming metal can only be explained by the fact that he can, in fact, eat gold. This hypothesis leads the dignified looking Inca to ask the Spaniard kneeling before him, “Do you eat this gold?” (“Kay quritachu mikhunki?”). The oafishly depicted Spaniard replies with a vacant expression, “We eat this gold” (“este oro comemos”) (see Figure 2.1).81 Huayna Capac’s logic reflects the fact that in Tahuantinsuyu—a civilization whose strength and well-being depended heavily on abundant, reliable harvests and healthy herds—food, not gold, was the most prized commodity.82 Yet clearly, Guaman Poma also seeks to demonstrate that the Spaniards were interested in pillaging more than just the precious metals of Tahuantinsuyu. The chronicler denounces, in great detail, the manner in which the Spaniards abused the Inca system of tambu storehouses and he enumerates all of the goods and services nabbed from the indigenous custodians of these food depositories:

Said Spanish travelers, even if they are priests who pass along the royal roads and tanbo, how they arrive angrily at said tanbos, seize the Indian custodians of the tanbos … and ask for Indians whom they might force into servitude (mitayos) and much camarico (a coveted product), and so on with maize and potatoes and llamas and chickens and eggs … and ch’uñu (preserved potato), quinua (highland seed), chiche (small ﬁsh) and chicha (maize beer) and blankets of chuci and pots.83

In this and similar passages, Guaman Poma creates a rhythmic mesodiplosis (the repetitive use of a word in the middle of successive sentences) by preceding the name of each food item seized by the Spaniards with the conjunction “and.” This technique serves to emphasize the extent of the exploitation inflicted upon indigenous Peruvians within the reader’s mind, while simultaneously demonstrating the rich diversity of the Quechua food- landscape.84 As Julio Ortega has pointed out, these critiques of the disorder and abuses propagated by colonial officials serve as a primary image and symbol of colonial violence and pillaging.85 In this way, Guaman Poma’s descriptions of food become one of his central metaphors and serve as a “powerful version of the violence, and of the irrationality of colonial practices which destroy other knowledges and instead, disseminate want.”86 Thus, Garcilaso and Guaman Poma, two of the most well-known chroniclers of colonial Perú and Tahuantinsuyu, both utilize the trope of food to critique Spanish colonial excesses, as well as the colonizers’ destruction of Andean alimentary infrastructures and the subsequent disease, destitution, and death that afflicted indigenous Andeans throughout the Vice- royalty of Perú.

“Filthy” chicha, “clean” chicha: discourses of purity in historical chronicles of corn beer preparation In his Historia del nuevo mundo, Bernabé Cobo oﬀers detailed botanical, zoological, and ethnographic descriptions of the plants, animals, and people he came across during his long residence in the Viceroyalty of Perú between 1599 and 1657.87 Cobo’s peripatetic life in the New World included stints living and working as a priest, missionary, and educator in and near Lima, Lake Titicaca, Potosí, Cochabamba, Oruro, La Paz, Arequipa, and Pisco, as well as many trips on the Inca roads between Lima and Cusco and across most of central and southern Perú.88 Cobo’s wide-ranging travels and experiences throughout the

31 Figure 2.1 “An Inca asks a Spaniard what he eats, he replies ‘Gold’” by Guaman Poma (1526–1613). © Private Collection/The Bridgeman Art Library FOOD PRODUCTION AND IDENTITY POLITICS

Viceroyalty of Perú, as well as his precise descriptions of the customs, interactions, and preferences of both indigenous Andeans and Spanish colonists, make his Historia an important source of information regarding life in the Andean region during the ﬁrst half of the seventeenth century. In general, Cobo’s descriptions of Andean victuals and agricultural practices are quite laudatory; it is clear that the chronicler admired indigenous Andeans’ vast and intimate knowledge of the challenging ecosystem from which they coaxed a wide variety of crops toward harvest. Yet Cobo’s description of the fermented corn beverage chicha provides perhaps the most interesting example of the writer’s ambivalent relationship to Andean cultures and their food-landscapes in his role as a Spanish colonial ethnographer, naturalist, and Jesuit missionary. Indeed, the attitudes of Cobo and Guaman Poma toward particular varieties of chicha provide an intriguing example of the ways in which colonial-era food discourses—and in particular, discourses on the relative purity or acceptability of certain foods—were used to legitimate dominant subject positions within colonial power hierarchies and to make claims of cultural, and by extension, political authority. In the case of Cobo, the chronicler alternately praises and scorns chicha as he describes the two principal methods for preparing it, while also blaming the preparation and consumption of the beverage for inhibiting the conversion of indigenous Andeans to the Spaniards’“Sacred Faith.” Interestingly, in his references to chicha as an obstruction to Spanish evangelization eﬀorts, Bernabé Cobo seems more concerned with the beverage’s tendency to cause widespread inebriation amongst potential indigenous converts, than with its important role in pre-colonial Andean religious rituals and celebrations. Cobo’s description of chicha—in which he alternately employs past and present tenses to refer to indigenous Andeans’ consumption of the beverage—is worth quoting at length, as it reveals his contradictory attitude toward chicha:

This name chicha covers all of the beverages that the natives of this New World used instead of wine and with which they very frequently become inebriated; a vice to which they are so inclined that they have not even taken advantage of having converted to our Sacred Faith … nor have their dealings and communication with the Spaniards, nor the punishments meted out by the priests and justices been able to pull them away from it … Chicha is made from many things, each nation adapts itself to the most abundant seeds and fruits produced in their land and they make chicha from these. Some chichas are made from ocas, yucas and other roots; others, from quínua and the fruit of the molle [Schinus molle, Peruvian peppertree] … but the ﬁnest chicha which is the kind one generally drinks in this land and which, like precious wine, occupies the premiere place before all of the Indians’ other beverages, is the one that is made from maize.89

While on the one hand Cobo denounces chicha as ﬁlthy and unchristian, further on in the text he concedes that Spaniards enjoy and approve of certain varieties of chicha; though he takes care to assert that when the Spaniards prepare the beverage they do so in a manner that is cleaner and more carefully executed than the process used by Andean brewers:

Most commonly the Indians of Perú drink the sort [of chicha] made from chewed maize; which is seen not only in their own towns, but in many of the Spaniards’

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[towns] where there is a congregation of Indians, as in Potosí, Oruro and others. Gathering in small groups in the plazas old Indian women and young men sit together chewing maize, just seeing this inspires not a little disgust amongst the Spaniards … The Spaniards are also accustomed to making maize chicha for special occasions, but they make it with more cleanliness and care than the Indians.90

Cobo’s denunciation of chicha as an “unclean” beverage stems from one of the techniques sometimes used to accelerate the fermentation process. A chicha brewer or chichera may elaborate the beverage following one of two methods: wiñapu chicha is made from fermented grains that have been soaked and then allowed to germinate for several days, while muqu chicha is produced from grains that have been chewed and then expectorated, allowing for the residual saliva to facilitate the fermentation process. Colonial chroniclers like Cobo and Guaman Poma express their disapproval of chicha, although they find less fault with the wiñapu (or sura) variety made from germinated maize. Guaman Poma offers advice for colonial authorities to this effect:

That the Indians should not drink chicha chewed with the mouth that they call moco (chewed maize for chicha) … because it is a dirty, ﬁlthy thing, instead they should drink a chicha from sprouted maize which they call sura asua (chicha of germinated maize) so that the Christians drink it and approve.91

Guaman Poma and other chroniclers’ descriptions of chicha in terms of “clean” and “dirty” varieties of the beverage can be usefully interrogated through the lens of colonial discourses of purity since designations of “purity” and “impurity” in any given society are mutable and contingent contrivances that reﬂect localized power relations and social controls. Given that in colonial Perú, muqu chicha was perceived to be contaminated with the saliva of the socially denigrated, unclean Other, the “impure” beverage threatened to breach the colonizer/other divide and pollute the body of any Spaniard who imbibed it. Thus, for European colonizers, as well as mestizo and indigenous converts to Christianity (such as Guaman Poma), muqu chicha came to represent a “ﬁlthy” alimentary abjection and a sign of colonial disorder; not so much because of its ostensible uncleanliness, but because its production method (transferring indigenous saliva to Christian bodies) failed to respect “borders, positions, rules.”92 Since, as Robbie Duschinsky demonstrates, the category of impurity is often “mobilised to structure the boundaries that separate the acceptable human from the subhuman,” declarations regarding the relative acceptability or purity of certain preparation methods of chicha served to reinforce and legitimate dominant subject-positions within the paradigm of Spanish colonial rule.93 In this way, the designation of muqu chicha as an unclean (pagan) pollutant of Christian bodies became an analogy for the colonial social order and the colonizing, Christianizing project.94 Interestingly, unlike Cobo and Guaman Poma, Garcilaso does not mention the contentious muqu variety of chicha, though he does describe the brewing process for sprouted or “uiñapu” chicha which he refers to as an “extremely strong brew.”95 In keeping with his tendency to praise the careful, discerning Inca administration of Tahuantinsuyu and to use food descriptions as a means of indirectly criticizing the incompetent and short-sighted Spanish administration of colonial Perú, Garcilaso points out that the Incas astutely prohibited the consumption of chicha since it led to “violent inebriation,” and that only in colonial times did the consumption of the beverage become a problem for “some

34 FOOD PRODUCTION AND IDENTITY POLITICS debauched individuals.”96 Garcilaso also asserts that even when wine became prevalent and relatively cheap in the Andes, “[the Indians] contented themselves with their old brew made from zara [the Quechua word for maize] and water”; yet he never suggests that this preference may have reflected the beverage’s important role in many Andean religious rituals.97 Like the Spaniards’ wine, chicha was (and is) a beverage consumed in both ritual and profane contexts, so that the acceptance of at least one variety of chicha by indigenous and mestizo converts to Christianity, Spanish colonizers, and even religious extirpators such as Cobo, serves as a good example of the instability and permeability of colonizer/ other, believer/infidel divides within colonial Perú. Indeed, both Garcilaso’s descriptions of “monstrous” vegetables and Cobo and Guaman Poma’s attitudes toward “clean” and “dirty” varieties of chicha illustrate how food practices and preferences in the Viceroyalty of Perú came to reflect indigenous, mestizo, and Spanish actors’ ambivalence toward the new food choices which became available in post- conquest Perú. As a renaissance humanist whose works frequently refer to the magnitude of a chronicler’s attention to word choice, Garcilaso would certainly have recognized that given the twin connotations of “unnaturalness” and “excessive size” associated with the word monstrous, the vegetable “greatness” he describes in his Comentarios might be alternately feared or celebrated, depending upon the context in which it arose and the agenda of the person perceiving it. Similarly, the acceptance of the “clean,” wiñapu variety of chicha and the vehement denigration of “filthy” muqu chicha by Spaniards, as well as indigenous converts to Christianity, also highlights the complex and contradictory meanings associated with food production, consumption, and identity politics in colonial Perú. This chapter’s consideration of the manner in which the Inca Garcilaso de la Vega, Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala, and Bernabé Cobo describe particular aspects of the Andean food-landscape within colonial Peruvian society reveals the numerous ways in which food (and descriptions of food) became a medium for expressing cultural, ethnic, and religious identities and loyalties, while also serving as a tool for denouncing the perceived shortcomings (or abuses) of other groups. In the incredibly tumultuous context of the sixteenth- and seventeenth-century colonial Andes, food preferences, practices, and policies became a multivalent discursive space wherein Spanish attempts to devalue and dismantle the cultural, religious, and community identities associated with indigenous Andean food-landscapes were continually contested.

Notes 1 F. Cabieses, Cien siglos de pan, Lima: Consejo National de Ciencia y Tecnología, 1995, p. 78. 2 Cabieses, Cien siglos de pan, pp. 95–122, 193–6, 217–22. For a fine sociohistorical and botanical survey of a wide variety of Andean cultivars see Cabieses, Cien siglos de pan. For an investigation of the symbolic aspects of various Andean foods and dishes see J. Ossio, “Aspectos simbólicos de las comidas andinas: una nueva versión,” in Cultura, identidad y cocina en el Perú, ed. R. Olivas Weston, Lima: Universidad San Martín de Porres, 1992. For an historical, sociocultural, and gastronomic introduction to the potato, including a consideration of the tuber’s role in societies as far ranging as pre-Inca, Inca, and contemporary Andean cultures, as well as European, African, and Asian societies beginning in the sixteenth century see S. Guardia, La flor morada de los Andes: historia y recetas de la papa y otros tubérculos, Lima: Universidad de San Martín de Porraes, 2004. 3 The rapid political and territorial expansion of the Incas during the fifteenth century is one of the great imperial success stories in world history. Expanding out from its political center in the city of Cusco, Tahuantinsuyu came to encompass parts of present-day Ecuador, Bolivia, northern Chile, southern Colombia, and northwestern Argentina. Inca Tahuantinsuyu

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eventually extended more than 350,000 square miles (906,500 square kilometers) and included such varied terrains as high altitude grassy plateaus (punas), low-lying jungles, deserts, coast- lines, and fertile river valleys (J. Murra, La organización económica del estado Inca, México D.F.: Siglo veintiuno editores, 1983, pp. 57–82). 4 B. Mannheim, The Language of the Inka since the European Invasion, Austin: University of Texas Press, 1991, p. 71. 5 For important studies of Quechua language policies, restrictions, dialects, and uses within the Viceroyalty of Peru see: A. Durston, Pastoral Quechua: The History of Christian Translation in Colonial Peru, 1550–1650, Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2007; C. Itier, Del siglo de oro al siglo de las luces: lenguaje y sociedad en los Andes del siglo XVIII, Cusco: Centro de Estudios Rurales Andinos “Bartolomé de Las casas,” 1995; and Itier, “Lengua general y comunicación escrita: cinco cartas en quechua de Cotahuasi-1616,” Revista Andina, 9.1, 1991; G. Taylor, Introducción a la Lengua General (Quechua), Lima: Instituto Francés de Estudios Andinos, 2001; R. Cerrón-Palomino, “El contacto incial quechua-castellano: la conquista del Perú con dos palabras,” Lexis, 34.2, 2010; and Mannheim, The Language of the Inka. 6 G. Kubler, “The Quechua in the Colonial World,” in Handbook of South American Indians: The Andean Civilizations, vol. 2, ed. J.H. Steward, Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution, 1946, p. 355; and N. Wachtel, The Vision of the Vanquished: The Spanish Conquest of Perú through Indian Eyes, 1530–1570, trans. Ben and Siân Reynolds, New York: Harper & Row, 1977, p. 143. 7 For a discussion of the notion of the Andean food-landscape as it relates to Quechua verbal and visual art see: A. Krögel, Food, Power, and Resistance in the Andes, Lanham: Lexington Books, 2011. 8 For a discussion of the few scholars who suggest that pre-Colombian markets existed in the Andes, see J. Murra, El mundo andino: población, medio ambiente y economía, Lima: Instituto de Estudio Perúanos, 2002, pp. 237–47. 9 J. Murra, The Economic Organization of the Inka State, Greenwich, CT: JAI Press Inc., 1980; J. Hyslop, The Incan Road System, New York: Institute of Andean Research Academic Press, 1984; J.A. Flores Ochoa, “Interaction and Complementarity in Three Zones of Cuzco,” in Andean Ecology and Civilization: An Interdisciplinary Perspective on Andean Ecological Complementarity, ed. S. Masuda, I. Shimada and C. Morris, Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1985; and K. Spalding, Huarochirí: An Andean Society under Inca and Spanish Rule, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1984. 10 Murra, El mundo andino, pp. 132–3. 11 Murra, El mundo andino, pp. 93–4. 12 Hyslop, The Incan Road System. 13 Murra, The Economic Organization of the Inka State, p. 123. 14 The association between the Spanish military conquest and the Spaniards’ subsequent efforts at gastronomical colonization were so inextricably linked in the minds of many indigenous Andeans that one of the central prohibitions for participants of Taqui Onqoy—the indigenous rebel movement which swept through the Andes in the 1560s—included a pledge to shun any foods of Castilian origin (S. Castro-Klarén, “Dancing and the Sacred in the Andes: from Taqui-Oncoy to Rasu-Ñiti,” in New World Encounters, ed. S. Greenblatt, Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993, pp. 168–9). As one sixteenth-century informant explained, the new “sect” of Taqui Onqoy taught its followers that: “if the Indians did not want sicknesses to befall them or death but health and the increase of their goods they had to repudiate Chris- tianity … and they were not to use Christian names nor eat nor dress things of Castilla” (cited in S.E. Ramírez, To Feed and be Fed: The Cosmological Bases of Authority and Identity in the Andes, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2005, p. 107). Thus, followers of Taqui Onqoy believed that if Andean huacas—regional or local guardian deities—were properly fed and venerated with sacrificial food and drink, the Spanish invaders would be driven out, catastrophic infection rates would plummet, and Andean crops would flourish once again (S. MacCormick, Religion in the Andes: Vision and Imagination in Early Colonial Perú, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991, pp. 184–5; Wachtel, The Vision of the Vanquished,p.181;K.Mills,Idolatry and Its Enemies: Colonial Andean Religion and Extirpation, 1640–1750, Princeton: Princeton University Press,1997,p.52). 15 Spalding, Huarochirí, p. 158; and S. MacCormick, Religion in the Andes: Vision and Imagination in Early Colonial Perú, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991, pp. 140–1.

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16 C.S. Assadourian, “La despoblación indígena en Perú y Nueva España durante el siglo XVI y la formación de la economía colonial,” Historia Mexicana, 38.3, 1989, 436–7. 17 I. Garcilaso de la Vega (1609), Comentarios reales, intro. J. de la Riva-Agüero (1998), México D.F.: Editorial Porrúa, p. 416; Kubler, “The Quechua in the Colonial World,” p. 346; M. Jiménez de la Espada (1881–97), 3 vols, Relaciones geográficas de Indias: Perú, 1577–86, ed. J.U. Martínez Carreras (1965), Madrid: Ediciones Atlas, vol. 1, p. 234; Wachtel, The Vision of the Vanquished, pp. 142–4. As Wachtel points out, the Relaciones geográficas de Indias (RGI) remains one of the best sources for information on what Andean and Iberian foodstuffs were being consumed (and by whom) in late sixteenth-century Perú. Compiled between 1577 and 1586 on the order of Felipe II, the RGI is comprised of replies by local officials working throughout New Spain, Perú, and the Philippines to fifty standardized and wide-ranging questions drafted by imperial bureaucrats in Madrid. The questions related to numerous topics, including: political geography and topo- nymic features; food, language, and housing types; historical, religious, and cultural traditions and beliefs; as well as botanical, zoological, and mineral resources (H. Cline, “The Relaciones Geo- graficas of the Spanish Indies, 1577–86,” The Hispanic American Historical Review, 44.3, 1964, 347– 8, 365–71). Of particular interest for students of Spanish–Andean alimentary encounters in early colonial Perú, are colonial officials’ answers to questions 24, 25, and 27, which respectively request that officials: “Mention the grains and seeds and other plants and vegetables which have served or serve as subsistence for the natives”; “State what plants have been introduced there from Spain and whether wheat, barley, wines and the olive flourish; in what quantity they are harvested”; “Describe the native animals, birds of prey and domestic fowl and those introduced from Spain and state how well they breed and multiply” (trans. in Cline, “The Relaciones Geograficas,” p. 368). 18 Spalding, Huarochirí, pp. 161–2. 19 Spalding, Huarochirí, pp. 159–63. Since colonial officials assigned mita service based on the population of eligible males native to any given province, a migrant living in a province where he did not have access to ayllu (community) lands and resources was exempt from service. Thus, the mita draft led to tremendous upheaval not only because of repeated, six-month tours of service carried out by male ayllu members, but also due to the widespread practice of abandoning one’s ayllu and home province with the goal of dodging the mita draft (Spalding, Huarochirí,p.166). 20 Wachtel, The Vision of the Vanquished, p. 143. 21 S. Stern, “The Variety and Ambiguity of Native Andean Intervention in Markets,” in Ethnicity, Markets, and Migration in the Andes: At the Crossroads of History and Anthropology,ed.B.Larsonand O. Harris, Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1995, pp. 81–2. While El Inca Garcilaso de la Vega affirms that indigenous Andean men and women were initially quite curious to try new European foodstuffs, he also suggests that after the novelty waned, they were likely to return to the foods they were most accustomed to cultivating and preparing (Garcilaso, Comentarios reales, pp. 423–4; Kubler, “The Quechua in the Colonial World,” pp. 354–9; Spalding, Huarochirí, p. 158). 22 Spalding, Huarochirí, p. 164. 23 Stern, “The Variety and Ambiguity of Native Andean Intervention in Markets,” p. 73; J. Mangan, Trading Roles: Gender, Ethnicity, and the Urban Economy in Colonial Potosí, Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005, p. 1. 24 Stern, “The Variety and Ambiguity of Native Andean Intervention in Markets.” 25 P. Cieza de León (1550), Crónica del Perú: el señorío de los Incas, ed. F. Pease, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 2005, p. 273. Translations from the Spanish are my own unless otherwise indicated. 26 Cieza de León, Crónica del Perú. 27 Stern, “The Variety and Ambiguity of Native Andean Intervention in Markets,” p. 76. 28 C.S. Assadourian, El sistema de la economía colonial: el mercado interior, regiones y espacio económico,México D.F.: Editorial Nueva Imagen, 1983, pp. 289–93, 315–19; Mangan, Trading Roles, pp. 76–92; Stern, “The Variety and Ambiguity of Native Andean Intervention in Markets,” pp. 76–8, 90–2. 29 Stern, “The Variety and Ambiguity of Native Andean Intervention in Markets,” p. 90. 30 Cieza de León, Crónica del Perú. 31 S.M. Socolow, The Women of Colonial Latin America, New York: Cambridge University Press, 2000, p. 41.

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32 Socolow, The Women of Colonial Latin America, p. 114. 33 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales, pp. 346–60; Guardia, La flor morada, pp. 15–17; J. Super, Food, Con- quest and Colonization in Sixteenth Century Spanish America, Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1998, pp. 14–17, 20–3. 34 H. Horkheimer, Alimentación y obtención de alimentos en el Perú prehispánico, Lima: Universidad Nacio- nal Mayor de San Marcos, 1973, p. 106. 35 F. Fernández-Armesto, Near a Thousand Tables: A History of Food, New York: The Free Press, 2002, p. 100; Cabieses, Cien siglos de pan, p. 80; A. Brack Egg, Perú: diez mil años de domesticación, Lima: Programa de las Naciones Unidas para el Desarrollo, 2003, p. 119; Guardia, La flor morada,p.14. 36 R.N. Salaman, The History and Social Influence of the Potato, ed. J.G. Hawkes, London: Cambridge University Press, 1985, pp. 70–1. 37 Although the potato enjoyed almost immediate success in Great Britain after its introduction in the late sixteenth century (particularly in the newly established colony of Ireland), in continental Europe, it did not receive such an enthusiastic welcome (Guardia, La flor morada, pp. 75–6; Fernández-Armesto, Near a Thousand Tables, p. 99). Its entirely subterranean development, its dubious status as a relative of the poisonous Solanaceae (Nightshade) genus, and its lack of odor all contributed to the wary European public’s initial suspicion and rejection of the potato (Cabieses, Cien siglos de pan, p. 78; R. Harrison, Signs, Songs, and Memory in the Andes: Translating Quechua Lan- guage and Culture, Austin: University of Texas Press, 1989, pp. 177–8; M. Michelet, La bruja: un estudio de las supersticiones en la Edad Media, trans. R. Lajo and V. Frígola, Madrid: Ediciones Akal, 1987, pp. 123–4). 38 Cited in Murra, La organización económica del estado Inca, p. 33. 39 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales, p. 175. For an English language translation of selections of the chronicle see: H.V. Livermore (trans.) and K. Spalding (ed.), The Royal Commentaries of the Incas and General History of Perú, by the Inca Garcilaso de la Vega, Comentarios reales (1609), Indianapolis: Hackett Pub Co., 2006. 40 Fernández-Armesto, Near a Thousand Tables, p. 99; Centro International de la Papa (CIP), “Potato, Nutrition,” Quality and Nutrition Lab, 2012, available at: http://cipotato.org/potato/nutrition (accessed December 13, 2012); USDA, “Potato,” National Nutrient Database, 2012, available at: http://ndb.nal.usda.gov/ (accessed December 13, 2012). 41 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales, p. 138. 42 Often referred to as “the virgins of the Sun,” aqllakuna were beautiful maidens chosen from a young age to attend to the ritual needs of Tahuantinsuyu and to serve as Inca rulers’ prized servants. The most elite of these “chosen women” lived in a stately residence (known as the aql- lawasi) located adjacent to the Inca’s personal quarters in Cusco and spent their days weaving and preparing special ritual meals for the Inca ruler. For detailed discussions of this fascinating Inca institution, see I. Silverblatt, Moon, Sun, and Witches: Gender Ideologies and Class in Inca and Colonial Perú, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987, pp. 81–108; P. Gose, “El estado incaico como una ‘mujer escojida’ (aqlla): consumo, tributo en el trabajo y la regulación del matrimonio en el incanato,” in Más allá del silencio: las fronteras del género en los andes, ed. D. Arnold, La Paz: ILCA, 1997, pp. 458–73; and T. Zuidema, Inca Civilization in Cuzco, trans. J.-J. Decoster, Austin: Uni- versity of Texas Press, 1990, pp. 55–66, 77–8. 43 B. Cobo (1653), Historia del nuevo mundo, ed. M. Jiménez de la Espada, vol. I (1890) and vol. IV, Sevilla: Sociedad de Bibliófilos Andaluces, 1893, pp. 147–8 (vol. 4). 44 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales,p.347;Cobo,Historia del nuevo mundo,vol.1,p.347;F.Guaman Poma de Ayala (1615), El Primer Nueva corónica y buen gobierno,volsI–III, ed. J. Murra and R. Adorno, trans. J.L. Urioste, México D.F.: Siglo Veintiuno, 1980, p. 827 (vol. 2); Super, Food, Conquest and Colonization, pp. 74–5. For descriptions of chicha production processes, see H. Cutler and M. Cárdenas, “Chicha, una cerveza sudamericana indígena,” in La technología en el mundo andino: Runakunap kawsayninkupaq rurasqankunaqa,ed.H.LechtmanandA.M.Soldi,México D.F.: UNAM, 1981 and E. Llosa, “Comer en una picantería Cusqueña,” in Cultura identidad y cocina en el Perú, ed. R. Olivas Weston, Lima: Universidad San Martín de Porres, 1992. For a discussion of the economic, political, and religious significance of chicha consumption in the pre-colonial Andes, see C. Morris, “Maize Beer in the Economics, Politics, and Religion of the Inca Empire,” in Fermented Food Beverages in Nutrition, ed. C. Gastineau, W. Darby, and T. Turner,

38 FOOD PRODUCTION AND IDENTITY POLITICS

New York: Academic Press, 1979, pp. 21–35; for essays focusing on the signiﬁcance of chicha in contemporary and pre-colonial Andean contexts, see J. Jennings and B. Bowser (eds), Drink, Power, and Society in the Andes, Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2009. 45 F. Ávila (ed.) (1598?) Dioses y hombres de Huarochirí, trans. José María Arguedas, Lima: Universidad Antonio Ruiz de Montoya, Jesuitas, 2007, p. 27. 46 Guaman Poma, Primera nueva corónica, p. 308 (vol. 1); also cited in Murra, The Economic Organization of the Inka State,p.8. 47 D. Gonçalez Holguín (1608), Vocabulario de la lengua general de todo el Perú llamado Lengua Qquichua o del Inca, ed. R. Porras Barrenechea, Lima: Editorial de la Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos, 1952, p. 239. 48 Murra, The Economic Organization of the Inka State, pp. 8–9. 49 Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo, p. 330 (vol. 1). 50 Gonçalez Holguín, Vocabulario, p. 576. 51 Guaman Poma, Primera nueva corónica, pp. 1034, 1037, 1040 (vol. 3). 52 Murra, El mundo andino, pp. 147–9. 53 Murra, El mundo andino, pp. 148–51. 54 Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo, p. 340 (vol. 1). 55 Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo, p. 341. 56 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales, pp. 346–7. 57 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales, p. 347. 58 See A. Miró-Quesada (ed.), “Prólogo,” in Garcilaso de la Vega, I (1609), Comentarios reales de los Incas, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1985, p. xx. Scores of scholarly studies examine the life, work, and intellectual and historical milieu of the Inca Garcilaso de la Vega. See for example: M. Zamora, Language, Authority, and Indigenous History in the Comentarios reales de los incas, New York: Cambridge University Press, 1988; J.A. Mazzotti, Coros mestizos del Inca Garcilaso: resonancias andinas, Lima: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1996; F. Pease G.Y., “El Tahuantinsuyu del Inca Garci- laso,” in Las crónicas y los Andes, Lima: Pontiﬁcia Universidad Católica del Perú, 1995; D.A. Brading, “The Incas and the Renaissance: The Royal Commentaries of the Inca Garcilaso de la Vega,” Journal of Latin American Studies, 18.1, 1986 and Miró Quesada, “Prólogo.” For an English language biography of Garcilaso and a description of his four publications—Diálogos de amor, La Florida del Inca, Comentarios reales, and Historia general del Perú—see D.G. Castanien, El Inca Garcilaso de la Vega, New York: Twayne Publishers, 1969. 59 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales, pp. 4–6, 13. 60 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales, p. 237; also pp. 37–8. 61 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales, p. 169. 62 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales, pp. 169–70. 63 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales, p. 170. 64 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales, p. 350. 65 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales, p. 349. 66 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales, pp. 351, 357. 67 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales, pp. 406–24; see also J. Ortega, “Discourse of Abundance,” trans. Nicolás Wey Gómez, in American Literary History, 4.3, 1992, 374–81; and Ortega, Transatlantic Translations: Dialogues in Latin American Literature, London: Reaktion Books, 2006, pp. 57–8. 68 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales, p. 416. 69 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales, p. 417. 70 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales, p. 420. 71 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales, p. 421. 72 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales. 73 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales. 74 R. González Echevarría, Celestina’s Brood: Continuities of the Baroque in Spanish and Latin American Literature, Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1993, pp. 101–2. 75 S. de Covarrubias Orozco (1611), Tesoro de la lengua castellana, o española. Madrid: Google e-book (accessed June 6, 2013), p. 554r; see also González Echevarría, Celestina’s Brood, pp. 96–7. 76 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales, p. 420. 77 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales, p. 422.

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78 Ortega, “Leer y describir: el Inca Garcilaso y el sujeto de la abundancia,” in El hombre y los Andes: homenaje a Franklin Pease G.Y,vol.1,ed.J.FloresEspinozaandR.VarónGabai,Lima: Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú Fondo Editorial, 2000, p. 402; and Ortega, Transat- lantic Translations,p.56. 79 Ortega, “Leer y describir,” p. 402; “Discourse of Abundance,” p. 377; and Transatlantic Transla- tions, pp. 56–7. 80 I am indebted to González Echevarría for this reading of Garcilaso’s representation of vegetable abundance in Perú. In chapter four of his book Celestina’s Brood: Continuities of the Baroque in Spanish and Latin American Literature, González Echevarría demonstrates how the figure of the monster in Calderón’s play La vida es sueño (1635) becomes an emblem of chaos and confusion and a means for the playwright’s conveyance of shock and surprise to his audience (Celestina’s Brood, pp. 82–3). 81 Guaman Poma, Primera nueva corónica, pp. 342–3 (vol. 2). 82 See also Ortega, Transatlantic Translations, pp. 68–9. The Incas’ appreciation of the aesthetic effects produced by gold and silver ornaments is evident in the descriptions of the gold leaved walls of Qoricancha (the “Temple of the Sun”), as well as the many sacred objects which Inca artisans fashioned from the precious metals. Indeed, the Incas honored their staple foodstuffs by creating golden replicas of each crop within Cusco’s Qoricancha temple (Garcilaso, Comentarios reales, p. 135). 83 Guaman Poma, Primera nueva corónica, p. 500 (vol. 2). 84 As proof that there is “more than enough bread in this kingdom,” Guaman Poma’s “First Chapter of the Christian Indians” includes an even longer and more detailed list of foods cultivated and enjoyed by indigenous Andeans (Primera nueva corónica, pp. 840–1, vol. 2). Roland Hamilton suggests that Guaman Poma’s penchant for exhaustive lists such as these may reflect his familiarity with quipus, the knotted cords used by the Incas for recording Tahuantinsuyu’s history, as well as its military, political, and agricultural administration (R. Hamilton (trans.), The First New Chronicle and Good Government: On the History of the World and the Incas up to 1615, by Guaman Poma de Ayala, F. (1615) El Primer nueva corónica i buen gobierno, Austin: University of Texas Press, 2009, p. xix). 85 Ortega, “Guaman Poma y el discurso de los alimentos,” Socialismo y participación, 63, 1993, p. 33; and Transatlantic Translations, pp. 73–6. 86 Ortega, “Guaman Poma y el discurso de los alimentos,” p. 33. 87 For English translations of selected chapters of Cobo’s Historia see: R. Hamilton (trans.), Inca Religion and Customs, by B. Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo (1653), Austin: University of Texas Press, 1990; and Hamilton (trans.), History of the Inca Empire: An Account of the Indians’ Customs and their Origin, together with a Treatise on Inca Legends, History, and Social Institutions, by B. Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo (1653), Austin: University of Texas Press, 1983. 88 R. Porras Barrenechea, Los cronistas del Perú (1528–1650) y otros ensayos, ed. F. Pease G.Y., Lima: Banco de crédito, 1986, p. 509; and R. Hamilton, “Introduction: Father Cobo and the Incas,” in B. Cobo (1653) Historia del nuevo mundo, trans. Roland Hamilton, Inca Religion and Customs, Austin: University of Texas Press, 1990, pp. xi–xv. 89 Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo, p. 347 (vol. 1). 90 Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo, p. 348 (vol. 1). 91 Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo, p. 827 (vol. 2). 92 Kristeva, Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, New York: Columbia University Press, 1982, pp. 4, 65. 93 P. Bourdieu, Language and Symbolic Power, Cambridge: Polity, 1984, p. 170; R. Duschinsky, “Ideal and Unsullied: Purity, Subjectivity and Social Power,” Subjectivity, 4, 2011, 154–5. Informal discussions with chicha connoisseurs in rural and urban highland Perú suggest that the discourse of purity related to chicha production and consumption continues to reflect relative subject positions within contemporary Andean society. In the city of Cusco, as well as in the highland towns of Chinchero, Pisac, and Urubamba and in various indigenous communities within the district of Chincero, indigenous Quechua men and women attest to muqu chicha’s superior flavor, intensity, and nutritional value and insist that the easier to produce wiñapu variety contains artificial additives. On the other hand, urban mestizos almost always claim to prefer the more “hygienic” wiñapu chicha.

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94 See also M. Douglas, Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concept of Pollution and Taboo, New York: Routledge, 2002, pp. 4–6. 95 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales, p. 347. 96 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales. 97 Garcilaso, Comentarios reales, p. 416.

41 3 STIMULANTS AND INTOXICANTS IN EUROPE, 1500–1700

Ken Albala

Like all civilizations that have left written records, Europeans in the early modern period used several socially sanctioned drugs recreationally, ritually and medicinally. These categories were not so hard and fast, however, and many items introduced as medicine were eventually used purely recreationally. This is as true of distilled alcohol as it is of exotic stimulants like coffee and tobacco. This chapter will examine the place of intoxicants and stimulants in European culture, focusing on the various arguments over how these drugs affect the human body, whether they should be used by everyone, and how they might fit into the formal and informal rituals of this society. What separates this era from those preceding it is the proliferation and commercialization of new stimulants and intoxicants. The popularity of these substances not only fostered the globalization of the economy and the spread of colonial plantations using African slave labor to provide what were usually non-nutritive luxury items, but they changed the nature of sociability to include a wide variety of drug choices either intoxicating or stimulating. Attempts to control or censure consumption of these products, even as they provided lucrative business for merchants, form a central part of the story. Today we live with the consequences of conscious choices made by Europeans centuries ago, not only because the production of alcohol, tobacco and caffeinated beverages constitutes such a huge industry, but the dependence on and abuse of these drugs has become an integral feature of Wes- tern civilization. Before 1500, the only widely available intoxicants were beer and wine. These both date back to the earliest civilizations, if not earlier. Wine in a certain sense makes itself. A cracked grape skin will soon be invaded by ambient yeasts which transform the sugars in the grape into alcohol. Such fermented grapes were consumed by animals long before the appearance of human beings. Consciously controlling the fermentation process and intentionally drinking pressed fermented grape juice in the form of wine almost certainly occurred in prehistoric timesandbothwrittenandarchaeological records attest to its use among early Fertile Crescent cultures. Thus there is a long established history of wine drinking. Beer is somewhat more difficult to make and requires cultivated grains, ground and boiled to render the sugars available for fermentation. For settled agriculturalists it became the more important drink, especially among the Sumerians and Egyptians. Wine, however, took priority in the Greco- Roman world.

42 STIMULANTS AND INTOXICANTS IN EUROPE

Wine In 1500 Europeans inherited a complex legacy of wine consumption. Most importantly, wine formed one half of the central ritual of Christianity. According to the doctrine of transubstantiation, bread and wine were said to transform into the body and blood of Jesus in the miracle of the Eucharist. Consuming sacramental wine was thus required for salvation. In the course of the Reformation this “real presence” came under attack, most notably from Swiss Reformer Ulrich Zwingli, who claimed that at the Last Supper Jesus merely asked his followers to remember him when they ate and drank but he was speaking metaphorically when he said “This is my body … this is my blood.” Wine was thus at the center of controversies which not only rent Europe into Protestant and Catholic denomi- nations, but also kept Protestant sects from coalescing into one unified movement, as they had different interpretations of what actually happened to the wine. Martin Luther, for example, believed that both bread and wine as well as flesh and blood were present in the miracle, a doctrine called consubstantiation. Ulrich Zwingli and those in the Reformed tradition believed the sacrament was merely a memorial, and wine did not constitute real blood. The fact that Northern Europeans had to import wine from the South no doubt added to their concerns, but they continued to do so for the sacrament nonetheless. Wherever wine grapes grew, wine became the daily beverage, consumed with every meal for those who could afford it. The industry expanded considerably, thanks to a demographic swell and increased demand for wine.1 In Northern Europe, beyond the limit of cultivation, wine was more expensive and an imported status item. The medieval wine trade carried not only wines from well-known districts, for example from Bordeaux to England or along the Rhine, but also stronger fortified wines such as sack or sherry from Southern Spain, malmsey (malvasia), and eventually Madeira. The majority of wine however was consumed locally; given that wine was made from wild yeast, the quality varied from year to year. Wine went bad easily, and remedies for spoiled wines or tricks for preventing it abounded in this period. They ranged from a piece of salt pork suspended in the mouth of the barrel, to additions of egg whites, bitter almonds, hot clay tiles or charcoal, wormwood and so on. There were also methods to tell if wine was watered down, such as tossing in a locust or a fresh egg.2 Wine could not be stored for long periods of time, largely due to the lack of strong glass bottles for aging. Bottles began to be used widely in the seventeenth century when low, squat olive-colored forms were developed and sealed with corks. It was not until the end of the early modern period that there appeared tall, relatively lighter bottles that could be stacked on their sides. The champagne bottle with its cork secured by wire also dates from this period, though the legend of Dom Perignon as the inventor of champagne was mostly created for marketing purposes. His real importance was introducing heavy thinning of vines and new methods of cultivation. Judging from the great quantities consumed, most wine was probably fairly low in alcohol content. It was also normally mixed with water in various proportions, so the actual amount ingested is very difficult to determine. In many regions a second fermentation based on crushed skins and pits yielded an ever weaker and sour drink called piquette or acquarello, or called lora in Latin. Nonetheless records indicate that vast quantities of alcoholic beverages were regularly consumed, even before work.3 Wine was consumed with every meal, including the morning if one took breakfast, and by people of all ages. It was the universal drink for much of Europe. There has been a great deal of speculation whether people depended on wine because water supplies were often tainted. There is no

43 K. ALBALA doubt that many people did drink water, but there is also no doubt that physicians warned against drinking water, most likely from practical experience of illness but also based on the idea that qualitatively cold liquids would upset the humoral balance of the system, leading to colds and coughs. According to standard Galenic medicine, wine was the superior beverage for promoting health. In this system, optimal health consists of balancing four humors: blood, phlegm, yellow bile and black bile. Because wine was considered qualitatively heating and moist- ening, and an analogue of blood, wine was also thought to be nourishing insofar as it was easily converted into blood in the process of digestion. The deeper red the wine, the better for health, unless one had a weak stomach, received little exercise, or in hot seasons, then lighter golden wines were preferred. Inebriation was naturally looked down upon as one half of the sin of gluttony. Some theologians even considered it more dangerous than eating too much, because it inclined one to commit other sins. The fact that being drunk tended to bring out the worst pas- sions – wrath, sloth, lust – made it only more suspect as a gateway to carnality. But in moderation, wine was considered a necessary nutrient and there was absolutely no social stigma connected to drinking wine to quench thirst any time of day. There was also a large body of literature devoted to the consumption of wine. Regarding the time of day, Laurent Joubert, a popular medical writer, wondered whether it was a good idea to drink wine in the bedroom just before going to bed, as was typical “at least in the best families” in France. He found no good reason to dissuade anyone from it; wine aided digestion, though he did find the habit of young girls drinking cold water before bed perverse and dangerous.4 Early in the sixteenth century we have a description of the types of wine normally available in Rome written by Sante Lancerio, cellar master to Pope Paul III.5 By his standards, and judging from much of the gastronomic works of the period, malvasia was the preferred type, a sweet golden wine which came from Crete, carried by Venetian merchants. He also listed moscatello, trebbiano, Greco and many other varietals still made today, as well as wine imported from throughout Italy, France and Spain. His opinions are confirmed by physician Giovanni Battista Scarlino, who claimed to have personally sampled all the wine that arrived by boat at Ripa on the Tiber. He agrees that “we place Malvagia in the heavens, for it comforts the brain, the chest, heart and enlivens the pulse in all maladies.”6 His text also reveals the many ways in which wine was consumed. Peaches were often diced and soaked in wine; the idea was to prevent them from corrupting, floating on the surface of the stomach and causing nausea and headaches. Iced wine, or wine chilled with snow, also came into fashion though physicians feared that it might cause seizures. Perhaps most surprisingly wine was mixed with other ingredients, something we would now consider adulteration, but in the past, wine mixtures were believed to be both superior in taste and good for health. Hippocras is the most famous of these and Scarlino tells us to make it with two boccals of magnaguerra wine, eighteen ounces of sugar, one ounce cinnamon, four drams of grains of paradise (melegueta pepper, an African spice) and three scru- ples of ginger. “Ogni bicchier vale un fiorino”–every spoonful is worth a florin.7 Although borrowing heavily from earlier agricultural texts, Andrea Bacci’s De Naturali Vinorum Historia is the most ambitious of sources on wine from this century.8 Much of it is about ancient practices, but Bacci revealed common customs of the day. He insisted that in comparison to the past, his own age was very moderate and frugal, especially the papal curia.9 This reflects partly the very sober Counter-Reformation era Rome, but also aligns with general observations that Southern Europeans drank little compared to their Northern counterparts.

44 STIMULANTS AND INTOXICANTS IN EUROPE

In general this was an era of increasing attempts to control alcohol consumption, particularly among women and children. The Protestant Italian exile Guglielmo Grataroli warned that only very diluted wine should be given to children, and wine makes women weak in the head and prone to debauchery or adultery.10 Such attitudes were common across denominational divides, though to what extent they succeeded in curbing consumption is difficult to say. Grataroli also invented remedies for drunkenness as well as morning-after cures, though he insists that the proverbial “hair of the dog” is a terrible idea: “It is pernicious … the morning after being drunk to guzzle profligately.”11 That people did just this is evidenced in the facetious poem The Art of Drinking by Vin- centius Obsopoeus. Actually the author was describing how to drink a lot without becoming a habitual drunk and includes useful advice such as eating before drinking.12 Nonetheless drunken tavern scenes were a popular genre, take for example The King Drinks by Jacob Jor- daens, several versions of which were painted in the mid seventeenth century (see Figure 3.1). It depicts Twelfth Night revels in which an old man crowned as king is at the point of inebriation and is egged on by various sloshed figures, smoking and carousing. There are even children drinking. Why anyone would value such a painting has been a matter of debate. The work could be a negative lesson on the perils of intoxication, a way for middle- class patrons to distance themselves from those below them socially. Paintings like this hardly inspire imitation, though perhaps they were simply considered amusing and nothing more. Of this same ilk is George Gascoigne’s A delicate Diet, for daintiemouthd Droonkards published in 1576, though here the text definitely points toward admonition; humans are said to transform into beasts when drunk. But in the course of his tirades, the author also revealed many common drinking customs and social prejudices. For example, Gascoigne wondered:

in what civyll Realme or dominion, where people are taught and exercised in the commandements and counsels of God (England onely excepted) shall we see the unthrifty Artiﬁcer or the labourer, permitted to syt bybbing and drinking of wine in every Taverne? Or what woman (even among the droonken Almaines) is suﬀered to follow her husband unto the Alehouse or Beerehouse?13

It is not merely that people were drunk, but the audacity of workers drinking in public, even with their wives, that seemed so shameful to him. Even the notoriously drunk Ger- mans had better sense than to bring their wives. Despite these bitter voices, there can be no doubt that a certain kind of connoisseurship developed around assessing wine. The dietary writer Melchior Sebizius developed an acrostic that would serve well today. COSTA reminds you ﬁrst to observe the color, then take in the odor, then taste it (sapor) then swirl it to judge the texture (tactu) and lastly put it to your ear (auditu). If there is no sound, it is light, if there is, it will be heavier.14 Abraham Bosse’s famous print Taste depicts a man carefully considering a glass of wine nonchalantly raised to his lips. Evidently there were both sophisticated and common ways of enjoying the beverage.

Beer The term beer encompasses colloquially a number of diﬀerent styles involving various grains and methods of fermentation, though technically there should be distinctions between ale, stout, porter and pilsner. In the past there were also low alcohol versions called

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Figure 3.1 “The King Drinks” by Jacob Jordaens. © Peter Horree/Alamy

“small beer” as well as more expensive double brewed types. Usually beer is made from malted barley with the addition of hops, which were first widely used in the late Middle Ages and early modern period. They lend a slight bitterness, but more importantly the hops act as a preservative. This made possible the development of an industry, long distance trade, and eventually the accumulation of capital and large-scale brewing. Before this, most beer was brewed in private households which might also serve as a village tavern and it was often women who did the work. In the early modern period legislation gradually made this kind of small-scale operation more difficult. Licensing of public houses, the availability of cheaper hopped beer, and government taxation all conspired to shift brewing away from households and into professional operations staffed by men.15 Refor- mation authorities also sought to regulate or close common festivals, such as church ales in

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England, considered dangerously out of control and indecorous. Thus the church as a place of socialization was gradually replaced by the tavern and alehouse. Despite these developments, beer was foremost considered food, and considering the calories provided, it was. Beer was a staple for most of Northern Europe, with only a swathe of territories where one might grow both wine grapes and grain, including North- ern France, the Rhine, Switzerland and Austria, roughly similar to the divide between Protestant and Catholic Europe. Physicians, again following Galenic theory, considered beer cold and phlegmatic and not as nourishing as wine, though many in the North took great pains to refute this idea, bolstered with empirical evidence. For example, a dietary by poet and humanist scholar Elias Eobanus Hessus was expanded upon by fellow German Ioannes Plactomus to include a whole new section on beer. It argued that for people in cold climates whose bodies are robust, beer is an appropriate form of nourishment.16 Of course there were many different types of beer, with different qualities and Placotomus describes the beer of every major German city. It might seem surprising, given the prevalence of beer in the North, that a full descriptive recipe is given by the Bolognese agricultural writer Vincenzo Tanara. He described the soaking and sprouting of barley, drying and breaking it up, boiling the grain and adding hops, and so forth. He also explained the different methods among the English, Flemish and Muscovites who added honey and spices.17 English writer Gervase Markham explained how beer is made in The English Housewife. He distinguished beer from ale, but interestingly claimed that the latter “is that wherewith either nobleman, gentleman, yeoman, or husbandman shall maintain his family the whole year,” meaning that there were no distinctions of class in consumption of this universal drink. Markham explained how the malt is ground, to which pails of boiling water are added, creating a mash. The liquid that is strained from the mash is the wort, to which a decoction of hops is added. Barm or yeast is added, it is skimmed and set up in casks to ferment. And an entirely different kind of March Beer was made of peas, wheat and oats.18 Beer was an integral part of Northern European culture, both a food and the drink of choice for festivities, though increasingly these took place in commercial settings, the public house, beer garden or tavern. By the end of the early modern period, commercial brands we still recognize today began to dominate the brewing industry, such as the Bass Brewery founded in 1777 in Burton on Trent.

Cider, mead and metheglin In some regions of Europe, the common drink was based on apples or honey. The West Country of England, Normandy and Brittany, and the Asturias in Spain made cider, all quite distinctive. Spanish cider is fairly sour and is traditionally poured into a glass from a great height to create some bubbles. French cider is naturally eﬀervescent and tends to be sweeter, while English is drier with a slightly bitter edge. Cider has traditionally been a local drink, though in various periods it has gained much wider popularity. Mead, probably among the oldest alcohol beverages made by man (honey ferments on its own with the addition of water), enjoyed a revival in the early modern period. Methe- glin is a kind of spiced mead. Recipes for both appeared in the Closet of Sir Kenelm Digby Opened. The latter is made with honey and water, usually ginger and rosemary, left to ferment and then bottled and corked tightly and set in sand since it would become ﬁzzy and the bottles might explode.19

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Distillates The most important development in the history of intoxicants in the early modern period is the widespread availability of distilled alcohol for the first time. A form of pure distillate or aqua vitae had been perfected in the Middle Ages by Muslim alchemists and was thereafter brought to Europe. Both Arnald of Villanova and Ramond Lull experimented with distillation. But these products of the alembic were almost exclusively medicinal. It was presumed that since wine was nourishing and could be converted into blood in the various stages of digestion and ultimately into “spirits” that nourish the brain, distillation was in a sense an artificial means of refining substances without expending the energy of digestion. The term “water of life” was not meant to be poetic, but literal. Alcohol could theoretically extend life once digestion became frail, especially when incorporating medicinal herbs to combat other ailments. Producing alcohol was fairly simple. Wine was simply heated in a clay or later copper vessel with a long tube or beak which extends outward from the top, inclining downward. A retort flask is the same basic shape. There were actually dozens of different shapes. The alcohol, which evaporates at a lower temperature than water, rises up then drips down the beak, or in more sophisticated versions, such as the alembic, it condenses in a coiled tube set in a container of cold water. What issues forth is clear alcohol, often flavored with spices and herbs. These concoctions were the direct ancestors of all the various flavored spirits we enjoy today. With juniper, they made a kind of gin; with wormwood, a primitive absinthe; with a variety of botanicals, drinks not unlike Benedictine and Chartreuse. Not coincidentally, monasteries made these elixirs, which still bear the name of holy orders. Here is a recipe typical of these early medicinal flavored alcohols, called Doctor Steven’s Water, which ultimately comes from Charles Estienne in the early sixteenth century:

Take a gallon of Gascoign Wine, Ginger, Galingale, Cinnamon, Nutmegs, Grains, Aniseeds, Fennel seeds, Carroway seeds, of each a dram, Sage, Red mints, Red roses, Thyme, Pellitory, Rosemary, Wild Thyme, Camomil, Lavender, of each a handful. Beat the spices small and bruise he Hearbs, letting them macerate twelve hours stirring now and then, distill them by an Alembick or copper still which is refrig- eratory, keep the ﬁrst pint by itself, the second by itself. Note that the ﬁrst pint will be hotter, but the second stronger of the ingredients. This water is known to comfort all the principal parts.20

When alcohol is aged in barrels, the oak imparts color and flavor to a product we know now as brandy which comes from the Dutch word for burnt wine, brandewijn. Dutch businessmen in the seventeenth century invested in distilleries in the South West of France, using relatively poor quality grapes, though in an area heavily forested, which supplied fuel for the stills. The Dutch then exported brandy elsewhere in Europe, laying the foundation for the cognac industry. Distilling technology and the advent of printing coincided neatly so that distillation manuals proliferated among the earliest of books. Physician Michael Puff von Schrick wrote the first printed book on distillation, a tiny tract which appeared in 1478.21 The most popular early text on the subject was Heironymus Braunschweig’s Liber de arte distillandi simplicia et composita, printed in 1500. It contained technical details, drawings and

48 STIMULANTS AND INTOXICANTS IN EUROPE numerous recipes for essential oils used as medicine, as well as aqua vitae. It was also translated into vernacular languages and was a major source for Europeans breaking into the business of distilled spirits – both for medicine and pleasure.22 Distilling technology also spread to regions without wine grapes and even to new colonies abroad. Thus we find whiskey being distilled from grain in Scotland and Ireland. The word whiskey or usgue beatha means water of life, a translation of aqua vitae. The earliest record of distillation in Ireland dates to 1405 and to 1494 in Scotland, but by this time it was already well known. The oldest license belongs to the Bushmill Distillery in Ireland and dates to 1608. The process here is more complex than that for fruit. The grain, normally barley that has been malted, meaning sprouted and then toasted over a low fire, is ground and left to ferment. It is this mash that is eventually distilled. But a kind of whiskey can also be made from oats, rye or corn – as it is in American sour mash whiskey or bourbon. The color and flavor come from aging in barrels. Vodka in Russia is also traditionally made from grain or, after they were introduced from the New World, potatoes. Regular drinking of clear potent vodka (which means little water in Russian) seems to have fascinated Western Europeans. For example food writer Jean Bruyerin Champier notes that Muscovites and Lithuanians extract from oats a kind of aqua ardentem, which helped them deal with the intolerable cold.23 Although Russian Czars would have liked to curtail excessive drinking of vodka, the taxes on it proved indispensable income for the daily operations of the government, ultimately assuring that Russia would become a nation of vodka drinkers. Each region seemed to have developed its own kind of distilled beverage based on whatever could be found. In Italy, the spent lees of wine were refermented and then distilled into grappa. And throughout Europe fermented fruit juices were turned into the ancestors of calvados, from apples, and eau de vie from berries, pears and other fruit, such as plums in slivovitz. These were all entirely new and changed the nature of drinking in Europe. For the first time an extremely strong intoxicating beverage, sometimes quite affordable, could be bought by the masses. The transition from expensive drug to recreational quaff was gradual. For example gin, first invented by the Dutch, was only mass produced in England in the eighteenth century. Due to a glut of cheap grain, gin became the favorite drink of the poor masses. Hogarth’s famous print of Gin Lane shows people wasted away, pawning their possessions, dropping babies off stairs – and actually pouring gin down a baby’s throat as well (see Figure 3.2). All this is contrasted with the orderly and prosperous Beer Street where there is lively commerce and wealth (see Figure 3.3). Of course these prints can also be read as social commentary, the fat, beer-drinking middle classes are prosperous only with the labor of the destitute poor workers. In any case, it does suggest that alcoholism was a very real social problem, made all the more prevalent by poverty and cheap booze. Rum is perhaps the spirit with the most dramatic historical impact. Its first appearance is unrecorded, but probably occurred on a Caribbean sugar plantation in the mid sixteenth century. Refining sugar from pressed cane juice leaves the byproduct molasses, which still contains fermentable sugar, but otherwise cannot be further refined. The molasses after fermentation is distilled into clear rum. Some rum is made from pure cane juice, what is called rhum agricole in French colonies or cachaça in Brazil, but most is made from molasses. The popularity of rum, including its use in rations for the British Navy, directly supported African slavery throughout the New World. Distillation of rum also became one of the most important industries of colonial New England.

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Figure 3.2 “Gin Lane,” engraving after Hogarth. © Select Images/Alamy

Coﬀee, tea and chocolate Another factor that separates the early modern period is the sudden appearance of stimulating beverages to rival alcohol. None of these were new elsewhere in the world. Tea and coﬀee had been enjoyed for many centuries before being brought to Europe, likewise chocolate in America. There are many other stimulating substances used habitually around the world, many of them chewed like coca in the Andes, khat in the Arabian Peninsula and the Horn of Africa, or betel nuts in South East Asia. But none of these were brought to

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Figure 3.3 “Beer Street,” engraving after Hogarth. © Select Images/Alamy

Europe, or at least were not consumed in the same way. Coca, for example, was used to make cocaine, but its leaves weren’t chewed. The most important new stimulants were beverages, especially those that could be sweetened with readily available sugar. Sugar might even be included among these stimulants, which many argue is also an addictive substance. The examples of coﬀee, tea and chocolate provide historians with a detailed understanding of how an expensive drug became a popular recreational beverage, since so much was written about them in the century following their initial introduction.

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Coffee was the first of these new stimulating beverages. It is made from the ripe cherries of an evergreen shrub native to Ethiopia. Legend has it discovered by a young goatherd named Kaldi, who noticed his goats frolicking after eating the plant, and so he decided to taste it, with similar effect. Whoever first used it, coffee became an important drink among Muslims precisely because alcohol was forbidden. It was said to keep clergymen attentive during their long hours of study and prayer. There are several different ways of making coffee: the beans can be steeped green, they can be roasted, ground and infused in hot water, or the water can be poured through the grounds. The first coffee to reach Europe was probably something like Turkish coffee, which arrived in Venice in the sixteenth century. The famous Café Procope opened in Paris in 1686 and became the favorite haunt of Enlightenment philosophes and encyclopedists. It is still in business. The first English coffee house opened in Oxford in 1652. For the English, coffee was definitely the first stimulating beverage of choice, before tea. Coffee houses became places to discuss politics, conduct business and make deals. Lloyd’s of London, the famous insurance firm, started as a coffee house. Various attempts to control political agitation, most notably by King Charles II, were directed at coffee houses, ultimately unsuccessfully. The fact that anyone could enter acoffee house made them ideal places to debate issues and to some extent it was both a social leveler and a guarantor of political freedom.24 It has been suggested that these new caffeine-laden drinks perfectly suited the cultural milieu of Protestant countries where capitalism prescribed a work ethic that favored long hours and deep concentration on matters of business.25 The coffee break or breakfast with coffee was seen to be a sober alternative to beer which would only make one sluggish and less able to work efficiently. This is contrasted with countries where chocolate held sway and the cultural ideal was to invest in land and live a life of leisure, most notably in Spain. Whether drinking chocolate is really a relaxing drink is arguable as it also contains caffeine. Furthermore, the coffee addiction of Catholic countries like Italy doesn’t really fit this model either. But there is no doubt that the popularity of coffee in Northern Europe had a lot to do with the perception that alcohol should be reserved exclusively for after- work hours. Ironically coffee did replace beer for breakfast, which at least provided energy in the form of calories. Coffee offers little more than a fleeting jolt. Tea was first described to Europeans by the Portuguese Dominican friar Gaspar da Cruz on a trip to China in 1560. He said “Whatsoever person or persons come to any man of quality’s house it is customary to offer him on a fair tray in a porcelain cup (as or many cups as there are persons) a kind of warm water which they call cha, which is somewhat red and very medicinal.”26 It was not until the Dutch entered into the Asian trade that tea was brought to Europe. How the British came to be preeminent tea drinkers is really only a matter of politics. With the Restoration of the monarchy in 1660, Charles II granted an exclusive monopoly to the East India Company for trade with Asia. Eventually the company started importing tea in such great quantities that it became much less expensive than coffee and chocolate, which were supplied by foreign countries. Eventually Britain found an even more lucrative supply from its own colonies in India. Although we rarely think of chocolate today as either a stimulant or intoxicant, it was considered so in the past. Columbus was the first European to see cacao beans in 1502, though he didn’t realize they were made into a drink. Hernán Cortés and his men were the first to appreciate the role of chocolate in Aztec society; Montezuma was said to drink it all day. The Aztecs added achiote (Bixa orellana), to make it a deep red color like blood, and herbs such as trumpet ear flower (Cymbopetalum penduliflorum), but chocolate changed

52 STIMULANTS AND INTOXICANTS IN EUROPE dramatically in European hands. First, it was sweetened with sugar, then spiced with cinnamon, perhaps pepper, and given some texture with ground almonds. Mexican chocolate that comes in small tablets is a direct descendant of this colonial beverage. How to classify chocolate in humoral terms became a particular obsession for food writers and physicians because there was absolutely nothing analogous in the Old World. It was very obviously nourishing and should logically be hot and moist. On the other hand it has a certain astringency which suggests coldness. Spanish physician Barthelemy Marradon addressed these questions in a dialogue between a physician, an Indian and a bourgeois man. He insisted that although the addition of other ingredients can balance the very cold qualities of chocolate, it still had powerful medicinal qualities and should not be given to just anyone at any time of day.27 On a certain level it was the difficulty in categorizing New World foods that helped bring down the entire system of humoral physiology. The most interesting question, however, was whether chocolate (always a beverage) broke the fast.28 Could it be taken at mass, or during a fast when liquids were allowed but food forbidden? That is, was chocolate a food or drink? This controversy raged through the early seventeenth century. Don Antonio de León Pinelo concluded that chocolate was a drink as long as other ingredients were not added and it was taken only once a day. In the literature about coffee, tea and chocolate, the three beverages were often discussed together. This extensive body of work was for the most part concerned with defining the specific medicinal virtues of these new beverages. Some authors were physicians or pharmacists promoting their own products, but there were also detractors, rival physicians denouncing the abuse of these new drugs. Some of the authors were merchants obviously trying to sell their wares. These authors also made use of new chemical and mechanical theories of physiology which gradually supplanted the Galenic humoral system. The first major text to discuss these stimulants is the German physician Simon Paulli’s Commentarius de Abusu Tabaci Americanum veteri et Herbae Thee Asiaticorum in Europa novo – or commentary on the abuse of tobacco, tea, coffee and chocolate – published in 1665.29 Much of the text is a botanical discussion of the plants and the author was botanist to the king of Denmark. The book’s main point is that comparable European herbs, camellia or myrtle, can take the place of tea for medicinal uses and “hence we have but little Reason to bring tea from China, Tartary, and Japan, at an extravagant Price, which might be far better laid out in relieving poor indigent Families at home.”30 Buying native herbs would also make Paulli himself a profit, so his argument is biased. As for the medical content of his denunciation, there had already been some discussion in specialized medical circles about the precise humoral qualities of the new drinks. The authorities generally agreed on certain effects that anyone could not help but recognize: their stimulating effect, their astringency and their role as diuretics. Those incidentally are still recognized as the basic properties of caffeine. Nicolas Tulpius added that tea “removes headaches, stuffings of the head, inflammations and distillations of the eyes, difficulty of breathing, weakness of the stomach, gripes of the intestines and weariness.”31 What the medical authorities could not agree on was the precise humoral makeup of these drinks. Because they were astringent and tannic, it was hard to deny that all three drinks were dry, in the same way wine was said to be dry. But some physicians insisted that coffee and tea were hot (not only in temperature, but they had the capacity to heat the body) while chocolate was cold. Some claimed that all three were hot and dry. Others claimed that they artificially made the body colder because they dried up the radical moisture or life fluid and thus weakened us. These debates were all solidly based on Galenic theory.

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Paulli’s denunciation of these drinks was in the Galenic tradition, although he acknowledged the new chemistry, claiming the sulphur in these drinks made them even more heating than ginger, cinnamon and pepper.32 He claimed that because these products violently dry out the body, they damage the moist organs such as the eyes, brain and organs of reproduction. Thus they could make one blind, dim-witted, and ultimately, impotent and eﬀeminate.

It is … the Duty of every European to join in engaging the legislature to put a stop to this epidemical Evil, and prohibit the Abuse, not only of tea, but also of Tobacco, since both of these, and Coﬀee … so enervate the European men, that they become incapable of propagating their species, like Eunuchs, some of whom are highly salacious, but it is suﬃciently known, that they are incapable of Procreation, (though they emit something analogous to semen).33

Much the same fear over impotence is claimed in a little broadside that appeared in London in 1674 called the Women’s Petition Against Coﬀee Representing to Public Consideration The Grand Inconveniences accruing to their Sex from the Excessive Use of the Drying and Enfeebling Liquor.

The Humble Petition and Address of several Thousands of Buxome Good- Women, Languishing in Extremity of Want. SHEWETH, That since ’tis Reckon’d amongst the Glories of our Native Country, To be A Paradise for Women: The same in our Apprehensions can consist in nothing more than the brisk Activity of our men, who in former Ages were justly esteemed the Ablest Performers in Christendome; But to our unspeakable Grief, we find of late a very sensible Decay of that true Old English Vigour; our Gallants being every way so Frenchified, that they are become meer Cock-sparrows, fluttering things that come on Sa sa, with a world of Fury, but are not able to stand to it, and in the very first Charge fall down flat before us. Never did Men wear greater Breeches, or carry less in them of any Mettle whatsoever. There was a glorious Dispensation (’twas surely in the Golden Age) when Lusty Ladds of seven or eight hundred years old, Got Sons and Daughters; and we have read, how a Prince of Spain was forced to make a Law, that Men should not Repeat the Grand Kindness to their Wives, above NINE times in a night: But Alas! Alas! Those forwards Days are gone, The dull Lubbers want a Spur now, rather than a Bridle: being so far from doing any works of Supererregation that we find them not capable of performing those Devoirs which their Duty, and our Expectations Exact. The Occasion of which Insufferable Disaster, after a serious Enquiry, and Dis- cussion of the Point by the Learned of the Faculty, we can Attribute to nothing more than the Excessive use of that Newfangled, Abominable, Heathenish Liquor called COFFEE, which Riffling Nature of her Choicest Treasures, and Drying up the Radical Moisture, has so Eunucht our Husbands, and Crippled our more kind Gallants, that they are become as Impotent, as Age, and as unfruitful as those Desarts whence that unhappy Berry is said to be brought.34

The most popular text on the new drinks was Sylvestre Dufour’s Traités nouveaux et curieux de Café, du Thé et du chocolate of 1685.35 Its author was a coﬀee merchant, so of course he had a

54 STIMULANTS AND INTOXICANTS IN EUROPE good reason to proclaim its benefits, but he also had a number of medical friends whom he consulted on the work, and he even arranged to have a chemical analysis of coffee conducted. Having traveled in Turkey, Dufour knew the effect of coffee on a population that regularly consumed it and could avow that:

this drink is not only very healthy, but even nourishing, the which savants attribute to the oleaginous humor naturally in coﬀee which greatly sweetens the ferment, impeaches the stinging of membranes in the stomach, … and furnishes substance proper to be converted into a nourishing juice which repairs the spirits.36

His use of the term ferment to describe digestion also implies that he understood the role of acids in digestion and that his analysis of coﬀee will be at least partly chemical rather than humoral. Dufour did not abandon the humoral descriptions entirely, and in fact few people of his day did. Popular debates demanded that he address the question of whether coﬀee is hot and dry or cold and dry, but he admitted his confusion, explaining that:

I ﬁnd myself embarrassed, because the ancient authors of medicine, and the greater part of aged persons who practice this art, in explaining the qualities of aliments and medicines, speak to us of hot, of cold, of dry and of humid. But moderns and young physicians, support Acid and Alkali or salt, sulphur and mercury.

Dufour wondered whether in time some new jargon would be invented.37 Coffee, he decided, had no apparent or extreme qualities – it was less hot than wine, but not as cold as lemonade. Dufour insisted thus that it was tempered and had the power to cool people who were hot and heat people who were cool. With this ruse, Dufour side- stepped the entire older argument while maintaining that coffee was good for everyone, a boost to his own sales. Most authors insisted the opposite – that because coffee is bitter it had to be hot and dry – which is the older humoral explanation. Instead Dufour undertook a chemical analysis with his friends, an apothecary and a physician. They started with brewed coffee which they distilled to obtain clear water and vapors that condensed into another liquid. Finally there was left an oily crass substance – which was calcified leaving a bitter alkaline substance.38 This result led him to conclude that coffee was a very volatile substance; its particles moved rapidly, which explained its aromatic nature and its stimulating effects. His explanation is primarily a mechanical or physical one; because the particles are agitated and extremely light, they move around in our body quickly. Thus, they have an aperient effect, pushing fluid through the system and opening obstructions. They also have an affinity with our spirits, much the same way alcohol does, as a highly refined form of nourishment. Spirits that move quickly are more vivacious and cause us to act in the same way, while sluggish or clogged ones cause us to sleep. Dufour conceived of spirits as a kind of gaseous substance that flows through the nerve endings and animates the body. If coffee is volatile, it activates our own spirits and thus works as a stimulant. Because coffee is a diuretic, Dufour argued, it helped flush out superfluous fluids from the body. It did not, as Simon Paulli claimed, dry out the entire body unless taken in

55 K. ALBALA extreme excess. Rather, coffee dried up the superfluous matter on the stomach and thus help contain “the vapors which rise up into the brain,” leaving the brain clear and unclouded. According to Dufour, this was how coffee keeps us awake and alert.39 Coffee directly aided the concoction taking place in the stomach because of its con- stricting or styptic effects. Although Dufour never gives the precise pH of coffee, he does clarify that with its subtle and volatile properties, it also has terrestrial parts – which would be the salts he identified in the chemical analysis. These he identifies as alkaline in nature (and in fact caffeine is an alkaloid – though caffeine itself wasn’t identified until the nineteenth century). These alkalis temper a stomach with too much acidity or, as he puts it, sweeten the leaven – this stage of digestion was thought to be a fermentation much as happens in wine – a primary stage of refinement that separates lighter nourishing matter from heavier wastes. To this Dufour added what appeared to be an entirely mechanical function of coffee. The alkalis absorb the indigested matter, which can be transported through the body to coagulate there. Thus it helps the circulation of all fluids in the body “which greatly aids the insensible transpiration which maintains health.”40 This is an idea that ultimately goes back to Santorio, who wrote in the early seventeenth century and was widely regarded in his day as the founder of the iatromechanical school of physiology. His theory was that the proper passage of bodily fluids facilitates the passage of wastes through the pores of the body. Without the passage of these wastes, the body retains this matter, which corrupts and leads to many diseases – obesity, gout, gall stones, etc. It is with this logic that coffee was prescribed for anyone with gout, even scurvy which was explained with the same etiology, women with menstrual problems and anything which would be caused by clogging of the system. By selectively choosing elements from a number of rival physiological theories, Dufour effectively argued that coffee can prevent just about any illness. Surprisingly, he also identified many ailments for which caffeine is still used. It seems that drawing on extensive empirical experience of prescribing coffee (and he was also drawing from the work of others here) he made what were surprisingly rational claims. For example, because coffee thins the blood and all blood passes through the heart and lungs, coffee not only dilates the passages in the lung and chest but makes the blood passing through it less viscous.41 He advised that people suffering from asthma and chest ailments should begin a regimen of coffee. And in fact, modern medicine confirms this use, caffeine does increase the respiratory rate, dilate the bronchial tubes and make breathing easier. Along the same lines Dufour recommended coffee for maladies of the head. He fleshed out the idea that volatile elements in coffee have a great similarity to our own spirits, spe- cifying that it is a nitro-sulfurous compound (composed of saltpeter and sulfur) that has the same particle size and configuration as our own spirits, and thus repairs them quickly. Using his own experience as a guide, he suggested that sufferers of migraines take coffee regularly (another approved modern pharmaceutical use). Dufour related a story of a woman who was taken to a surgeon for her horrible migraine headaches for which he wanted to perform a trepanation to reduce the swelling. Luckily a physician intervened and recommended coffee instead and within three days she was already visibly recovered. Dufour also made some strange claims – that coffee whitened the teeth rather than darkening them and that coffee is very useful for children for whom wine and alcohol are not appropriate. To his credit, he did provide examples of people for whom coffee is not suitable: those who are what we would call hyper-active with a very quick metabolism.

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Dufour made most of the same claims for tea, and in general only qualified chocolate as being cold, more terrestrial, but corrected by the standard preparation which included sugar, cinnamon, sometimes almonds, vanilla, musk and amber – all of which are either hot or extremely volatile (aromatic) substances. So in the end chocolate is much like coffee and tea. The only major difference is that because it has a substantial oleaginous part, it is also very fattening.42 An equally fascinating work entitled Le bon usage du thé, du café et du chocolat pour la preservation et pour la guerison des maladies was written in 1687 by Nicolas de Blegny who was physician to King Louis XIV and also supervised a royal apothecary, staffed by a team of chemists he referred to as his artists.43 Most interesting is the fact that his shop was open to the public and the book includes a list of wares, not only coffee, tea and chocolate properly prepared, but a roasting machine, pots and paraphernalia designed by Blegny himself. So the text might be considered a form of advertisement, and it is not surprising that Blegny goes even further than Dufour in proclaiming the wondrous effects of the beverages he has for sale. Blegny started with tea, making a distinction between green and darker varieties, between Japanese and Chinese. He next launched into the medicinal virtues of tea in ways that remind the modern reader of how tea’s anti-oxidant effects are marketed today. Just as the public today has scant grasp of exactly what free radicals might be and why we would want them chased from our bodies, we still trust physicians’ advice that tea, especially green, is something good for promoting health. Without the scientific background, we have no choice but trust and tea marketers depend on that. Blegny reasons that by virtue of the bitterness of tea it is composed of acids mixed with terrestrial corpuscles. But it also contains igneous and ethereal elements, thus, like Dufour, he claimed that tea was of a tempered quality.44 For Blegny, there was no particular constitution for which tea was not appropriate – and this kind of information was added in a calculated way to satisfy common people whose conception of nutrition was still fundamentally humoral. Tea had something for everyone: he points specifically to the alkalis that absorb humidity, its styptic and astringent qualities that fortify various parts of the body, as well as its volatile, spirituous elements that make it useful for repairing dissipated spirits. Not to be outdone by other vendors, Blegny devised various chemical compounds based on tea. These were essential salts obtained by burning, boiling, filtering, evaporating and drying tea. And then using this essence in syrups, and even in a tablet form, which appears to be a kind of instant tea one can take into the field when a quick dose is needed.45 He also mentioned smoking tea – something that apparently enjoyed a brief vogue as something that fortifies the brain. Blegny next specifies the particular virtues of tea, primarily its ability to make a person alert and awake, the result of “the animal spirits continually flowing throughout the nerves.”46 It is only the slowing down or clogging of these that causes sleep, and thus mere mechanical facilitation of flux ensures that we remain awake. Tea repairs those spirits. Normally one would only wake up once all phases of digestion had restored the nourishing spirits giving us volition and energy, but this in a sense achieves the same goal artificially with a stimulant. Tea’s astringent qualities quell unnatural fermentations in the body and prevent all variety of gross vapors from obstructing the nerves. It thus serves to aid digestion and also dries up the superfluous humidity that causes crudities in the stomach. His argument here is much like Dufour’s. Because tea is a diuretic, it is also a blood purifier. Blegny even sells what he calls his “Sirop de The Febrifuge” which can be mixed with wine or opiates as

57 K. ALBALA well as a chocolate febrifuge. The logic is that fevers were commonly thought to be the result of blockages in the body and corrupt matter accumulating and fermenting. The febrifuge scours the body’s passages and gets everything flowing again. He also made an essential oil of coffee used for hysteria and for tumors, hypochondria, colic, gout, rheumatism, scurvy, migraine. Coffee or the medicinally concentrated versions were also good for apoplexy, paralysis, lethargy, vertigo, catarrh, frenzy, flux, childbirth –“it carries spirits across the genital parts, such that women have no remedy more prompt or more assured than this drink to facilitate childbirth”47 – then there were also simple stomach upsets, constipation. Coffee was even good against insomnia, because it dissipated vapors that clouded the brain when spirits were agitated. Blegny’s claims for these beverages, as well as the numerous medicinal preparations made from them, provided the opportunity for anyone with practically any ailment to indulge in coffee, tea or chocolate. In this respect, and unintentionally, he facilitated the transformation of these from pharmaceutical to purely recreational use. The trajectory of these new beverages is typical of many recreational drugs. Having started as medicinal luxury items, their use became widespread as the supply increased, the price dropped and as vendors, including physicians, actively promoted them. In the end they all became truly popular drugs, though their presumed benefits ranged so widely that the medical advice ceased to have any real meaning. Since according to the doctors they could be used to cure practically anything, one could rationalize habitual use under the lightest of pretexts. Being addictive, but without extreme side effects, these drugs were the perfect candidates for making this transition from medicinal to purely recreational use. While it is difficult to gauge exactly how responsible these writings were in facilitating this shift, it is clear that they were all considered medicinal to start with and gradually became common, even daily, necessities.

Tobacco Like all these other stimulants, tobacco also came to Europe in the early modern period and was likewise a colonial plantation crop. Surprisingly it too appeared first as a medicine. Because tobacco was hot and dry, it was thought to be good for drying up superfluous phlegm and for treating colds and coughs. People of course smoked recreationally as well. Despite the popularity of tobacco, opinion was actually sharply divided. William Vaughan, a physician and settler in Newfoundland, wrote in his Directions for Health that tobacco could be useful for mariners and travelers against scurvy, hunger and thirst. But gallants should use it sparingly. He believed it was abused by “Tosse-pots instead of salt meates, caveare, and other inducements or drawers on of drinke.”48 The association with drinking seems to have been there from the very start. The tavern scenes mentioned above almost always show someone smoking a long clay tavern pipe. Vaughan’s real fear was that smoke being so dry and hot, it would harm the brain and make men impotent. The custom drew King James I into the fray; he thought smoking a detestable filthy habit. His comments are condescending throughout: “what honour or policie can move us to imitate the barbarous and beastly maners of the wilde, godlesse, and slavish Indians, especially in so vile and stinking a custome?”49 Not everyone was against tobacco though. Henry Buttes wrote a little book, Dyets Dry Dinner, in which he recommends meals without any drink, but with tobacco to finish whereby “we perfume and aire our bodies with

58 STIMULANTS AND INTOXICANTS IN EUROPE

Tabacco smoake (by drying) preserving them from putrefaction.” Smoking is also good for runny noses and catarrh, hoarseness, headache and for the stomach, lungs and heart.50 Lastly, there was a range of other drugs which would have been available to early modern people. Soporifics and opiates were the most common and various drugs were developed from opium, including laudanum, invented by Paracelsus. It is difficult to say how frequently these were used recreationally, though no doubt people purchased them from apothecaries without particular maladies to cure. There were also a huge number of local plants included in folk medicine that would have had psychotropic properties. Henbane (Hyoscamus albus), for example, is powerfully hallucinogenic. Cannabis and various species of mushrooms were also used in medicine and were almost certainly used recreationally, as was Atropa belladonna or deadly nightshade – though a generous dose also served as poison. Ergot (Claviceps purpurea) was normally unintentionally ingested on infected rye, but contains lysergic acid and is a powerful hallucinogen, and can be fatal. It was known as St. Anthony’s Fire in Europe. But the fungus was also used medicinally, especially for childbirth. In conclusion, whether long familiar alcoholic beverage, new distillate or stimulating brew, all these drugs follow a similar path. They were considered medicinal first then gradually became recreational. To some extent it was the medical ideas themselves which facilitated the shift, justifying consumption under any pretext. But for most of these drugs, despite attempts to control consumption, or tax them, people found very lucrative ways to profit from trade in these goods, and ultimately assured that the European population would become addicted to them, as they still are.

Notes 1 Rod Philips, A Short History of Wine, New York: HarperCollins, 2000. 2 Gugliermo Grataroli, De Vini Natura, Strassbourg: Theodosius Rubelius, 1565, p. 182. 3 A. Lynn Martin, Alcohol, Violence and Disorder in Traditional Europe, Kirksville: Truman State Uni- versity Press, 2009, especially chapter 3. 4 Laurent Joubert, The Second Part of the Popular Errors, translated by Gregory David de Rocher, Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 1995. 5 Sante Lancerio in Arte della Cucina, ed. Emilio Faccioli, Milano: Edizioni Il Polifilo, 1966, pp. 316–41. 6 Giovanni Battista Scarlino, Nuovo Trattato della Varietà e Qualità de Vini, che vengono a Roma, Rome: Valerio Dorico, 1554, fol. Bii. 7 Scarlino, Nuovo Trattato della Varietà e Qualità de Vini, fol. Biv. 8 Andrea Bacci, De Naturali Vinorum Historia, Rome: Nicholai Mutii, 1596. 9 Bacci, De Naturali Vinorum Historia, p. 148. 10 Grataroli, De Vini Natura, p. 22. 11 Grataroli, De Vini Natura, p. 52. 12 Vincentius Obsoepous, De Arte Bibendi (first edn 1525), Leuven: Typographia Rediviva, 1648. 13 George Gascoigne, A delicate Diet, for daintiemouthd Droonkards, London: Richard Jhones, 1576, fol. C3. 14 Melchior Sebizius, De alimentorum facultatibus, Strasbourg: Joannis Philippi Mulbii & Josiae Stedelii, 1650, p. 1138. 15 Richard W. Unger, Beer in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, Philadelphia: University of Pennsyl- vania Press, 2004. 16 Elias Eobanus Hessus, De Tuenda Bona Valetudine, commentary by Ioannes Placotomus (Brettsch- neider), Frankfurt: Christ. Egenollf, 1556, p. 102. 17 Vincenzo Tanara, L’economia del Cittadino in Villa, Venice: Steffano Curti, 1674, pp. 20–21. 18 Gervase Markham, The English Housewife, ed. Michael R. Best, Montreal and Kingston: McGill- Queen’s University Press, 1998, pp. 204–8. 19 Kenelm Digby, The Closet of Sir Kenelm Digby Opened, ed. Jane Stevenson and Peter Davidson, Totnes: Prospect Books, 1997, p. 69, et passim.

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20 John French, The Art of Distillation, London: E. Coates for Thomas Williams, 1651, p. 48. 21 Michael Puff von Shrick, Ain gu°ts nutzlichs Büchlin von den aussgeprenten Wassern, Augsburg: Johannes Bämler, 1478. 22 Heironymus Braunschweig, Liber de arte distillandi simplicia et composita, Strassbourg: Grüninger, 1500. The English translation of 1527 was called The Vertuose boke of Distillacyon and is available online: www.biodiversitylibrary.org/item/97061#page/19/mode/1up. 23 Jean Bruyerin Champier, De Re Cibaria, Lyon: Sebast. Honoratum, 1560, p. 85. 24 Edward Forbes Robinson, The Early History of Coffee Houses in England, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013. 25 Wolfgang Schivelbusch, Tastes of Paradise: A Social History of Spices, Stimulants and Intoxicants, New York: Vintage, 1993. 26 C.R. Boxer, ed., South China in the Sixteenth Century, Bangkok: Orchid Press, 2004, p. 140. 27 Bathelemy Marradon in Phillipe Sylvester Dufour, Traites Nouveaux et curieux du café, du thé et du chocolate, Lyon: Chez Iean Girin et B. Riviere, 1685. 28 Don Antonio de León Pinelo, Question moral si el chocolate quebranta el ayuno eclestiastico, Madrid: Juan Gonçalez, 1636. 29 Simon Paulli, Commentarius de Abusu Tabaci Americanum veteri et Herbae Thee Asiaticorum in Europa novo, Strassbourg, 1665. There was also an English translation made in 1746. A Treatise on tobacco, tea, coffee and chocolate, translated by Dr. James, Reprint, Gale Sabin Americana, 2012. 30 Cited in Paulli, Commentarius, p. 125. 31 Paulli, Commentarius, pp. 41–2. 32 Paulli, Commentarius, p. 136. 33 Paulli, Commentarius, p. 163. 34 http://www.gopetition.com/famous-petitions-in-history/232/the-women-s-petition-against-coffee-1674. html (accessed May 29, 2014). 35 Dufour, Traités nouveaux et curieux de Café. 36 Dufour, Traités nouveaux et curieux de Café, p. 27. 37 Dufour, Traités nouveaux et curieux de Café, pp. 67–8. 38 Dufour, Traités nouveaux et curieux de Café, pp. 81–8. 39 Dufour, Traités nouveaux et curieux de Café, pp. 93–4. 40 Dufour, Traités nouveaux et curieux de Café, pp. 117–18. 41 Dufour, Traités nouveaux et curieux de Café, p. 137. 42 Dufour, Traités nouveaux et curieux de Café, p. 395. 43 Nicolas de Blegny, Le bon usage du the, du café et du chocolate pour la preservation et pour la guerison des maladies, Paris: Estienno Michallot, 1687. 44 De Blegny, Le bon usage du the, pp. 27–8. 45 De Blegny, Le bon usage du the, pp. 41–2. 46 De Blegny, Le bon usage du the, p. 44. 47 De Blegny, Le bon usage du the, p. 183. 48 William Vaughan, Directions for Health both Natural and Artificial, London: Printed by T.S. for Roger Jackson, 1617, pp. 142–6. 49 James I, A Counter-Blaste to Tobacco, London: Rodale Press, 1954, p. 12. See also Marcy Norton, Sacred Gifts, Profane Pleasures, Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2008. 50 Henry Buttes, Dyets Dry Dinner, London: Thomas Creede for William Wood, 1599, Dedication and fol. P3.

60 4 SCIENCE, FOOD AND HEALTH IN ˇ CHOSONKOREA

Michael J. Pettid

Yak sik tongwoˇn (藥食同原) Medicine and food are of the same origin.1

Introduction While it might seem a modern trend to relate the foods we eat to the ability of our bodies to combat disease and maintain health, in premodern Korea this was most certainly the case for a good deal of the population. The combination of an emphasis on scholarship fostered by Confucianism and a long following of the cosmology of East Asia led those in Chosoˇn Korea (1392–1910) to develop a comprehensive science that covered aspects of the body and its relationship to diet. Medicinal practices developed from this perspective resulted in food being seen as a major part of the maintenance of health, for both preventing and curing illness. This understanding moved far beyond simply those involved in medicine and became part of the general assumptions made about diet and health. Such evidence is seen in records found in literary miscellanies, cookbooks, and even official records that comment on the efficacy of certain foods in aiding health. Moreover, dietary customs reaching the modern era also reflect a strong acknowledgement of the relationship between food and overall health. Adifficulty in writing a chapter like this is to find records of how diet was actually conceived in past times. Fortunate for the researcher of premodern Korea is the penchant of Chosoˇn period (1392–1910) scholars for leaving a great wealth of writings to show how these individuals understood various aspects of life. This is supplemented with a huge number of government publications also covering almost every facet of life. Of course this creates a problem of excess: one needs to wade through many, many works, mostly handwritten in Classical Chinese, to find the gems on which one can build research. And we also are limited by those who were literate and left writings behind, so there is the risk of erroneously extending a small sample to larger society. Thus we must use a variety of sources to formulate what must have been orthopraxy for the population in general. While there are numerous works from different eras that played an important part in the development of the overall ideas that bonded food and health, one work that had significant and lasting influence was the Tongu˘i pogam (東醫寶鑑 Exemplar of Eastern Medi- cine) compiled by Hoˇ Chun (許浚1546–1615) beginning in 1596. This work served to synthesize many of the existing notions concerning food and the elements that governed

61 M.J. PETTID health and thus became the foundation for the further expansion of these ideas through the present day. Furthermore, the influence of this work was not limited to simply Chosoˇn Korea, but it spread throughout East Asia and China, demonstrating the flow of culture throughout this region. The present study will focus primarily on the Tongu˘i pogam and examine some of the entries in the book that directly discuss the relationship between certain foods and maintaining health or curing illnesses. Along with this work, an understanding of the fundamental tenets of East Asian cosmology, particularly the Five Phases and yin–yang,is needed to understand the relation of the body and foods. The Five Phases (fire, water, wood, metal, and earth) are what constitute all things and both create and regulate each other. Along with yin and yang, the interaction between these properties creates the balance that humans need to live healthily. Imbalances in the Five Phases or yin–yang were thought to cause illness or a poorly functioning body. Diet was a key means to achieve balance in the body, as certain foods would enhance deficiencies of properties in the body. This understanding of how the cosmos, and by extension the body, functioned spread throughout premodern society and greatly influenced concepts of a healthy diet. While this might seem too abstract for much of the premodern population to fully grasp, the actual application of these principles in the preparation of foods was not difficult and actually helped form the ideal for an excellent meal.

East Asian cosmology: Confucianism and the body Confucianism had been present on the Korean peninsula since the fourth century when it was first introduced from China to the Koguryoˇ Kingdom in 372 CE.2 The initial importance was mostly limited to the upper-most reaches of society and primarily focused on study of the Confucian Classics, particularly in relation to the administration of the country. Such a situation continued until the thirteenth century when the reformed Confucianism of Zhu Xi (1130–1200) and others in Sung China (960–1279) was popularized in the Koryoˇ dynasty (918–1392) and began to outpace Buddhism as the most significant social and ideological system. While this was a top-down process, before long many aspects of society such as social order, legal systems, education and medicine began to reflect Confucian notions. For our purposes in this chapter, the influence of Confucianism on the body and its relation to the larger world became pronounced. Of course understandings of the body were affected by a great deal more than simply Confucianism. Rather, there were other inputs that shaped Korean understandings of how the body functioned and how it interacted with the larger cosmos. Foremost among these scientific explanations for the workings of the world are the Five Phases (K. ohaeng C. wu xing 五行)andyin and yang (陰陽). The Five Phases are dynamic states that are closely related to the changes in the properties of objects. They are fire, water, wood, metal, and earth, and these, not by coincidence, are also five of the names for the days of week (respectively, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday). All things are imbued with these properties and we can see the transmutation of elements in their transformation. For example, water gives birth to plants (wood), which can be burnt to create fire, and the ashes from the fire give rise to soil. Along the same lines, water can regulate fire and metal (such as a saw or an axe) can regulate wood. The Five Phases are grouped into two cycles that reveal their dependence and interconnectedness. First is the idea of birthing or generating which is as follows: wood feeds

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fire, fire creates earth (ash), earth generates metal, metal enriches water (water enhanced with minerals is superior to pure water), and water nourishes wood. The second cycle is that of regulating or overcoming and is as follows: wood parts earth (for example, tree roots growing in the ground), earth dams water, water extinguishes fire, fire melts metal, and metal cuts wood. The first mention of the Five Phases dates to a collection of writings from ancient China entitled the Shangshu (尙書 ‘Book of Documents’).3 A Latter Han dynasty (25–220 CE) work, the Bai Hu Tong (白虎通 ‘White Tiger Convention’), provides a sequence for the interaction of the Five Phases as metal, wood, water, fire, and earth.4 In terms of medicine and the body, the Five Phases are associated with various organs, reactions, tastes, and other phenomena as detailed in Table 4.1. The concepts and associations in Table 4.1 were certainly well understood by the fourteenth century in Korea by the literati class. This broad knowledge was also a part of the basic erudition that guided the development of diverse fields of study such as medicine, astronomy, and science. While lower status people might not have been aware of all the particular nuances of the associations in Table 4.1, the basic ideas concerning food and the body would have been commonly understood. Another important consideration is the influence of the Confucian notion of filial piety by the mid-Chosoˇn period. Filial piety (K. hyo 孝) was the most fundamental building block of Chosoˇn society and the emphasis on Confucianism in this period made even stronger any pre-existing notion of filial behavior. In Confucian terms, the bond between parent and child demanded not just obedience and respect, but also that children honor their parents not only while they were alive, but also after their deaths with the performance of rites. As the body itself was bequeathed by one’s parents, it was to be taken care of as a sign of respect; defilement in any manner was unacceptable. The relationship defined by filial piety, although at times this might have been obscured by external circumstances, was one of reciprocity. The parents raised and nurtured their children who in turn cared for their elderly parents and performed rites to them after their deaths. Based on these understandings, care of one’sbodyanditshealthwasa filial duty. Thus, eating correctly and preventing illness was as important as serving one’sparents.

Table 4.1 The Five Phases and their associations Phase Wood Fire Earth Metal Water Direction East South Center West North Season Spring Summer Late Autumn Autumn Winter Grain Barley Beans Broomcorn Millet Brown Rice India Millet Time Morning Midday Afternoon Evening Late Night Reaction Birth Growth Change Harvest Storage Taste Sour Bitter Sweet Spicy Salty Color Blue-Green Red Yellow White Black Sensory Organ Eyes Tongue Mouth Nose Ears Five Vital Organs Liver Heart Spleen Lungs Kidneys Six Viscera Gall Small Intestine Stomach Large Intestine Bladder Body Muscle Arteries Skin Body Hair Bone Emotion Anger Joy Anxiety Sorrow Fear Sound Shout Laughter Song Weeping Moan

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Diet The basic diet for Koreans in the ﬁrst two centuries of Chosoˇn was a rather simple one that was heavy on grains, vegetables, and herbs, and had limited amounts of meats.5 Korea, like China, has an ideal climate for wet-rice cultivation and rice was easily the most desirable grain. That is not to say rice was the only grain, however. Rather, for those of the lower status groups rice was an ideal but not necessarily part of the daily fare. Grains such as millet and barley were far more common and obtainable than rice. Rice became a means of paying taxes and of supporting the government bureaucracy, not unlike elsewhere in Asia. Francesca Bray describes this situation:

The possibilities of multi-cropping and the high yields of wet rice are consistent with very high land productivity, though this does depend on heavy inputs of labour. As a wet rice farming system becomes more intensive the land’s population carrying capacity increases sharply, as do the labour requirements. The intensiﬁcation of rice-farming both permits and requires demographic increase. It is no coincidence that the most densely populated agricultural regions of the world … all have a centuries-long tradition of intensive wet-rice farming. No wheat-growing areas can sustain such numerous populations.6

Accordingly, the government of Chosoˇn put great efforts into optimizing the production of rice through both technological advances and improvements to the infrastructure. The use of seedbeds (mop’an) to plant rice and subsequently transplanting (iang-poˇp) the seedlings was a major development as this allowed significant savings in labor-intensive tasks such as weed- ing.7 This benefit is seen in that before the widespread adoption of transplanting seedlings it would take the labor of 8.5 people to plant and weed one mal of rice seed by the direct planting method; using transplanting, the same amount of seed could be managed with the labor of just three people.8 However, a prerequisite to this technique was to have a regular and controllable water supply so irrigation projects were necessary. From the early to late fifteenth century, building and reconstructing dams was a major focus of the government and by the reign of Yejong (1468–9) some 769 were built throughout the country.9 Also important to diet were seasonal vegetables and herbs found throughout the peninsula. Koreans had a keen understanding of their environment and learned which wild herbs were beneficial and which were to be avoided. The Kuhwang ch’waryo (救荒撮要 ‘Concise Reference for Famine Relief’) was first published in 1554 as a response to a poor harvest. The work lists some 851 types of edible plants and herbs, well demonstrating the depth of understanding of the natural environment. This work was written in a mixed script of both literary Chinese and the vernacular Korean script, and this allowed greater circulation of the knowledge therein. However, we can expect that much detailed information on the various plants was circulated throughout society in simple transmittals between the older and younger generations. This transmittal through oral means can be verified in folk and poem songs that detail the gathering of wild herbs.10 Along with the gathered vegetables and herbs were those vegetables and fruits cultivated during growing seasons. Common vegetables included scallions, garlic, squash, pumpkin, mustard leaf, sesame, and lettuce, among others. Fruits included pears, persimmons, and peaches, among others. These cultivated crops were highly important to the diet and supplemented by the gathered vegetables and herbs to provide a steady, year-round source of food.

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Fermented foods including kimch’i also had a major role in diet. While historical records do not have a definitive date for the advent of fermented vegetables, we do know that the peoples living on and around the Korean peninsula in ancient times had mastered the process of fermenting soybeans among other items.11 It is thought that fermentation processing was also used to preserve vegetables in early kingdoms; certainly by the Koryoˇ dynasty (918–1392) fermented vegetables were commonplace and records of this period indicate that various forms of kimch’i were enjoyed. Of course kimch’i prior to the mid- seventeenth century was not seasoned with chili pepper as today, but rather with seasonings such as garlic, peppercorns, and ginger.12 Meat and fish were also present in small amounts with beef being the rarest of treats. Livestock rearing was never a major practice in this period as the peninsula lacked sufficient land to support this. Moreover, a live cow was much more valuable to farmers as a labor-saving device than as a meal. Pork, on the other hand, was much easier to obtain and was prepared in various ways such as roasting or adding to soups. Chicken and dog meat were also utilized as meats, with dog in particular being ascribed a number of medicinal qualities such as helping balance the ki (C. qi 氣 vital energy of the body) in the summer. Nonetheless, it was fish and other marine creatures that were most prominent in the foods of this period. Both fresh and saltwater fish were common and could be eaten raw, broiled, dried, or added to soups and side dishes. It is safe to say that most meals had some form of marine product present. Of course, we should caution against assuming too much consistency in the diet of all the people of this period. Access to premodern society is generally limited by written records and these are naturally more commonly concerning the upper status groups of the period. Economic and geographical environments would certainly affect the foods taken, as would external factors such as drought. Notwithstanding these caveats, it is safe to see the basic elements of diet enumerated above as being the most common features of the premodern diet in this period.

East Asian cosmology: food and the body The bond between food and health was very well understood by the mid-Chosoˇn period. An adage reflecting this – more than medicine, food maintains health – was widespread by this time. Also prominent was the idea that one should preserve health through proper diet and lifestyle rather than simply waiting for a disease to appear.13 Medicine in Chosoˇn Korea was much more proactive than reactive in this sense: diet was a means to keep illness at bay. This relationship between health, illness, and food was founded in the basic ideas of the Five Phases, yin and yang, and the need to help the flow of vital energy (ki) through the body. Ki is a natural energy that circulates through the body in specificpat- terns or forms known as meridians. While this concept was present from ancient times in Korea, by the mid-Chosoˇn period it was understood as being the source of energy, life, and activities of the human body.14 The healthy flow of ki was vital to the body and from a medical standpoint there was a need to prevent ki from becoming excessively cold, damp, blocked, or affected by wind. An early seventeenth-century commenter cites the source of this as the Confucian classic, Lizhi (螎記 ‘Book of Rites’):

The “Naech’ik” [內則 Patterns of the Family]15 states that on the whole, one should eat many sour foods in the spring, plenty of bitter foods in the summer,

65 M.J. PETTID

lots of spicy foods in the fall and abundant salty foods in the winter. In general these four tastes follow the ﬂow of the four seasons. Also, sweet foods transmit the essence of the earth and thus give vitality to the Five Vital Organs (ojang 五藏) and assist the vitality of the Five Phases as well. All one needs to do is look at the food patterns of the ancient ages to see this.16

The linkage of healthy eating with the ancient sages of China is a common one in many aspects of promoting Confucianism. The legendary Huangdi (黃帝 the Yellow Emperor) was held to have been a sage emperor who brought centralized rule and civilization to the Chinese people in the third millennia BCE. Shennong (神農 the Divine Farmer) pre-dates Huangdi and is said to have introduced the five grains, livestock rearing, acupuncture, and moxibustion (the practice of burning dried mugwort on either acupoints or bodily regions to stimulate warmth and enhance the circulation of ki) to China. Later Confucian works such as The Analects (腖語 Lunyu) attributed to Confucius and Mencius (孟子 Mengzi) said to have been written by Mencius glorify the times in which these emperors lived, citing them as times of peace and prosperity for all. Thus, regardless of whether such idyllic times and rulers ever existed, the perception among Confucianists was that it had and therefore should serve as a model for the current society. The work that this chapter focuses on is the aforementioned Tongu˘i pogam. This medical work was compiled as a comprehensive reference book for treating illness and ensuring health. This massive compilation is divided into five volumes: internal medicine (four fascicles), external medicine (four fascicles), various diseases (eleven fascicles), medicines (three fascicles), and acupuncture/moxibustion (one fascicle). There is also an index of two fascicles that allowed easy reference of conditions, illnesses, and medicines. The work contains thousands of entries; for example, the medicines volume alone has over 1,400 entries. As the work was written in literary Chinese, usage would have been limited to those of the literati class or otherwise well-educated individuals. However, the content soon found its way into vernacular works, thus widening the circulation of the work. The present chapter focuses mainly on the three fascicles of the medicines volume: this is where the relationship between various foods, the body, and illness are discussed in detail. The Tongu˘i pogam was quite crucial for explaining and popularizing notions of various foods as a means of combatting and preventing illness. Without doubt, the author of the work, Hoˇ Chun, understood the body as an amalgamation of the Five Phases and that food was a means to facilitate the flow of ki throughout the body. The proper flow of ki was vital to health: if organs were blocked from this they would inevitably weaken and cause illness. This was a part of the larger cosmos, an extension of the workings of the larger world reaching to the body of humans. Hoˇ describes this process:

In the heavens there is both yin and yang. Warm things, cool things, cold things, and hot things are from heaven. The warm and hot things are the yang of heaven, and the cool and cold things are the yin of heaven. In the earth there is both yin and yang. Things that are spicy, sweet, bland, sour, bitter or salty are from the earth. Spicy, sweet and bland tastes are the yang of the earth, and sour, bitter, and salty are the yin of the earth.17

The inter-workings of the yin and yang and the Five Tastes, where each correspond with one of the Five Elements, is described as the perfect balancing of the essential elements of

66 ˇ SCIENCE, FOOD AND HEALTH IN CHOSONKOREA the cosmos. This interaction and exchange is characteristic of Confucian notions of harmonic interface as described well in the Sung Confucian philosophy of Zhu Xi. Zhu based his metaphysics on the creation of a holistic system, the idea that the universe formed in stages from an unformed ki before moving to the divisions of yin and yang, the Five Phases, heaven and earth, and the ten thousand things.18 This resulted in Zhu perceiving that these concepts all interacted and were the basis for human nature and the cultivation of the self. Hoˇ extends these dominant Confucian notions to his vision of the healthy body, a microcosm of the cosmos. The interaction of the Five Elements is seen in the ﬂow of ki to each of the major organ groups. Each of the Five Tastes is associated with a particular organ/organ group and the balance of this is imperative to good health. Hoˇ describes this:

In general, each of the ﬁve tastes enters the stomach and then they each go to the place they like. For example, sour ﬁrst goes to the liver, bitter to the heart, sweet to the spleen, spicy to the lungs, and salty to the kidneys. In principle, if the vital energy (ki) is gathered for a long period it will then settle and promote transformation. Conversely, if a single taste is eaten for a long period that will be a factor in reducing life expectancy.19

As the ﬂow of ki in the cosmos can be explained through the interaction of these forces, so too can foods in the body. The emphasis on consumption of foods for a healthy body is one of balance and following the larger ﬂow of the cosmos. Harmonic balance of the Five Elements matches the balance to be sought in yin and yang as well. Ki is also multifaceted as we can see in the next passage and this must be balanced as well:

What is drank promotes yang ki and what is eaten strengthens yin ki. If one does not over partake of food the ﬂavor through the mouth reaches the stomach, and the scent through the nose reaches the lungs and chest. The scent and ﬂavor of food mutually blend and balance yin and yang, thus creating a spontaneous sin’gi (神氣 divine ki).20

Of course if foods are not taken in appropriate balance, there are ill consequences. In truth the act of over-indulgence is a cardinal fault in Confucianism as this represents a lack of self-awareness and self-control. The extension of lack of control in one’s behavior in the public realm or home is seen in the absence of the same control in one’s diet:

Sour tastes go to the muscles and if overeaten will cause a blockage in the small intestine. Salty tastes go to the blood and if overeaten will cause one to be thirsty. Spicy tastes go to one’s ki and if overeaten will cause sweating. Sweet tastes go to the ﬂesh and if overeaten will cause depression. If salty things are overeaten, one’s blood will not circulate well and the color will change. If bitter things are overeaten, one’sskinwillbecomedryandhairwillfallout.Ifspicy foods are overeaten, one’s muscles will cramp and their ﬁngernails and toenails will become dry. If sour foods are overeaten, one’s skin will become rough and their lips chapped. If sweet foods are overeaten, one’s stomach will hurt and theirhairfallout.21

67 M.J. PETTID

Illness, then, is a controllable phenomenon much like personal behavior. This echoes the teachings of Confucius and Mencius who see the failure to behave in a socially responsible manner a result of a lack of self-discipline and reﬂection. Hoˇ takes this same approach and views over-indulgence and the resulting consequences as being due to a similar lack of self- control. Given the fact that most people in this time period were not able to over-indulge in food, one could still become ill by eating too much of a single food.

Food as medicine The foods covered in the Tongu˘i pogam are broken down into the categories of liquids, grains, fowl, meats, marine products, insects, fruits, vegetables, and herbs, among others. The work gives numerous examples in each category and draws from both Chinese and Korean sources. Each section begins with a description of the category of food and ties this to understandings of the ﬂow of vital energy from the foods to the consumer. Following the overall introduction, the work then discusses the basic properties of particular foods in how they help particular body parts or to combat disease, as well as how they should be prepared. In this way the work functioned as a comprehensive reference work for physicians in diagnosing and curing ailments through food. The recurring medical theme is the absolute need for balance among the Five Phases and yin and yang for maintaining health. The section on grains provides a good example of how the interaction of the cosmos and diet were understood:

In nature it is nothing but grains that allow humans to maintain their lives. As grains receive vital energy from the earth, their qualities are level and taste bland. Due to this even nature they help build strength and are good at cleansing [the body] and consequently one can eat these continually without growing tired [of the grains]. Thus, grains are something that humans like very much. Altogether, there are 107 types of grains.22

Grains, like all plants, hold a combination of yin energy from the earth and yang energy from the sun. The balance between the two energies creates a food that the body craves for good health. Consider the following main entries for three of the most commonly consumed grains in early Chosoˇn:

Chopssal (foxtail millet) Its nature is slightly cold, taste sour, and has no toxins. It strengthens the energy of the kidneys, eliminates fever in the stomach and spleen, helps the flow of energy, and aids urination. It is good for the stomach and spleen.23 Mepssal (non-glutinous rice) Its nature is balanced, is sweet in taste while bitter, and has no toxins. Rice aids the flow of the stomach’s ki, aids healthy skin and muscle tissue, aids the internal body and cures dysentery, and fosters [the flow of] ki while eliminating stifling sensations. When cooking rice or porridge, if it is not thoroughly cooked it is not good for the spleen. Eating well-cooked rice is good.24 Pori (barley) Its nature is warm (some say somewhat cold), tastes salty, and has no toxins. It aids [the flow] of ki, promotes good digestion, remedies diarrhea, eliminates

68 ˇ SCIENCE, FOOD AND HEALTH IN CHOSONKOREA

nauseous sweat, and makes the Five Vital Organs strong. If eaten regularly, it will promote healthy weight gain and give one’s skin a healthy luster.25

Each of the grains above has specific organs or body parts where they promote health and the flow of energy. The awareness of grains as the center of a meal or a good diet was quite prominent in premodern Korea and seen in the large number of ways that grains could be consumed. Of course boiled grains were most common, but flour could also be made from rice and that in turn used to make rice cakes (ttoˇk). Thin porridges were also made from cooked rice. Further, there were beverages made from rice such as the sweet and fermented sikhye and rice wine (makkoˇlli) that were a staple among farming families. Other grains, such as buckwheat or wheat, could be made into flours and both of these grains were commonly used in making noodles. A contemporary of Hoˇ Chun was the scholar Yi Sugwang (蝗睟光 1563–1628). Using various sources, Yi compiled an encyclopedic work that covered many aspects of Chosoˇn society and history including an extensive commentary on diet and health. His views mirror those of Hoˇ in various areas including the properties of grains that were essential for good health, especially in promoting the flow of positive ki throughout the body. He cites Mencius in stating that the “five grains should be cultivated” and thus links the production of these staples to the pursuit of the Confucian principle of government based on the promotion of humaneness (仁 K. in;C.ren).26 It was argued that the prominence of grain-based diets in Asia was one of the reasons for some of the physical differences between the peoples of East and Southeast Asia and those of European descent. Yi Hyoji cited larger stomach capacity and lengthier intestines of Asians as being the result of grain-based diets rather than the more meat-heavy diets of Europeans in traditional times.27 Beyond this, we can note that ideally each of the day’s three meals was served with a heavy grain component. Also included in the grain section are soybeans, a key protein in the premodern Korean diet. While today we know that soybeans are a complete protein with high protein content (38–45 percent), in the early Chosoˇn period they were simply an essential part of the diet across socio-economic and status boundaries. Soybeans were eaten in a variety of ways: sprouts could be boiled to create side dishes or added to soups and stews while the whole beans yielded an excellent oil that was used for cooking. By the fifteenth century, tofu was made from the bean curd and a variety of condiments used soybeans as a base including soy sauce and soybean paste (toenjang).28 The medicinal properties of soybeans are certainly well known today, but in the Tongu˘i pogam they are said to be excellent for protecting the body’s organs:

K’ong (soybeans) Its nature is balanced, taste sweet (some say salty), and has no toxins. It protects the Five Vital Organs, aids digestion and circulation, and allows the intestinal ki to ﬂow warmly. If one eats soybeans continually, he/she will lose weight.29

The last quality of soybeans described above indicates that weight control was a concern for some segments of the population in seventeenth-century Korea. Kim Ho indicates that this was due to a rise in the merchant class and wealth in late Chosoˇn, and that obesity became quite a common problem that stemmed from people simply eating too much.30 The emphasis on soybeans in the diet also indicates that there was an appreciation that

69 M.J. PETTID over-consumption of meat was not beneficial for one’s health, much the same as contemporary scholarship supports. Despite the rising problem of obesity among the wealthy, a more consequential concern among the ruling elites in Chosoˇn was the possibility of famine and the social chaos that could accompany a particularly bad series of harvests. In the mid-Chosoˇn period there was a long-lasting cold period that greatly hindered agrarian output. This period of colder temperatures seems to have been present throughout Asia and somewhat overlaps with the Little Ice Age experienced in Western Europe and North America. For Chosoˇn Korea it was the period from 1601 to 1800 when temperatures were generally colder and agricultural production suffered.31 There were notably severe famines in both 1680 and 1695 that resulted in the government permitting the governors of three provinces to mint more money in order to provide the people with relief.32 The lowered agrarian yields were all the more problematic when coupled with the two sets of devastating invasions (Hideyoshi invasions of 1592–7 and the Manchu invasions of 1628, 1636) that caused some 70 percent of arable land to be either damaged or not under cultivation by the end of the Manchu invasions.33 While the lower temperatures had caused earlier winters and thus shorter growing seasons that had negative effects on harvests, in truth it was the invasions that caused the most serious consequences and resulted in famine becoming commonplace.34 While it was grains and legumes that provided the core of the peoples’ diet, these were also the very crops that suffered greatest in times of either war or adverse growing conditions. As such, the government had long sought alternatives that could be found in times of hardship. Pre-dating the aforementioned Kuhwang ch’waryo of the sixteenth century is a thirteenth-century volume entitled Hyang’yak ku’gu˘p pang (鄕藥救急方 ‘Emergency Folk Medicine Remedies’) that contained information on the various herbs and plants that could be consumed as medicinal remedies or simply food in dire times. Such knowledge was not limited to formal compilations as the following account details:

While Yi Tanha (蝗端夏 1625–89) was taking pine needle medicine, he thought of a means to overcome hunger. In the early Chosoˇn when there was famine, a method for overcoming this was to grind pine needles into a powder and eat this. He submitted a memorial to the royal court to spread this information by posting wooden placards throughout the land.35

We can thus see that concern for a lack of staple foods was a common one in the Chosoˇn period. While rice was certainly at the pinnacle of grains, shortages were commonplace and alternatives were always required. Second in importance to grains and legumes in the Chosoˇn diet were vegetables and herbs. These could be either cultivated or gathered and were prepared in various ways such as parboiling, eating raw, or stir-frying. Vegetables were a yang food and thus complemented yin foods such as meats. A common practice was to wrap cooked meats in vegetable leafs and then eat, which assured a balance of yin and yang foods. The gathering of wild greens and herbs seemed to have been an important task for the womenfolk of Chosoˇn as we can cite a signiﬁcant number of poems and folksongs that describe the various greens sought out by women.36 In the vegetable section of the Tongu˘i pogam, some 122 varieties of vegetables and herbs are listed along with their medicinal qualities. The following are some examples of both gathered and cultivated vegetables that are still common components in the Korean diet:

70 ˇ SCIENCE, FOOD AND HEALTH IN CHOSONKOREA

Naengi (Shepherd’s Purse) Its nature is warm, tastes sweet and has no toxins. It benefits the flow of energy (ki) from the liver, spreads evenly through the body and benefits the Five Vital Organs. It grows in fields and meadows, and even in the winter cold it does not die. If one makes porridge with naengi and eats it, as the energy of that is carried by the blood to the liver, his/her eyes will become bright.37 Toˇdoˇk (Bonnet bellflower) Its nature is somewhat cold, tastes bitter, and has no toxins. It protects the stomach and spleen and aids the lungs’ energy. It can cure a drooping scrotum caused by a rupture in [the flow] of ki, absorb pus, erode tumors, and protect the Five Organs from damage by wind.38 In grows in all regions in mountainous areas. Its leaves are similar to the Chi- nese matrimony vine and it is best if the roots are white and substantial. One can eat the stalks and roots as vegetables.39

Both naengi and toˇdoˇk are gathered greens and were highly important to the diet of premodern Korea. Toˇdoˇk root, dried and then ground into a powder, was in particular thought to be an excellent remedy for boils and abscesses. The medicinal properties of toˇdoˇk are still acknowledged in contemporary Korea, but for the most part, both of these plants are known as healthy and tasty foods that provide the body with important vitamins and minerals.

Minari (Wild parsley) Its nature is balanced (although some say it is hot in nature), tastes sweet, and has no toxins. It alleviates stifling sensations in the chest and dry throat, helps mental clarity and supplements sharpness, and helps skin be healthy. It also cures the fever that can arise after drinking alcohol and allows good action of the small and large intestines. In women, it cures leucorrhea and post-menstrual abdominal pain, and it is also good for sudden fevers in children. It is also known as suyoˇng (water flower) as it grows in water. The leaves are similar to wild celery (Angelica polymorpha,K.kunggung), has white flowers and no seeds. The roots are also white. Make into kimch’i or a fresh vegetable dish and eat; also it can be parboiled and eaten. Eating it raw is also good. Also, it cures five types of jaundice.40 Tu˘lkkae (perilla seeds) Its nature is warm, taste spicy, and has no toxins. It helps ki flow downwards, and is good for stopping coughs and dry throats. It loosens the lungs, aids digestion, and strengthens bone marrow. If one harvests a lot, grind the seeds and mix with rice before making porridge and eating. This helps skin tone and also the downward flow of ki.41

Minari and tu˘lkkae are both cultivated greens. Minari is used in many types of kimch’i, along with also commonly being added to soups and eaten as a seasoned side dish. Tu˘lkkae could be added to soups or side dishes as a seasoning, but the most common use was as a savory oil, quite like the more well-known sesame oil.

71 M.J. PETTID

The Tongu˘i pogam also discusses seaweed in the vegetable section. A common seaweed in the Korean diet was brown laver (miyoˇk), used as either a side dish or in soups. This, along with ﬁve other varieties of seaweed, is also covered in the Tongu˘i pogam:

Its nature is cold, taste salty, and has no toxins. It can relieve the stiﬂing sensation associated with fevers and also cure goiters and blocked ki. It also aids good urination. When it is taken from the sea it has a dark green color, but when dried turns a deep purple color, so it is also known as the “purple vegetable” (chach’ae).42

The Tongu˘i pogam also discusses various fruits at length and describes their respective medicinal beneﬁts. Fruits were eaten raw, dried, or added to teas and liquors. At other times many of the fruits were boiled for long periods of time with other ingredients to make thick medicinal drinks that were to be taken for either the maintenance of health or to cure illness. A total of ninety-one types of fruits are listed, including the following:

Mogwa (Chinese quince) Its nature is warm, tastes sour and has no toxins. Vomiting, diarrhea or cramps along with intestinal convolutions can be cured with this fruit; it promotes good digestion, and is also good to quench the thirst after a bout with dysentery. It also cures abdominal pain, beriberi, dropsy, glycosuria, nausea, and coughs with phlegm. Also, it makes muscle and bones strong, and if one’s legs or knees are weak it will cure that as well.43 Yuja (Citron) The peel of a citron is thick and sweet and has no toxins. It will eliminate bad ki in the intestines, dissipate the toxins left by liquor, and improve the breath of those who drink.44

Subsequent cookbooks contain numerous recipes for the preparation of fruits such as citron and quince. For example the late Chosoˇn work entitled Kyuhap ch’ongsoˇ (閨閤叢書 ‘Encyclo- pedia for Women’sDailyLives’) contains a number of recipes for using quince in porridges and rice cakes. A recipe for making a sweetened fruit candy with citron is also included:

Thinly skin good citron, slice into four pieces while lightly cutting oﬀ any white parts, slice these thinly and lightly boil in water. Next pour melted honey onto these pieces of citron. Remove all the inner fruit from the peels of the citron, and then serve as candied citron.45

It is common to see fruits used in various teas and confections in other written works as well, demonstrating wide usage. Naturally, meats were prominent in promoting a healthy diet and the Tongu˘ipogam has numerous examples, some 236 in all. These were consumed in smaller amounts than they are in today’s cuisine in Korea, yet the Tongu˘ipogamfeatured a wider array of meats than we see in Korea today. While beef certainly held the highest position among meats, beef consumption among lower social status groups was not common. The fact of the matter is that a live cow was a very important labor-saving addition for a farming family. There is also the reality that the Korean peninsula lacks the space needed for

72 ˇ SCIENCE, FOOD AND HEALTH IN CHOSONKOREA large-scale cattle-rearing. Thus beef was a rare treat for commoners in Chosoˇnand reserved only for the most special occasions. All of that does not mean that beef was not at the pinnacle of meats. The aforementioned Yi Sugwang states that of all foods “beef was most beneﬁcial for humans” and that daily consumption would lead to longevity.46 The Tongu˘i pogam also praises the medicinal beneﬁt of beef and parts of cattle:

Uhwang (Ox bezoar) Its nature is even (some say cool), its taste bitter (some say sweet) and it has some toxins (some say it has no toxins). It promotes tranquil spirits and eliminates miasma and ghosts. It will reduce instance of insanity, sudden palpations, and fainting from nerves, and also cures every sort of illness in children. The vigor of the ox bezoar ﬂows to the liver and reduces disease in muscles and tendons.47 Uyuk (Beef) Its nature is even (some say warm), taste sweet, and it has no toxins (some say it has some toxins). It protects the stomach and spleen, stops vomiting and diarrhea, and cures dropsy and diabetes. Additionally it will promote strong muscles, tendons and bones, and strengthen the back and legs. As a foodstuﬀ, the yellow cow is best. If cow’s milk, urine or dung is used as a medicine, that coming from the black cow is inferior [to that of the yellow cow]. The meat of a dead cow should absolutely not be consumed. If it is eaten, boils will inevitably form.48

Perhaps due to the relative uncommonness of beef consumption among the lower classes, beef was accorded numerous special attributes as seen above. This demonstrates the blending of Confucian concepts concerning health with the more-or-less native shamanic beliefs that saw disease as a consequence of supernatural entities such as ghosts and malevolent spirits. This demonstrates that despite the hegemonic inﬂuence of Confucian- ism in the mainstream culture of the upper status groups, folk practices remained prominent in explaining disease and other seemingly uncontrollable aspects of life such as atmospheric phenomena and weather ﬂuctuations. A more readily available meat was pork, which was prepared in various ways such as grilling or adding to stews. Hog-rearing was widely practiced in premodern Korea for at least two millennia. There are numerous entries for the various parts of the pig along with one for pork in general:

Ton (Pork) Its nature is cold (some say cool), the taste is bitter, and it has some toxins. It is good to reduce fevers. Arteries blocked by fever and weakness in the muscles or bones can be cured with this.49 Ton tu (Pig’s stomach) If there is consumptive fever in the stomach or spleen this can be used. Boil together with ginger, mandarin orange peel, ginseng, spring onion roots and new rice, and then eat.50

While most meats are not necessarily seen as curatives today, one meat is still highly regarded as being good for one’s body. Dog meat has long been consumed in Korea as

73 M.J. PETTID itwasseenasbeingaparticularlygoodfoodtobetakeninthehotsummermonths.Hot and spicy soups were seen as being essential to the balancing of one’s ki with that of the external environment. Known as iyoˇlchiyoˇl (以熱治熱 using heat to regulate heat), this was thought to elevate the temperature of one’sinternalki to that of the external environment and thus provide protection for one’s health during the hot summer months. In the Tongu˘ipogamthe description for dog meat demonstrates a variety of beneﬁcial traits:

Mogu yak (Male dog meat) Its nature is warm (some say hot), taste sour while salty, and it has no toxins (some say it has toxins). It promotes tranquility in the Five Organs, protects against fatigue in the Five Organs and also against the Seven Damages,51 enables good blood circulation, and makes the bowels and stomach sturdy. It further builds marrow, warms the back and knees, creates strong erections, and aids overall energy. Yellow-colored dogs are best; white and black dogs are not as good. These days people eat the meat after throwing the blood away. This is not good. The blood of fat dogs is tasty, how can it be taken out? If it is removed there is no good eﬀect. In the spring if a dog has reddish eyes and a dry nose while acting mad, it should not be eaten.52

It is notable that many of the curative effects mentioned above are still cited in contemporary Korea as reasons for consuming dog meat. Even today we can hear of the efficacy of dog meat in promoting an increased libido among males or as a means to overcome the heat of summer and aid overall health.53 MaybeevenmoreimportanttotheKoreandietthanmeatinthemid-Chosoˇnwere the wide array of marine creatures consumed. Both fresh and saltwater fish were common and these were served in a variety of ways, including broiling, dried, raw, or added to soups and side dishes. Records from a Song Chinese visitor to the Koryoˇ dynasty (918–1392) in the twelfth century seems to indicate that although hogs and sheep were commonly seen on the peninsula, these were largely reserved for the upper status groups. Commoners instead consumed marine creatures such as shrimp, clams, oysters, abalone, and loach among other seafood.54 Such a situation was no doubt due to economics, as commoners could readily supplement their diets with relatively easily obtainable seafood. The dietary benefits of seafood were certainly acknowledged in the Tongu˘i pogam and other mid-Chosoˇn period works. For example Yi Sugwang cites crab as being a particularly good food:

In order to cure an illness through diet, the Bencao [本草]55 states, by eating crab it will promote digestion, help the strength of the stomach, and govern the ﬂow of blood through the arteries.56

In the Tongu˘i pogam there are fifty-three types of fish listed; other types of marine animals such as crabs, snails, oysters, and shrimp are listed in the insect section of the work. The following entries show some of the medicinal benefits of eating various types of fish:

74 ˇ SCIENCE, FOOD AND HEALTH IN CHOSONKOREA

Ingoˇ ssu˘lgae (carp’s gall bladder) Its nature is cold, taste bitter, and has no toxins. It will remedy amaurosis and make the eyes bright. If the eyes have a fever and become engorged with blood it will cure this along with deafness.57 Pungoˇ (Crucian carp) Its nature is warm (some say even), taste sweet, and has no toxins. It distributes the flow of energy from the stomach and strengthens the Five Vital Organs … If it is boiled and made into soup along with sunch’ae (brasenia schreberi/watershield) it aids those who have chronically poor digestion. If it is sliced and eaten raw it will cure chronic dysentery.58 Chogi (croaker) It has a balanced nature, sweet taste, and no toxins. It is good for one who cannot digest their food well or has a sudden bout with dysentery after eating fully. If it is made into a soup with sunch’ae it helps those who have lost their appetite or cannot digest food well. It is also good for helping the flow of ki.59 Taegu (codfish) Its nature is balanced, taste salty, and has no toxins. Eating this will strengthen one’s ki.60

Compared to meats, grains, or vegetables, seafood has markedly less representation in the Tongu˘i pogam. While this is understandable in terms of grains or vegetables, which formed the main pillars of the premodern diet, it also shows the preference of the upper status groups for meat in their diets. Thus the various parts of cattle, hogs, or dogs were held to have superior benefit for the body. Of course one needed the economic ability to purchase these meats and this in turn demonstrates that diet and medicine had a clear socio-economic hierarchy in premodern Korea. A final category of medicinal foods found in the Tongu˘i pogam is that of alcohol. There are thirty-four types of alcohol included, some with strikingly exotic names such as winter of heaven’s gate liquor or southern palace golden flower liquor. As might be expected, Hoˇ Chun both praises and cautions when discussing liquor:

Chu (Liquor) Its nature is very hot, its taste is bitter while being both sweet and spicy, and has toxins. It helps diﬀuse weakened ki and eliminates all sorts of poisonous ki, aids circulation, makes the intestines strong, and gives a luster to skin … If one drinks liquor for a long time, it will damage his/her mental capacity and be a hindrance to a long life.61

It is unfortunate that Hoˇ does not include recipes or the ingredients for the various types of alcohol he lists. For that, we need to seek out cookbooks that include full descriptions and instructions for making liquor. One stellar example is the cookbook written by Lady Chang of Andong (1598–1680). Entitled Umsik timibang (‘Recipes for Tasty Food’) it holds some 146 recipes of which ﬁfty are for alcoholic drinks. The Tongu˘i pogam was published in the early seventeenth century via wood-block printing that allowed many copies to be made and distributed. The main readership was the educated upper status groups throughout the country. Over time, this became one of the commonly found books in the homes of the upper status groups and was used for

75 M.J. PETTID diagnosing and treating various ailments.62 Beyond its use in the homes of the upper status groups, it became a reference book used by both medical specialists and pharmacists throughout the country. Furthermore, the information in the book became important for the subsequent books on medicine published in Chosoˇn. The work is still considered a highly important and valuable resource for practitioners of traditional Korean medicine in contemporary Korea today.

Food, the cosmos, and life The contents of the Tongu˘i pogam give an interesting glimpse into the inter-working of the body, food, and the cosmos as perceived in the mid-Chosoˇn period. The work was greatly influenced by Confucianism, the dominant ideology of the day, as well, especially in the context of the filial duty associated with remaining healthy. It also demonstrates a trait of Chosoˇn period intellectual thought, and that is the interrelatedness of Confucianism and nearly every aspect of life. A properly functioning body was one in which all of the various parts worked together in a harmonious and balanced fashion. For Chosoˇn period physicians, the body was no different than human society. Society was structured to be harmonic, with all people contributing to the overall welfare by performing their duties. The body was thought to follow the same pattern, with all parts contributing to health so long as they were provided the correct nourishment. Of course food is an essential part of this process of maintaining a healthy body. A balance of foods is the ideal for ensuring a well-working body. Over-consumption of any one type of food was seen as a factor in bringing about poor health. Thus meals were ideally presented as a means to ensure balance. Naturally such a balance was not always possible and, like today, there were always those who overate or otherwise did not follow a healthy diet. Nonetheless the basic ways of taking meals leans heavily toward this ideal of balance. Meals, especially for those of the upper status groups, were served on small individual tables. This was known as the pap sang (dinner table). The pap sang was the most representative meal of this period and featured an array of side dishes such as kimch’i and other vegetable dishes served with boiled rice/grains, a soup, and perhaps a fish or meat dish. Harmony in this meal works on several levels, such as is found in contrasts between soft (boiled vegetables) and hard (roasted laver), bland (rice) and spicy (kimch’i), hot (soup) and cold (raw vegetables), oily (fish) and dry (dried anchovies), or chewy (stir-fried fernbrake) and tender (stir-fried mushrooms). Beyond the palate, harmonic balances were found in other senses: the aural with crisp sounds (such as the crackle of roasted seaweed folded over rice with one’s chopsticks) contrasting with the muffled sound of folding rice in a seasoned perilla leaf; or the olfactory with the pungent smells of garlic and pepper contrasting with the more delicate scents of sesame oil. There was also visual harmony within a meal, as there was a whole array of practices aimed at creating meals with balance between colors known as komyoˇng (decorative garnish). Based on the Five Phases, many foods feature the five colors of blue/green, red, yellow, white, and black. For green garnish, onion, squash, cucumber, or such vegetables are shredded to add color. For red, carrots, or jujubes, are cut into thin strips for visual effect. Yellow and white are achieved by separating egg yolks and whites, frying very thin and cutting into strips; black color is provided by dark-colored mushrooms or laver. Of course, such extravagant preparation of foods was not an everyday occurrence for people in premodern Korea and mostly reserved for those in the royal palace or the uppermost status groups.

76 ˇ SCIENCE, FOOD AND HEALTH IN CHOSONKOREA

While the pap sang shows the aesthetic behind Korean food, the health beneﬁts were quite real. A meal balancing the various foods provided the body excellent nutrition. Whether one was actively following the advice of a physician to combat an illness or simply eating meals prepared according to these standards, the result was the same. Like a well- functioning society in which all parts worked together, the harmony of the foods matched the harmony physicians sought for the body, and this aided the preservation of health.

Notes 1 A common Korean adage. 2 Ki-baik Lee, A New History of Korea, trans. Edward W. Wagner with Edward J. Shultz, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1984, p. 38. 3 Authorship and exact dating of this work is not possible, but traditionally it was attributed to Confucius (551–479 BCE). 4 This is a work compiled by Ban Gu in the Han dynasty and is named after a series of debates held at the White Tiger Pavilion. 5 The following is based on Michael J. Pettid, Korean Cuisine: An Illustrated History, London: Reaktion Books, 2008, pp. 27–67. 6 Francesca Bray, The Rice Economies: Technology & Development in Asian Societies, Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986, p. 16. 7 For more on technological advances, see Michael J. Pettid, “Working Women in ChosoˇnKorea: An Exploration of Women’s Economic Activities in a Patriarchal Society,” Journal of Global Initiatives 5, 2010, 28. Double-cropping did not become common until the late seventeenth century. 8Amal is a unit of measure equal to approximately 18 liters. Yi Hoˇnch’ang, Han’guk kyoˇngjesa che 3 p’an (The Economic History of Korea, third edition), Seoul: Poˇbmunsa, 2006, pp. 46–7. 9YiHoˇnch’ang, Han’guk kyoˇngjesa che 3 p’an. 10 For an example, see Pettid, Korean Cuisine, pp. 51–2. 11 There are records of fermented seasonings being exchanged as wedding gifts from the late seventh century. See Kim Pusik, Samguk sagi (三國史記 History of the Three Kingdoms), trans. to ˘ modern Korean, Yi Pyoˇngdo, Seoul: Uryu munhwasa, 1996, 1.201. 12 Chili peppers are a New World food and were not introduced to Korea until the early seventeenth century. See Yi Sugwang, Chibong yusoˇl (Topical Discourses by Chibong), reproduction, ˘ Seoul: Uryu munhwasa, 1998, 20. 10b. 13 Kim Ho, “Yakkuk kwa u˘iwoˇn” (Pharmacies and Medical Clinics), in Chosoˇn sidae saenghwalsa 2 (Life History in the Chosoˇn Period, 2), ed. Han’guk komunsoˇ hak-hoe, Seoul: Yoˇksa pip’yoˇngsa, 2000, pp. 282–3. 14 Kim Ho, Tongu˘i pogam yoˇn’gu (A Study of the Tongu˘i pogam), Seoul: Iljisa, 2003, p. 154. 15 This is a chapter of the Lizhi (Book of Rites 螎記), one of the Confucian classics that predates the Former Han dynasty (206 BCE – 9 CE). 16 Yi Sugwang, Chibong yusoˇl, 2: 433. 17 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 2726. 18 The “ten thousand things” is a metaphor used in literary Chinese for “everything” or “all things.” 19 Tongu˘i pogam, pp. 2723–4. 20 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 1662. 21 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 1711. 22 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 2759. 23 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 2764. 24 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 2766. 25 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 2772. 26 Chibong yusoˇl, 2: 439. 27 Yi Hyoji, Han’gug’in u˘iu˘msik munhwa (The Food Culture of Korea), Seoul: Sin’gwang ch’ulp’ansa, 2006, p. 55. 28 For more uses, see Pettid, Korean Cuisine, pp. 40–1. 29 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 2762.

77 M.J. PETTID

30 Kim Ho, “Yakkuk kwa u˘iwoˇn,” p. 282. 31 See Woo-Seok Kong and David Watts, “A Unique Set of Climatic Data from Korea Dating from 50 BC, and Its Vegetational Implications,” Global Ecology and Biogeography Letters, July, 1992, 133–8. 32 James B. Palais, Confucian Statecraft and Korean Institutions: Yu Hyoˇngwoˇn and the Late Chosoˇn Dynasty, Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1996, p. 929. 33 It should be noted that this situation was magnified by a significant loss of population as well. See Pae Yoˇngdong, Noggyoˇng saenghwal u˘i munhwa ilgi (‘Reading the Culture of Farming Life’), Seoul: Minsog’woˇn, 2002, p. 329. 34 Yoˇngdong Pae, Noggyoˇng saenghwal u˘i munhwa ilgi. 35 Yi Imyoˇng, Sojaeman-rok (疎齋漫錄 ‘Scattered Records by Sojae’), in P’aerim (稗林 ‘Forest of Tales’), reproduction, Seoul: Ch’aegudang, 1969, 18a-b. 36 See Pettid, Korean Cuisine, pp. 51–5. 37 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 2936. 38 The most damaging elements to the body’s ki were excessive wind, cold, heat, and dampness. This was especially thought true for women and children. See Kim Ho, Tongu˘ipogamyoˇn’gu, p. 208. 39 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 2937. 40 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 2944. 41 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 2946. 42 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 2952. 43 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 2910. 44 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 2905. 45 Pinghoˇhak Yi-ssi, Kyuhap ch’ongsoˇ (閨閤叢書 ‘Encyclopedia for Women’s Daily Lives’), reproduction, Seoul: Chusik hoesa pojinjae, 2006, p. 108. 46 Chibong yusoˇl, 2: 431. 47 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 2816. 48 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 2817. 49 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 2842. 50 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 2844. 51 The Five Fatigues and Seven Damages (五勞七傷 oro ch’ilsang) are fatigue in the five organs (lungs, liver, heart, spleen, and kidneys) and damages to various body organs. 52 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 2840. 53 See Pettid, Korean Cuisine, pp. 84–5. 54 Jing Xu, Gaoli tujing (高麗圖經 ‘Illustrated Account of Koryoˇ’), reproduction, Seoul: Asea munhwasa, 1983, 23: 2a. 55 This is a sixteenth-century Ming Chinese work. The full title is Bencau gangmu (本草綱目 ‘Com- pendium of Materia Medica’). 56 Yi Sugwang, Chibong yusoˇl, 2: 432–3. 57 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 2859. 58 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 2860. 59 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 2864. 60 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 2867. 61 Tongu˘i pogam, p. 2777. 62 Kim Ho, Tongu˘i pogam yoˇn’gu, pp. 251–2.

78 Part II 1700–1900 This page intentionally left blank 5 FOOD SHORTAGE IN COLONIAL MEXICO Maize, food policies and the construction of a modern political culture, 1785–1807

Sarah Bak-Geller Corona

Each year, the inhabitants of the viceroyalty of New Spain anxiously waited for the day of the Holy Cross, Santa Cruz,towatchthefirst rains of the season fall. On May 3, 1785, however, not even a drop of rain appeared, nor was there a cloud in the sky. Days and weeks then passed with no sign of water, thus ushering in a drought that would bring devastation to much of the territory. The situation worsened with a freeze in September, which ended up destroying crops and leaving residents without their principal sustenance: maize. The scenario was characterized by colonists as the worst famine in the history of the realm. Recent quantitative studies have downplayed the catastrophic consequences of the 1785–7 famine, showing that while this agrarian crisis affected many regions of New Spain, it did not inflict significantly more damage than did earlier famines.1 While this may indeed be the case, the greater significance of this famine has to do with the responses to the crisis, which were symptomatic of profound cultural and political transformations in New Spain at the end of the eighteenth century. These responses consisted of a series of innovative measures by colonial elites to confront food shortages. Of particular interest are the recipes and cooking advice published in the viceroyalty’s principal daily newspaper, La Gazeta de México. The purpose of these articles was to teach the population different ways of recreating the country’s most popular dishes by replacing maize – themainingredientofcolonialcuisine– with more accessible ingredients. Beyond the creativity and originality of this cooking advice, the relevance of these recipes has to do with the appearance of the first inventory of New Spain’s foodways. After the maize shortage, the authors undertook the task of identifying, systematizing and classifying the ingredients, tastes, textures, techniques and kitchenware that characterized the local cuisine. Although the main objective was to assure the consumption of traditional dishes in unfavorable conditions, the typification of New Spain’s cuisine introduced new experiences related to the habitual cooking practices. Within this context of creating a repertory of New Spain’sfoodwaysarosethe notion of cooking “in the style of the country.” Through the alimentary strategies and programs undertaken by intellectual elites to confront the crisis of famine, we can more clearly define a fundamental moment of transformation for key concepts of colonial political thought such as community, patria, territory and citizenship. The phenomenon of the 1785–7 famine was the scene of one of the first

81 S. BAK-GELLER CORONA experiences of political modernity in Hispanic America, the lineaments, dilemmas and contradictions of which we will explore during the two years of alimentary penury.

Cooks and patriots: forging a new representation of community It was not the first time, nor would it be the last, that a famine spread with such virulence throughout the viceroyalty of New Spain. The terrible famine of 1692 had caused a bloody confrontation between indigenous groups and the Spaniards in Mexico City. The former, desperate from the scarcity of food as well as colonial authorities’ indifference to the tragic situation, set fire to the viceroy’s palace and took up arms with a shout, “Death to the gachupines [Spaniards] who are eating our corn!”2 The viceroy’s response to the Indian uprising was characterized by firm resolve and brutality and he ordered those who rose up in rebellion on that night to be publicly hung. Close to a century later, the 1785–7 crisis would again provoke popular discontent, although this time, the reactions by the colonial authorities were quite different. Viceroy Bernardo de Gálvez, conscious of repercussions from a popular revolt like that of the long-ago night of June 8, decided not to respond like his predecessor. This meant actively participating in a search for solutions to discourage a massive migration of beggars who threatened to occupy the capital city. With this idea in mind, Viceroy Gálvez established a program of public works and schooling for the impoverished classes. The goal was to employ and occupy the hundreds of poor who were otherwise susceptible, the viceroy thought, of provoking disturbances in the city.3 The most energetic and decisive efforts, however, came from the viceroyalty’s elites, who sought new ways of facing a social crisis. Attempts to receive divine aid via processions, entreaties and prayers to the Virgin of Guadalupe were replaced by enlightened measures that were considered to be rational, useful and effective. These measures, denoted “patriotic,” were aimed at alleviating the neediness of the affected population. At the same time, these measures attempted to convince residents of the realm to adopt the necessary ideals and customs for building a “modern” society. Society was to become more homogenous and productive, with thriving commerce and industry. Elites hoped that the successful implementation of these conditions would help them face future crises. The concept of “patriotism” in this program of social regeneration acquired new meaning. The existing and accepted definition of patriotism could be summarized by the quote “where we were born.”4 Added to this generalized definition was the demand for individual sacrifice and the subordination of particular, individual interests to the common interest or good. The terms “public good” and “public utility” were employed in political speeches as new synonyms for patriotic sentiment, at the same time that ideals of productivity, prosperity and abundance were becoming more commonplace. This notion of patriotism was based upon interpretations that the elites had made of the writings of French physiocrats and Italian economists5 of the second half of the eighteenth century. From this exposure to philosophers of the European Enlightenment, “useful sciences” (mathematics, natural history, physics, mineralogy, metallurgy) and the predominance of experience over speculation, viceregal elites derived their ideas for combating famine and pursuing progress in society. Nor was religion excluded from this new conception of patriotism. Christian values such as faith and charity emphasized the idea of individual sacrifice and lent a spiritual dimension to patriotic discourse that sought to turn vassals into modern citizens.

82 FOOD SHORTAGE IN COLONIAL MEXICO

The notion of “patria,” the origin of which dates back to ancient Rome, formed part of the political language of the Hispanic monarchy. From the sixteenth century on, uses of patria in New Spain reflected the concept’s polysemy: on the one hand, patria as the community shared by all subjects of the Crown and on the other, patria as birthplace, homeland.6 These two meanings would coexist throughout the centuries. Towards the end of the eighteenth and beginning of the nineteenth centuries, patria, assimilated into the transatlantic monarchy as a whole, was also associated with the concept of nation: “Love of patria is of the nation and this is the moral juncture for the diverse and distant peoples and individuals who compose it”7 wrote journalist and critic José Joaquín Fernández de Lizardi, from Mexico City. At the same time, the concept of patria continued to be identified with the cities. These populations or small “republics” constituted the basis for a social, cultural and jurisdictional dynamic within the Catholic monarchy, a fact explained in part by the absence or ineffec- tiveness of intermediate powers between cities and colonial governments.8 The patriotism that was linked to cities excluded other rationales for local relevance in the American world, particularly with reference to indigenous communities, which were frequently associated with a wild and rustic life in harsh places, “cold mountains and uncomfortable xacales.”9 In a broader context, where the concept of patria was omnipresent in political language, the authors of recipes and kitchen tips attempted to combat famine by insisting that their alimentary proposals were also patriotic. Yet the patria to which they alluded in their speech and actions corresponded neither to the shared realm of the monarch nor to the local “republics” of the cities. Recipes created to face the maize shortage evoked a different reality, referring to the complex of villages and cities within New Spain’s viceroyalty affected by the agricultural crisis, a space which was at the same time different from the rest of the monarch’s territories in America. This third image of patria, of an intermediate character between monarchy and cities, was indistinguishable from the food shortage crisis. The authors of the recipes “in the style of the country” introduced a new element of cohesion between inhabitants who were now not only related by language, religion or king, but by practices, techniques and utensils of a culinary culture based upon maize. Among the exponents and promoters of patriotic ideals in New Spain at the end of the eighteenth century two characters stood out: José Antonio Alzate, from the Valle de México (Ozumba, 1737–Mexico City, 1799), and José Pérez Calama, born on the Iberian peninsula (Extremadura, 1740–93). The two promoted their food treatises – Consejos útiles para socorrer a la necesidad en tiempos que escasean los comestibles (‘Useful Advice for Relief in Times of Food Scarcity’) and Teología politico-caritativa (‘Political-Charitable Theology’) – to “offer the country some useful discoveries,”10 designed to combat food shortages.

The invention of cooking “in the style of the country”

Systematizing what is native The scarcity of maize revealed the attachment, beyond any social or ethnic distinction, residents of New Spain shared for dishes based upon that cereal. In the autumn of 1785, when it was evident that there would not be suﬃcient maize to feed the entire realm, some members of the intellectual elite (religious ﬁgures, lawyers, military men and some landowners) published cooking recipes to teach their readers how to make substitutions for the native grain in the most popular dishes, essentially tortillas, tamales, atoles and pinoles. With products rarely used in cooking but easily accessible in times of drought (wild roots,

83 S. BAK-GELLER CORONA herbs and grasses, cactus) the authors of these recipes hoped to assure the creation and consumption of traditional foods in times of maize shortage. For their authors, these recipes had the double advantage of effectively combating famine while guaranteeing acceptance by all sectors of the population, since they were cooking “in the style of the country.” It was the first time that the culinary culture of the Viceroyalty seemed represented in terms of unity and coherence. Recipes in the “style of the country” created strategic culinary practices that affirmed and reproduced a shared sense of community vis-à-vis the “other”. The image of a cuisine unique and common to inhabitants of New Spain, based on the same “style” of eating, represented something new in the colonial discourse on alimentation. Since the sixteenth century, at the start of the colonial regime, food had become one of the principal demarcation lines between indigenous and European populations. While the Indian was identified with maize and tortillas, the Spaniard was associated with wheat bread.11 The “style of our country” transcended ethnic, social and regional culinary variations, for the first time making the culture of maize a cuisine representative of coasts and mountains, Spanish and Indians, festive food and ordinary food, of the rich table and the poor (though the distinction between “poor tastes” and “delicate palates” persisted12). This “style of our patria” cuisine immediately became a common social and territorial indicator which until then had not existed in the political and geographic imagination of New Spain’s inhabitants. The idea of a unique culinary “style” representative of New Spain appears to have been formulated for the first time in the work of José Antonio Alzate, in his Consejos, útiles para socorrer a la necesidad en tiempos que escasean los comestibles published in 1785. Theologian, journalist, philosopher and scientist, Alzate devoted most of his life to writing about progress in the arts and sciences in other parts of the world. A member of the Royal Academy of Sciences in Paris and corresponding member of Madrid’s Royal Botanical Garden, Alzate was recognized within Spanish monarchical lands and beyond as an inventor of devices, techniques and projects to “assist the needy” and contribute to the “public utility.”13 The Consejos consisted of a group of recipes promoting the preparation of food that was economical and “useful” for times of widespread hunger. In these recipes, efforts were made to distinguish “foodstuffs from this country”14 from those not originating in New Spain. The “style of the country,”15 however, was not conceived only as a repertoire of native ingredients. The classification and valuation of local food in Consejos útiles provides some idea of the double pedagogic dimension of this document, which consists not only in showing how to cook local ingredients in times of famine, but also instructing “people who appreciate the foreign more than their own”16 to value local products. One example is the recommendation to use native pepper, known as Tabasco pepper, in place of peppers imported from other parts of the world. Other criteria for “the style of the country” may also be defined as being less related to originality in cooking and ingredients than to the author’s claim to construct a new field of rational knowledge, methodical and systematic, beginning with local culinary know-how. To carry out this operation, Alzate acknowledged a basis in European encyclopedias, like the Encyclopédie économique (1770–1)17 and other treatises published in France and Switzer- land.18 Alzate openly admired philosophers and the “pragmatic individuals”19 who had years before invented recipes to resist food crises. Moreover, Alzate proposed copying some of these formulae in his manual, not without first “translating, commenting upon and adapting them”20 to “our language” and “patria”21 so the American public might take advantage of them. Adaptation of the encyclopedic material meant, however, something more than a simple appropriation of foreign recipes. Alzate matched culinary ingredients

84 FOOD SHORTAGE IN COLONIAL MEXICO and techniques in the original texts with local tastes and resources, in such a way as to favor the latter over the former. In the case of Swiss recipes requiring ground rice, for example, instead of a mortar and pestle Alzate recommended the metate, a thick rectan- gular stone used in New Spain for crushing maize, chilies and cacao. Alzate also modified recipes based on millet, wheat and barley, arguing that those cereals “[were] virtually unknown here,”22 or, rather, were only used for medicinal purposes in New Spain. The criollo (Mexican of Spanish descent) also dismissed recipes based on maize offered by the Encyclopédie économique, because he considered local preparations to be preferable; particularly atole, the popular drink made from ground and toasted maize.23 Alzate implemented the logic and structure of European encyclopedic works, where intuitive and traditional kitchen lore was transformed into a group of rational and systematic skills.24 Still, he adapted the content of the recipes in such a way so as to end up differentiating them from the original versions. Thus, the criollo took ancient culinary resources, many of them in use since the pre-colonial era (Tabasco pepper, the metate, atoles … ) and turned them into components of a new alimentary system characterized by originality as well as the rigorousness and coherence of its own rules and applications. The most representative dishes, ingredients, tools and techniques of the realm thus came to build the image of a country’s own “style,” both versatile and rational. Typifying a “style of the country” modified the way of conceiving and representing colonial culinary culture. As Alzate himself said, his Consejos útiles was so successful that it was necessary to reprint it just a few months later. What was then a small, simple folder received a larger printing and greater circulation upon being printed in a newspaper edited by Alzate, the Gaceta de literatura de México.25

Methods, standards and tastes as borderlines Inspired by Alzate’s Consejos útiles, a group of clergy, landowners and other notables at the beginning of 1786 began developing their own experiments for recreating tortillas, tamales, atole and pinole with ingredients that could partially or completely substitute for corn, such as rice, oats, sweet potato, maguey cactus, plantain, biznaga (fruit from a particular cactus), or wheat germ.26 Chief among the enthusiastic followers of the Consejos útiles, a document now released under the title of Consejos politico-caritativos (Political-Charitable Advice), was José Pérez Calama, parish priest in Valladolid (today’s Morelia), Michoacán. The priest stood out during his residency in New Spain as one of the most notable promoters of enlightened ideas. Some years before famine broke out in the viceroyalty, Pérez Calama had been rector of the Colegio Palafoxiano in the city of Puebla, where he modernized teaching methods. The energetic priest also planned, unsuccessfully, the foundation of an Academy of Political-Christian Letters for the study of Latin and oratory arts, as well as the construction of four schools for young ladies in which disciples would receive lessons in home economics and applied arts.27 Alzate and Pérez Calama’s varied proposals were related to policies for social, political, economic and education reform that came from Spain through the Real Sociedad Vascongada de Amigos del País (Royal Basque Society of Friends of the Country), the first economic- patriotic association founded in Metropole, and to which the two thinkers belonged.28 In Valladolid, Michoacán in 1784, Pérez Calama tried to create the first Sociedad de Amigos del País (Society of Friends of the Country) in New Spain, the second outside Spain itself (the first having been founded a year before in Santiago, Cuba).29 In 1785, the creation of the

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Society of Valladolid30 was authorized by order of King Carlos III, with the objective of invigorating industry, sciences and arts in the Crown’s principal possession in America. The unexpected 1785 agricultural crisis dramatically changed those plans, leaving the projected Patriotic Society of Valladolid unformed. Despite a defunct Patriotic Society, its members’ patriotic thought intensified in the context of the famine. Pérez Calama, “after having read the Consejos útiles politicos-caritativos published by Don Joseph Antonio Alzate,” joined the pioneering efforts to typify and standardize alimentary customs in New Spain. To this effect he took on the task of cataloguing the realm’smost usual dishes as well as the techniques, utensils and savoir-faire related with these foods. The religious man decided to prepare one of those dishes for times of corn shortage, and offered it to the poor who arrived, destitute, at his church: “[Calama] has arranged to give cooked rice to the poor, whose numbers could reach as many as a hundred, and he also gave each two or three tortillas.”31 The Gazeta article goes on to describe the personal touch Pérez Calama added to the recipe, which consisted of “adding a sufficient quantity of chile to make [the dish] tastier for the poor people.” With this “sufficient quantity of chile” the priest aimed to satisfy popular taste, while also participating in the project of defining “the style of the country,” by identifying chili as one more component of the local food system. During mass in the Valladolid cathedral on October 17, 1785, Pérez Calama exhorted other priests of his region to improvise in the kitchen and invent more useful recipes for times of food crisis. Missives with the same instructions were sent right away to Pátzcuaro and other nearby parishes in central-western New Spain. The call was successful and the first results were published in the realm’s principal newspaper, the Gazeta de México, starting in March of 1786. With the diffusion of new recipes, there arose a kind of fervor for experimenting with strange ingredients and mixtures. Parish priests of the Michoacán diocese exchanged their discoveries in the pages of the Gazeta de México: between March and June of 1786 one could read various ingenious recipes for cooking customary meals without the American grain. These recipes to combat hunger, devised with rather unusual ingredients, were nevertheless bound to traditional techniques (slow and prolonged cooking, grinding on a metate, steaming food or cooking it on a comal32) and the essential characteristics of shape, color and texture of the original dishes: in the form of soft crepes like tortillas; as dough wrapped in some kind of leaf, like tamales; powdered like pinole; or in thick liquid like atole. The newspaper’s pages highlighted achievements made by authors of recipes in their respective cities. In Acuitcio, a correspondent related, “one poor person experienced making tortillas from dough of only well-ground corncobs, without mixing in any maize nor anything else, and they came out very well, and others continue to follow his example”;33 in Sahuayo, tamales from maguey plants tasted very good;34 in Apatzingán, barely-ripe plantains “are used to make agreeable and tasty tortillas, providing safe and solid sustenance.”35 From Valladolid, Pénjamo, San Pedro Paracho, Xirosto, Pizándaro, San Luis Potosí, San Miguel el Grande and many other cities, recipes arrived at the newspaper; all aiming to contribute to the same patriotic cause. In his well-known work, Benedict Anderson analyzed the importance of the press for patriotic manifestations in New Spain at the end of the eighteenth century, and its impact on a rising criollo nationalism.36 While Anderson’s arguments have been questioned by more recent historiography,37 the notion he proposed of “imagined community” is relevant for understanding the role of the press in forming alimentary strategies conceived in terms

86 FOOD SHORTAGE IN COLONIAL MEXICO of “public good” and a modern political culture. Editors, writers, correspondents and readers of the Gazeta were progressively building a new geographic and social archetype that transcended more immediate realities, like those of the village, city or parish.38 Exchanging recipes allowed elites to recognize themselves as members of the same community, united by the same concerns and complicit in efforts to transform the destiny of a realm threatened by the maize shortage. Systemization of a cuisine “in the style of the country” was not the only characteristic for this new phase of mobilizing the elites against the problem of famine. Tortillas, tamales, atoles and pinoles, dishes of popular and ancestral dominance, became in the hands of the promoters of “patriotic” recipes expressions of a strictly codified and regulated knowledge, which relegated the subjective, experiential and anecdotal dimension of traditional ways, nearly always oral, of transmitting culinary know-how.39 Recipes were supported exclusively by their authors’ precise instructions, which guaranteed their ostensible success as well as re-establishment of societal order and well-being. For example, the recipe for making tortillas from oats, while “simple,” had to “follow the proper method, in the manner described”; a similar warning was issued along with the priest Texeda’s recipe for making tortillas with ground corncobs: “[the tortillas] come out tough if the exact method isn’t followed. Thus Priest-Examiner Dr. Texeda from Pénjamo assures us in his letter of March second of this year. Distribute copies to nearby parishes.”40 In the month of June 1786, a group of individuals committed to inventing useful recipes sent results of their culinary experiments to the viceroy. Colonial authorities approved the recipes and ordered that one in particular, for oatmeal tortillas, be published in the Gazeta de México. Oats, considered a food exclusively for cattle, were now presented as “inoffensive, healthy and very nutritious”41 cereal. The instructions were simple, clear and detailed so that any reader might reproduce them in their own home. Their preparation was furthermore similar to that for preparing maize tortillas: with the metate to grind the grain and the comal for cooking the final product. The publication of recipes under the auspices of the viceroy began a new phase in the patriotic food program. This stage was characterized by prescription and imposition of alimentary norms by the highest levels in the viceregal hierarchy. The transitory and experimental character of measures for confronting the food shortage was supplanted by an ambitious alimentary policy that made food an instrument for reforming colonial society. The idea of patriotism, as well as the “public good,” was considerably transformed. Food programs arising toward the end of the 1785–7 crisis would remain distinct from the Christian value of charity as well as the crisis conditions that originally motivated them. In their place, new parameters were instituted to codify and regularize the culinary practices of colonial society, with the goal of turning inhabitants into rational, useful and productive citizens.

The food shortage as a catalyst for the ﬁrst public food policies At the end of the food shortage, colonial authorities drew upon the idea of a unique cuisine common to New Spain, to carry out important reforms for modernizing the viceroyalty. This time it had nothing to do with facing the components of a local crisis, but with inducing profound changes to the organization and workings of colonial society. In their attempt to optimize time, eﬀort and productivity for the realm’s inhabitants,

87 S. BAK-GELLER CORONA promoters of the public food campaigns proposed, at the end of the eighteenth century, substituting bread for tortillas. The famine had revealed the importance of maize for New Spain’s diet. Still, some members of the realm’s intellectual and political elite would argue for its benefits and delve into new ways of consuming this cereal. If on the one hand the American grain – easy to grow, with abundant yields and versatile as a cooking ingredient – represented America’s natural riches and the originality of cooking “in the style of the country,” on the other the prestige of bread-civilizations progressively imposed themselves upon tortilla culture, characterized as archaic and irrational, and associated with the indigenous population. The debate over corn in fact entailed another more important issue regarding the construction of an ideal society and new identity referents. Chemical theory and European domestic economy were great influences on the tortilla’s detractors.42 For medical science in the eighteenth century, fermentation constituted one of the principal chemical processes necessary for good digestion.43 In this framework the tortilla, whose means of preparation involved no fermentation process, was considered a disadvantageous food, while bread was yeast-based. Considered a “gross, dense and viscose mass,”44 the tortilla was considered inappropriate for sick people, in particular, who might have digestive complications. Excessive consumption of tortillas was seen as causing such stomach ailments as ”indigestion and distension,” symptoms “very common among the Indians,”45 in the opinion of one doctor. Discussions about ways of preparing the cereal versus its qualities, led to a new culinary experience, which linked the American grain’s benefits and advantages of bread-making methods to meet the demands of modernity. Thus promoters (doctors, journalists, function- aries) of a new food regimen began thinking about mass manufacture of corn-based bread. In 1786 the Gazeta de México wrote about the first experiments, but it was not until the spring of 1807 that the newspaper announced the successful manufacture of bread that was three parts wheat and one part corn. The results were presented with all honors before Viceroy José de Iturrigaray and his advisors, who ruled “unanimously” in favor of the bread. The Diario de México promised its readers it would reveal the recipe for the new bread, whose composition it proclaimed to be “healthier than that of wheat alone.”46 The viceroy participated fully in promoting this bread, certifying the recipe, decreeing that it be distributed throughout the rest of North America and ordering construction of a bakery in Mexico City that would be exclusively dedicated to making and distributing this product throughout the region.47 The first loaves were handed out in orphanages, hospitals and schools where, according to the press, the product was well-received: “all ate it with gusto and asked for more.”48 After announcing the first successes for the corn bread campaign, newspaper pages abruptly interrupted news of the project. Looking back from the present allows us to suppose, according to current evidence – like the high consumption of tortillas and absence of corn bread in Mexico – that elite efforts to civilize the “plebeians,” entreating them to eat corn in the form of bread, failed. However, beyond the success or failure of the project, it is interesting to recall the food policy arising from the 1785–7 famine, and the possibilities the crisis had opened within the project of political and social regeneration of colonial society, driven by the realm’s elites. The first rains of summer 1787 ended the droughts of prior years. Still, the famine had left its mark on colonial society: a mass exodus from the countryside to the cities, evidence of the inequitable colonial agrarian structure and, above all, a new consciousness among elites of the predominance of maize in viceregal culinary habits, and its symbolic value as a

88 FOOD SHORTAGE IN COLONIAL MEXICO cohesive element among inhabitants in the context of society’s political reconfiguration. Recipes to combat the 1785–7 famine revealed for the first time how corn shortage affected all colonial society equally. Recognition of an alimentary culture – or “in the style of the country”–shared by residents from different social sectors, transformed meanings for the concept of patria, and ways of conceiving New Spain’s collective identity. The idea of a “style of the country” broke social and geographic barriers that until then had defined the notion of community. At the same time, it served to create new identity links between groups and regions that had been isolated, and even antagonistic, but which inhabited the same territorial jurisdiction: the viceroyalty of New Spain. The first Hispanic American experience of formalization, systematization and typification of local culinary knowledge was undertaken by enlightened figures from the eighteenth century like José Antonio Alzate and José Pérez Calama, who went beyond the elements of the crisis that had motivated it. The 1807 invention of a corn bread recipe, that combined benefits of the American grain with techniques of bread baking (including fermentation), were inscribed in some manner upon the thought on crisis that had risen from the famine: corn bread would lend continuity to efforts toward unifying and regulating society’s alimentary habits and would help prevent future situations of food scarcity. Involvement by the viceroy in the process of validating and distributing corn bread revealed at the same time a new concept of food as an instrument of control and social transformation. The appearance and consolidation of New Spain’s first food policies, borne of the 1785–7 famine, open a chapter that, while little-explored, is fundamental for understanding the relationship between food, power and society in Hispanic America.

Notes 1 For a general vision of agricultural crises in New Spain: Virginia García Acosta, “Las catástrofes agrícolas y sus efectos en la alimentación, escasez y carestía de maíz, trigo y carne en el México central a fines de la época colonial,” in Shoko Doode and Emma Paulina Pérez, eds, Sociedad, economía y cultura alimentaria, Mexico City: Centro de Investigación en Alimentación y Desarrollo- CIESAS, 1994; and América Molina del Villar, Por voluntad divina: escasez, epidemias y otras calami- dades en la Ciudad de México, 1700–1762, Mexico City: CIESAS, 1996. 2 Cited by Carlos de Sigüenza y Góngora, Relaciones históricas, Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 1992, p. 130. 3 Rodolfo Pastor, “Introducción,” in Enrique Florescano, ed., Fuentes para la historia de la crisis agrícola de 1785–1786, Mexico City: Archivo General de la Nación, vol. 1, 1981, p. 32. 4 Fernández de Lizardi, El Pensador Mexicano, vol. IV, “Sobre el amor de la patria,” Mexico City: Centro de estudios de historia de México Condumex, 1987, ed. facsimil (Imprenta de doña María Fernández de Jáuregui, 1812–14), p. 6. 5Whilethe“patriotic” recipes were aimed at the entire colonial population, we can assume by the comments of some of the authors that there were different audiences. Some examples are the allu- sion to “soft”, “juicy” and “exquisite” dishes, or the comparison with the taste of a refined nougat or expensive almonds brought from Spain. Gazeta de México, February 14, 1786; June 27, 1786. 6 François-Xavier Guerra, “The Implosion of the Spanish Empire: Emerging Statehood and Col- lective Identities,” in Luis Roniger and Tamar Herzog, eds, The Collective and the Public in Latin America: Culture Identities and Political Order, East Sussex: Sussex Academic Press, 2000; Cristóbal Aljovín de Losada, “Ciudadano y vecino en Iberoamérica, 1750–1850: Monarquía o República,” in Javier Fernández Sebastián, ed., Diccionario político y social del mundo iberoamericano. La era de las revoluciones, 1750–1850, t.1, Madrid: Fundación Carolina-Sociedad Estatal de Conmemoraciones Culturales-Centro de Estudios Políticos y Constitucionales, 2009. 7 De Lizardi, El Pensador Mexicano, p. 7. Benito Jerónimo Feijoo (1676–1764) was one of the most- read authors in the Spanish empire, he defined the concept of patria as an entity formed by those

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living under the same laws and government, independent of their places of birth. Benito Jerónimo Feijoo, “Amor de la patria y pasión nacional,” Teatro crítico universal, t. III, Madrid: Joaquim Ibarra, Impresor de cámara de S.M., 1779 [1726–1739]. 8 François-Xavier Guerra, “Una modernidad alternativa,” in Modernidad e independencias. Ensayos sobre las revoluciones hispánicas, 3rd edn, Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica-Mapfre, 2000, pp. 67–72; Annick Lempérière, Entre Dieu et le Roi, la République. Mexico, XVIe-XIXe siècles, Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 2005. 9 De Lizardi, El Pensador Mexicano,p.6.Xacales are a type of rustic cabin. 10 José Antonio Alzate Ramírez, Consejos útiles. Consulted in Gacetas de Literatura de México, por José Antonio Alzate Ramírez, socio correspondiente de la Real Academia de las ciencias de París, del Real Jardín botánico de Madrid, y de la sociedad bascongada, t. II, Puebla: Reimpresa en la oficina del hospital de San Pedro, a cargo del ciudadano Manuel Buen Abad, 1831 [1790–2], p. 332. From here on, referred to as Consejos útiles. 11 See for example Solange Alberro, Del gachupin al criollo, México: El Colegio de México, 1992; James Lockhart, The Nahuas After the Conquest, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1992. Chroni- cles from the Indies and other descriptions of the colonial era were wont to include observations about this alimentary demarcation. 12 Gazeta de México, February 14, 1786. 13 Consejos útiles, p. 55. 14 Consejos útiles, p. 177. 15 Consejos útiles, p. 182. 16 Consejos útiles, p. 179. 17 Referring to the Encyclopédie économique ou Système général d’économie rustique, d’économie domestique, d’économie politique, printed by members of the Bern Economic Society in Yverdon, 1770–1. Con- sejos útiles, p. 177. 18 The author of these recipes, as Alzate himself mentions, is one “Monsieur Recolin,” of whom we have no further information. This work was written during the 1747 famine caused by England’s blockade of the port of Bordeaux. 19 Consejos útiles, p. 177. 20 Consejos útiles, p. 182. 21 Consejos útiles, p. 184. 22 Consejos útiles, pp. 183–4. 23 Consejos útiles. 24 For treatment of cooking by Enlightenment philosophers, see Jean Claude Bonnet, “Le réseau culinaire dans l’Encyclopédie,” Annales. Économies, Sociétés, Civilisations, 31(5), 1976, pp. 891–914. 25 Gazeta de México, April 18, 1786. 26 Germán Cardozo, Michoacán en el siglo de las luces, Mexico City: El Colegio de México, 1973, pp. 34–47. 27 The Vascongada Society was created in 1764, though the majority of such societies appeared between 1775 and 1784, with state support. For a more detailed description of the functions of these societies see François-Xavier Guerra, “Una modernidad alternativa,” in Modernidad e independencias. Ensayos sobre las revoluciones hispánicas, 3rd edn, Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica-Mapfre, 2000, pp. 85–113. 28 Guerra, “Una modernidad alternativa,” p. 104. 29 Cardozo, Michoacán en el siglo de las luces, p. 48. 30 Gazeta de México, February 14, 1786. 31 Gazeta de México, February 14, 1786. 32 From the nahuatl, comalli. A round flat instrument made of clay, for cooking and toasting. 33 Gazeta de México, April 18, 1786. 34 Gazeta de México, April 18, 1786. 35 Gazeta de México, April 18, 1786. 36 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origins and Spread of Nationalism, 2nd edn, London and New York: Verso, 1991, p. 19. 37 Cf. Sara Castro-Klarén and John Charles Chasteen, eds, Beyond Imagined Communities: Reading and Writing the Nations in Nineteenth-Century Latin America, Washington, DC: Woodrow Wilson Center Press and The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003.

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38 The Gazeta could be bought at newsstands, the principal shops and other establishments along the streets of the main cities. In smaller towns subscribers paid on an installment plan to receive the news in print, in more or less timely fashion, and it was read or shared with many other people on the farms, at inns, in taverns and cafés, to mention just a few meeting places. Nancy Vogeley, “Mexican Newspaper Culture on the Eve of Mexican Independence,” Ideologies and Literature, 17(IV), 1983, 359. 39 The experience of Pérez Calama during the 1785–7 famine was decisive for the priest’s career in other regions of the Spanish empire. As a reward for his good work during those years, Carlos III named him Bishop of Quito in 1788. There Pérez Calama applied alimentary measures similar to those he developed in New Spain. Known as a “many-faceted and very practical man, [who] didn’t like philosophical speculations but useful things,” Pérez Calama promoted industrious, methodical and systematic practices for baking wheat bread. The priest offered a prize of 50 pesos to the baker who made bread according to his recipe, insisting on the precision and exactitude of the technique; that is, that the bread “form internal ‘eyes’ [and] the cooked dough break up easily into very small crumbs without any caking.” He then sent to the printer a lesson which showed techniques for building ovens for a bakery in Mexico: “The ovens should be of bricks in the form of a vault, with the floor built of quarter-thick stones, well fitted one to the other (so heat cannot escape) and seated upon a mix of limestone and sand.” Rodolfo Pérez Pimentel, Diccionario biográfico del Ecuador, t. VII, Litografía e Imp. de la Universidad de Guayaquil, 1987, 23 volumes, pp. 265–72. 40 Gazeta de México, March 28, 1786. 41 Gazeta de México, June 27, 1786. 42 The authors of an article published in the Gazeta de México of September 26, 1786 quoted the article “Bread” from the Dictionnaire de Chimie, as well as note 7, chapter 3, part 1 of La Médecine Domestique. Sources have not been found to corroborate this information. 43 Theories of the benefits of fermented foods began to revolutionize medical science by the middle of the sixteenth century, Rachel Laudan, “Birth of the Modern Diet,” Scientific American, 283(2), August 2000, 65. Allen G. Debus, The French Paracelsians: The Chemical Challenge to Medical and Sci- entific Tradition in Early Modern France, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991. For an anthropological study of the phenomenon of fermentation in different historical and cultural contexts, see Dominique Fournier and Salvatore D’Onofrio, eds, Le ferment divin, Paris: Éditions de la Maison des sciences de l’homme, 1991. 44 Gazeta de México, September 26, 1786. 45 Gazeta de México, September 26, 1786. 46 Diario de México, April 30, 1807. 47 Diario de México, April 30, 1807. 48 Diario de México, April 30, 1807.

91 6 “IF THE KING HAD REALLY BEEN AFATHERTOUS” Failed food diplomacy in eighteenth-century Sierra Leone

Rachel B. Herrmann

The British were floundering. It was October 1794, and the colony at Freetown, Sierra Leone, perched precariously on the brink of food insecurity.1 French sailors, caught up in the fervor of the Napoleonic wars, had struck the coast of Freetown only a month prior. Although British Governor Zachary Macaulay felt dismayed to hear the attackers “usher in” and conclude each meal with a rendition of “the Marseilles Hymn”—no doubt doubly insulting because the Frenchmen were eating the colonists’ food—he likely worried more about the aggressors’ destruction of Freetown’sediblestores.2 He witnessed “aparcelof Frenchmen emptying a case of Port Wine into their stomachs,” and the killing of livestock, including fourteen dozen of his own fowls and “not less than 12 hundred Hogs killed in the Town.”3 Although the colony’s black Loyalists had survived relatively unscathed (Macaulay reported “no appearance of want among them”), they remained significantly discontented with the white Sierra Leone Council’s political rule, and thus disinclined to tend their crops.4 Nearby, transforming indigenous African polities posed still greater challenges to British power. In 1794 a man named Bai Farama, the newest ruler, demanded a meeting with Zachary Macaulay. Macaulay, overwhelmed in the wake of the French attack, sent fellow council member James Watt in his stead. When asked why Macaulay declined to appear, Watt betrayed the weakness of the British position. If King Farama “had really been a father to us,” said Watt, “he would have sent down rice and Stock to us before this.” Macaulay remained busy “find[ing] Victuals for all the people at Sierra Leone.”5 Watt committed a double blunder. He disclosed the fact that colonists in Freetown remained unable to feed themselves. More important, he revealed the willingness of his fellow Britons to accept indigenous African leaders’ paternalistic rule of British colonists. Despite the fact that Watt questioned Farama’s capacity to reign, his use of the word “father” pointed to a reversal of traditional British relationships with people in the places they sought to colonize. In eighteenth-century Sierra Leone, the history of consumable goods such as rice, poultry, cattle, goat meat, and alcohol reveals a stark and unexpected power imbalance between Britons and indigenous Africans. The successful practice of food diplomacy—the use of these commodities to gain and maintain alliances—determined whether or not peace prevailed in the colony and its surrounding regions.6 Africans rather than Britons, however, delineated the rules, meaning that Britons made compromises about food diplomacy more frequently than they dictated its terms. Colonial organizers may have envisioned the Sierra Leone

92 “ IF THE KING HAD REALLY BEEN A FATHER TO US” scheme as a way to undergird British commercial might and to spread Christianity throughout the western coast of Africa, but in reality the colony’s food insecurity led to their dependence on indigenous Africans. Historians have pointed to the slave trade in West Africa as a representative example of British weakness in an age otherwise characterized by British imperial ascendancy.7 Scho- lars have also described the struggles of the approximately 1,200 black Loyalists who departed, first from the American colonies, and then from Nova Scotia to begin their lives anew in Sierra Leone. They have mapped the Loyalists’ conflicts with the Sierra Leone Company in London and its council members in Freetown.8 In these interpretations black Loyalists enjoy greater control over their affairs than their enslaved counterparts in the former American colonies, but once they reach Africa, indigenous Africans, not black Loyalists or white Britons, remain in control of the currents of the Atlantic slave trade. Writing food into this narrative makes it clear that colonists’ struggles in late eighteenth- century Sierra Leone extended far beyond the slave trade. Despite the fact that the colony of Freetown, financed by abolitionists, tried to avoid contact with slave traders, British officials met indigenous African leaders to fight food battles on a daily basis.9 Over time, as the colony stabilized, food exchanges between white colonists and indigenous Africans betrayed the continuing uncertainty of the British position. At least until the early 1800s, British failure to learn the intricacies of African food diplomacy caused the colonial project to flounder. And what started as congenial misunderstandings between Britons and Afri- cans eventually blossomed into conflict. *** British organizers conceived of the Sierra Leone colony with three overlapping goals in mind, each of which failed to a degree. These failures point to British officials’ inability to establish a position of strength in Sierra Leone. First, they sought to provide blacks with a new place to live.10 Second, they hoped to find and grow valuable merchantable commodities. Finally, they sought to spread the message of Christianity through Africa. A group of over 1,190 people embarked from Nova Scotia in January 1792 under the guidance of the abolitionist Reverend John Clarkson. By March the colonists arrived at a place called Granville Town and renamed it Free Town (over time, it became Freetown).11 They built their colony in the shadow of mountains that appeared “to rise gradually from the sea to a stupendous height, richly wooded and beautifully ornamented.”12 From the outset, British disorganization undermined the colony’s ability to feed itself, despite numerous attempts to do so. Unlike earlier entities such as the Virginia Company (which organized the Jamestown colony), the Sierra Leone Company was cognizant of the necessity of obtaining foodstuffs.13 Thomas Clarkson, one of the organizers of the Sierra Leone Company (and Superintendent John Clarkson’s older brother), proclaimed that “Nothing is more important” than “immediately putting into Cultivation such a Spot of Land as shall ensure [colonists] Provisions.”14 Other planners indicated the necessity of procuring and sheltering cattle. “I am told that Cattle from the [Banana] Islands do not thrive so well as those from the Continent, because they cannot endure the nightly Rain,” warned Granville Sharp.15 It seemed as though everyone in London had something to say about food planning. Still, it became difficult for these men to achieve their objectives, given the fact that interpersonal difficulties plagued the Sierra Leone Council during the first months of colonization. Councilmen began quarreling with each other even before all their ships reached Africa.

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John Clarkson remained frustrated that the Sierra Leone Company had named him superintendent rather than governor because the position gave him no power over his fellow council members. Alexander Falconbridge, a Bristol surgeon and fervent convert to abolition, was vexed that the Sierra Leone Company chose John Clarkson as superintendent, rather than him. Falconbridge was confined to the role of chief commercial agent—a job he performed poorly before dying (probably from the effects of drink).16 Former Governor Henry Dalrymple defected to found a rival colony at Bulama. Dr John Bell (physician) drank heavily and died in mid-March. James Cocks (surveyor) possessed little practical experience. Richard Pepys (works engineer) was a poor planner and stub- bornly averse to receiving advice. Charles Taylor (doctor) proved disinclined to tend to the sick. Storekeeper John Wakerell and plantation manager James Watt also possessed little to recommend them.17 The Councilmen allowed themselves extra food and liquor when the rest of the colonists ate reduced rations, and sold ship’s stores to Africans instead of distributing them.18 “Never were characters worse adapted to manage any purpose of magnitude,” remarked Falconbridge’s wife Anna Maria.19 Arguably, John Clarkson retained the most sympathetic attitude toward the black Loyalist colonists, and set out intending to provide food for the maintenance of their well- being. Before embarkation from Nova Scotia in 1791, Clarkson bought and inspected provisions and daily issued bread, butter, potatoes, cornmeal, rice porridge, meat, and fish.20 He also received word that the directors of the Sierra Leone Company made a relatively last-minute decision to provide colonists with full provisions for three months, and half provisions for another three; they intended these supplies to stretch until the colonists could plant and harvest crops.21 By July 1792—halfway through their first year in Freetown—the Sierra Leone Company had recanted on its stance regarding John Clarkson’s relatively powerless position as superintendent, and named him governor with the ability to make decisions that overrode those of other council members.22 Despite Clarkson’s pre-voyage preparations and expanded authority, however, he still struggled to supply the colony with adequate sustenance. The expedition across the Atlantic did not go smoothly. Six people died before leaving Nova Scotia, probably from typhoid fever, and another sixty-five expired from further contagion once the ships were underway. Clarkson himself fell dangerously ill, suffering from fainting spells and memory loss.23 His state of health upon arrival in Sierra Leone may have contributed to his sending contradictory reports back to London about the colony’s food security. In a letter to Clarkson, colonial organizer Henry Thornton expressed his surprise at information regarding food supply that Clarkson had provided. Clarkson had apparently said that he did “not think at all about it,” but Thornton had also heard about a journey upriver to obtain additional provisions—a point that contradicted Clarkson’s claim that the colony remained well-fed.24 In another letter, Thornton complained that the Sierra Leone Company had heard “nothing as to the means you are taking or intending to take for a supply of fresh provisions.”25 In fact, Clarkson had formulated a plan, but he refrained from sharing it with the Sierra Leone Company. Clarkson sympathized with the new colonists, but remained reluctant to trust them entirely to provide for themselves. He wrote that because the Loyalists had “their provisions found them,” a great deal of “vice and every species of wickedness and discontent … [was] spreading in the colony.”26 He sought to exercise his rule through the careful doling out of food stores. He disagreed with the Sierra Leone Company’s six-month plan for provisioning, and upon arrival he worked out a system of labor-for-food instead.27 Despite these alterations, the Loyalists trusted Clarkson, and generally accepted his authority.

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He returned to London for a brief trip at the start of 1793, when the Sierra Leone Com- pany summarily fired him.28 Other elements remained beyond Clarkson’s control. Ship stores were poor from the start. En route to Sierra Leone a little earlier in the century, Anna Maria Falconbridge remarked that her vessel carried “not a thing on board, but salt beef, so hard, we were obliged to chop it with an axe, and some mouldy, rotten biscuits.”29 Provisions for the black Loyalists proved little better, and within three months of their arrival food supplies ran low, despite the fact that transport ships had supplied several thousand pounds of beef, bread, pork, and rice. Colonists began eating half rations by 7 April. In May John Clark- son received a letter from a man whose family was “quite starving.”“We have had not a bit of bread for near three weeks,” he wrote, and “only half a pound of meat a day … I and my wife are dying by inches, really, for want of proper support.” With dismay, Clarkson wrote about “the confusion and irregularity in distributing provisions.”30 He doubtless contributed to part of this disorder, but managed to remedy the situation with his new labor-for-food system, at least until his departure from the colony. Other officials’ inabilities to cooperate meant that their missions to obtain additional food supplies rarely succeeded. In February 1792, before all of the ships had made landfall, works engineer Richard Pepys suggested that one of the other captains “go with his Vessel” to Susu Country “and other parts of the Coast northward to purchase live Stock & provisions for this Settlement.”31 The captain, however, “demanded” such “high Terms” for this service that the Council decided to abandon the plan by March.32 The company’s dearth of ships prohibited extensive voyaging elsewhere. In August Alexander Falconbridge offered to “make a trip to purchase stock for the Colony,” but John Clarkson observed that “from his constant drinking, he has rendered himself incapable of being trusted.”33 In November 1792 James Watt went “up one of the rivers after fresh provisions but,” for some unstated reason, “hadfailedinhisobject.”34 By January 1793, “there [was] neither beef, Pork, flower, or any kind of provision sufficienttolastthe colony a week.”35 Even when men managed to obtain domesticated animals to feed the colonists, the animals seldom survived the trip back to Freetown. A ship called the Providence carrying twenty-one sheep, for example, lost sixteen “in the course of an hour.”36 And when the animals did arrive alive, it took colonists some time to realize that the kernel and leaves of an unidentified tree posed “a mortal poison” to cattle, goats, and pigs, all of whom would eat the vegetation unless carefully monitored.37 Prepared foodstuffs fared little better because of landing and storage issues. Anna Maria Falconbridge pointed out that most of “the landing places are generally bad, in consequence of the shore being bound with iron rocks, and an ugly surge most commonly breaking on them.”38 Casks of meat, rum, and wine washed away before colonists found time to put them into storage.39 Two months into living in Sierra Leone no one had erected a storehouse for provisions, and the one they eventually constructed fared badly.40 Clarkson complained that within the storage unit “different articles and provisions” were “stowed one above another,” meaning that if one item leaked it ruined everything nearby. The “damaged cheese and biscuits, with other articles in a state of putrefaction” engendered “a stench about the storehouse.” Furthermore, a mush of spoiled food “allowed to lie and soak into the ground” outside made Clarkson worried for the health of storehouse employees.41 Internecine councils’ quarrels, colonial officials’ inability to obtain domesticated animals from nearby regions, the high cost of procuring provisions, the difficulties

95 R.B. HERRMANN in landing them, and the problem of storing them quickly necessitated that colonists turn to indigenous Africans for food supplies. Sierra Leone possessed no large kingdoms at the moment of British arrival; indigenous African leaders maintained power locally. The Temne lived inland, on the Bullum Shore and at the mouth of the Scarcies River, having migrated from Futa Jallon sometime in the fourteenth or fifteenth century.42 When the colonists landed in 1792, a regent the British referred to as King Naimbana ranked high in the hierarchy, and the Sierra Leone Com- pany purchased land from him.43 Lesser rulers paid tribute to Naimbana, as did other nearby families. In February 1793 Naimbana died, and in July of that year his son, Henry Granville Naimbana, also met his end. Bai Farama (also known as King Farama) took Naimbana’s place, but it took a year for the power transfer to take effect.44 Because Africans conceived of payment for land as a form of rent rather than a final sale, officials found themselves obligated to repurchase land as each new leader assumed power.45 When Thomas Clarkson made plans for Freetown, he warned John that he would need to “make Treaties of perpetual Alliance with Nambana & the other Kings.”46 His missive betrayed his concern that colonists would prove unable to maintain amity without frequent meetings with local leaders, who made it clear that their rule superseded British strength. At first the Company hoped to employ local populations to grow crops that would feed the colony. “Rice & Malaguitta Pepper,” speculated Thomas Clarkson, “should be produced by the Natives alone because … no cultivation on the part of the Settlers could produce it better.”47 Colonists would raise cotton, indigo, potash, sugar, and tobacco.48 Colonial investors assumed that they would be able to “make colonists of such native laborers as are found after some tryal of their industry” after providing them “small lots of Land.”49 They surmised that they could persuade some of the colony’s “trusty Blacks” to “converse with the natives & draw them to work for us.”50 Abolitionist William Wilber- force suggested that colonists could convince “one or more of the Natives to board & lodge with them,” and inculcate Africans with “our language & religion, habits of industry,” and “the mode of cultivating lands.”51 Ultimately the plan to convince Africans to grow crops for the colony did not succeed. The proposal to house Africans with black Loyalists was predicated on the hypothesis that the two groups shared a language, but many of the Loyalists by this point in the eighteenth century had been born in North America; of the approximately 1,300 colonists who arrived in Sierra Leone (including over a hundred white employees), less than one-fourth hailed from West or Central African communities.52 Furthermore, labor standards were different in Sierra Leone. The colonists did not control enough land for farming. Governor Macaulay bemoaned “the want of any constraining power over the natives,”“their very great indolence,” and the absence “of an overseer in the field which is customary & indeed necessary.”53 Despite the fact that Macaulay and others remained committed to creating new lives for former slaves, officials remained too reliant on established ideas of black labor; they assumed that Africans, though not enslaved by the Company, would require someone to monitor their time in the fields. Organizers also entertained odd notions about African versus black Loyalist knowledge of food production. In addition, it is important to note that few of these crops—with the exception of sugar (which organizers probably envisioned as an export commodity) and rice—yield edible produce. Colonial planners could not trust that African labor would reasonably guarantee the colony’s food security. Conflicts with indigenous Africans and the Sierra Leone Company’s policy regarding slavery also made it difficult to obtain food. As a colony founded by abolitionists who were

96 “ IF THE KING HAD REALLY BEEN A FATHER TO US” committed to providing a home for former slaves, Freetown remained problematically located in the midst of slave-trading societies.54 From 1760 to 1780, for example, one out of every five people sold into the Atlantic slave trade hailed from the Sierra Leone coast.55 The Company’s stance on slavery may have limited colonial officials’ contact with passing slave ships that might have otherwise provided food to the struggling colony. In the wake of John Clarkson’s departure, the colony remained troubled from within. Land allotment issues engendered clashes between the black Loyalists and the Sierra Leone Council, and culminated in the Loyalists’ 1800 rebellion.56 Although the Council tried many of the rebels, exiled some, and executed a couple of them, the following year one of the men remaining at large assisted Farama and other indigenous Africans in an attack on nearby Fort Thornton.57 They struck again in 1802.58 Africans thus possessed the capacity to isolate Britons inside of Freetown and prevent them from accessing external supplies. After exhausting all available options and acknowledging that their relations with Africans remained uncertain, colonial officials finally admitted their dependency on indigenous African food supplies. *** As colonists set about asking Africans for food, they had to learn the customs of indigenous food diplomacy. Food diplomacy had existed in a number of iterations well before the eighteenth century. Because other types of diplomacy—such as fur and trade diplomacy—began to falter on the eve of the American Revolution, British officials in North America became much more concerned with their ability to use food (in addition to furs and trade goods) to broker allegiances.59 Military leaders convinced Iroquois Indians to fight for them by holding meetings where they distributed generous portions of meat and alcohol. They maintained those loyalties by provisioning the women and children of Indian warriors when Americans destroyed Native villages, and consequently large caches of food, during John Sullivan’s campaign of 1779. During the course of the war, however, North- ern Indians conceived of a different version of food diplomacy that dictated that their allies needed to share the experience of hunger, and they subsequently deprived British soldiers of food when they went out on combined missions.60 Although the British officials in Sierra Leone had not personally lived through the North American conflict, by the end of the Revolution food diplomacy had become a much more recognizable form of communication in the British Atlantic in general. The act of trying to use food to maintain power probably came naturally to Sierra Leone Council members; but they would not have been surprised to find that power slip from their grasp. As newcomers to an area where British influence remained limited, men such as Clarkson could not expect a speedy ascent to the top of the extant indigenous hierarchy. Local African groups observed some customs that appeared similar to European foodways. One ruler was “said to expend annually” fifty puncheons “Of Rum in drams, treating his Negroe acquaintance.”61 The British would have been familiar with the use of alcohol to smooth the way for meetings, especially in the case of North American Indian treaties.62 Gender roles also mimicked Native American divisions in food production and consumption. Indigenous women, according to Anna Maria Falconbridge, were “obliged to till the ground, and do all laborious work,” and during meals, the men “seldom suffer a woman to sit down or eat with them.”63 John Clarkson voiced a similar statement after a meal with a man named King Jimmy, during which he noticed “that the women did not sit at the same table as the king,” and “When we sat down to dinner, the queen with her

97 R.B. HERRMANN daughters and other attendants sat down on the ground outside the tent.”64Although Fal- conbridge’s and Clarkson’s observations may have been partly misinformed (one wonders, for example, how everyone ate when English observers were absent, and whether lower- ranked Africans practiced similar segregations), their description of these customs sheds light on differences between Africans and colonists. The fact that they mentioned them at all suggests the degree to which colonists attempted to identify such dissimilarities. Other practices deviated from the familiar, and underscored British powerlessness. John Clarkson commented that although nearby rulers “levy no taxes on their subjects,” come harvest time each family presented “a present of two or three bushels of rice.” They expected their slaves to offer up “three or four bushels of rice per year, perhaps also a couple or more of fowls, a fathom of cloth, a goat, or sheep or the like.”65 These customs of taxing slaves doubtless puzzled colonists. Britons acquainted with feudalism may have recognized such forms of tribute, but few people would expect slaves to give away hard-won produce grown on private garden plots.66 More significantly, as non-producers of food, colonists could not expect to provide levies of rice or domesticated animals to the rulers like Farama who claimed them as subjects. Thus British colonists’ state of dependency at times placed them even lower on a scale of power than the slave societies they decried. Initially, colonists’ knowledge of African poisoning practices also made them reluctant to accept food and drink from Natives. Thomas Clarkson warned his brother that he needed to “take Care how you eat with the Natives, who have the art of poysonry.”67 Olaudah Equiano, who claimed to have been kidnapped from the nearby Guinea coast, opined, “natives are extremely cautious about poison. When they buy any eatable the seller kisses it all round before the buyer, to shew him it is not poisoned; and the same is done when any meat or drink is presented, particularly to a stranger.”68 John Clarkson found a similar echo of this practice during a visit with King Jimmy. He wrote that when Jimmy offered him wine and water, he placed “his glass to his own mouth first,” and then “gaveittomeafterwards” to set Clarkson at ease.69 Yet some suspicions remained, and with good reason: as late as 1797 black Loyalists caught Temne in the act of poisoning their animals, and possibly fueling suspicions about the existence of tainted meat.70 All the same, the British needed food, and in light of their failures to employ Africans to grow it for them, they began to accept it from nearby populations. In the April of their arrival, when some of the men had not yet moved from ship to land, a group of Temne brought “a small species of deer which they had shot” on board Clarkson’s ship the Amy.71 By March the people “of the Timmany nation” came “every day to the settlement in great numbers, bringing with them … Anana’s Banana’s, Plantains, Limes, Oranges, Cassada &c,” which they exchanged with colonists for “Biscuit, Beef, Soap and Spirits.”72 By October 1792 Clarkson reported that almost 150 Temne came to town each day. Each Temne trader had “among our settlers one whom he calls his friend, with whom he barters for commodities.”73 Britons enjoyed the most success obtaining supplies from the portions of the coast to the south and east of Freetown; to the north, powerful Fula merchants made it more difficult to procure supplies—though it was nearly always indigenous Afri- cans who chose when to provide colonists with commodities.74 As the colony’s position stabilized, officials began to reciprocate by sending comestible goods—oftentimes alcohol—to indigenous African leaders. Alcohol was one of the few commodities that Africans actively sought from the British (though their access to other European and non-European traders once again meant that Britons did not enjoy as much

98 “ IF THE KING HAD REALLY BEEN A FATHER TO US” control as they may have preferred). During a 1795 meeting with Furry Canaba, a leader near Robana, Canaba willingly accepted the case of gin the British brought him, “notwithstanding his being of the Mandingo religion,” whose observers normally eschewed alcohol.75 At times officials offered spirits in response to requests from nearby regents. When Farama assumed Naimbana’s place in the ruling hierarchy, the Council sent him “a Puncheon of Rum” in answer to his application for one.76 At other times Britons sent alcohol preemptively, to maintain good relations. When John Clarkson went to visit Naimbana in 1792—notably, during the height of food shortages in Freetown—he did so with a puncheon of rum in hand.77 After Clarkson departed from the colony, King Jimmy visited Isaac DuBois and expressed his “regreat” at “not seeing Mr Clarkson before he went away.” DuBois witnessed “several tears fall from his eyes,” and thought it prudent to comfort “the King with a Glass of wine”—again, possibly because food supplies stood at a nadir, and the black Loyalists were discontented. Jimmy departed Freetown “in good humor.”78 Just as colonists had to repurchase land from Africans, colonial officials realized that they needed to offer gifts of alcohol when new leaders assumed command. In spite of their efforts to portray Africans like Jimmy as thankful, it seems doubtful that the British enjoyed the option of refusal. When Britons offered other commodities to indigenous African rulers, those gifts usually functioned as symbolic or prestige items, rather than as food that would provide sustenance; Africans, in other words, rarely needed the edible goods that Britons gave them. Furry Canaba “expressed a wish” to James Watt for butter, cheese, flour, nutmeg, sugar, and a tea kettle.79 Butter and cheese may have been difficult to produce in an area where cattle did not flourish; flour was likely wheat flour, and thus harder to obtain than rice; sugar and nutmeg would have been expensive items; and the tea kettle would have allowed a limited number of African rulers to replicate British tea-drinking. Other tokens proved more substantial, but still superfluous for Africans’ survival. In December 1795, for example, the Council recorded sending a civet of rice and a cask of bread to the Duke of Clarence, forty-seven pounds of fresh beef to King Jimmy, and twenty pounds of rice, twenty-five pounds of fresh beef, and two bottles of wine to Mahomadas Samba.80 Such presents, consequently, allowed the British to participate in the exchange of food, but allowed Africans to retain the upper hand. As Britons and Africans increasingly shared food and alcohol with each other, the two groups enjoyed a brief period during which they engaged in what historian Richard White has dubbed “creative misunderstandings.” White is very clear about what conditions engender the existence of what he calls the “middle ground”: “A confrontation between imperial or state regimes and non-state forms of social organization, a rough balance of power, a mutual need or a desire for what the other possesses, and an inability of one side to commandeer enough force to compel the other to do what it desired.” These circumstances do not preclude violence, he argues, “but the critical element is mediation.”81 In Sierra Leone, imperial officials in Freetown faced the local influence of indigenous African rulers; with respect to power, the British may have remained dependent on Africans for food, but during the early years of colonization they rarely suffered the threat of Africans attacking Freetown. Both sides wanted something from the other—Englishmen needed food while Africans wanted trade goods, symbolic food gifts, and alcohol. Africans and Britons continuously negotiated their disagreements because force was a less appealing option. For about half a decade they peacefully exchanged food, before these exchanges deteriorated into ongoing conflict.

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During these early years a shared meal could function well enough to quash rumors of indigenous African attacks. In January 1793 Isaac DuBois woke to a midnight report “that King Jemmys people were in the Town” intending to strike. The black Loyalists were in a panic (they were the ones who roused DuBois), and had set about telling people that Governor “Dawes was sending for every body & arming them.”82 In reality Jimmy was not in Freetown; he arrived the next day with Signior Domingo, an African-Portuguese man who ruled at Foro Bay, to the eastward.83 The two men “said they were much offended that such doubts were entertained of their friendship as to suppose they would make War without a cause.” Afterward, “they dined with Mr Dawes,” and then visited DuBois to reiterate their peaceful message: that Jimmy “hoped always to be friends.”84 Jimmy came into town with a diplomatic communication, a point he drove home by remaining long enough to partake of colonists’ food.85 In this case, a visit and a meal calmed officials and colonists alike. Such shared meals occasioned different sorts of diplomacy. Sometimes, Britons found themselves trying to change African foodways. At other times, they had to disguise their disgust and silently eat the things Africans served them. And during other moments, indigenous Africans educated Britons about the proper ways to break bread. The Temne custom of separating men and women during mealtimes raised British hackles. When Clarkson went to visit Jimmy he attempted to erase this division. Despite the fact that Jimmy “would have sent” the women “something on his own plate during dinner, as he did” previously, Clarkson decided otherwise. As soon as everyone was seated, he took hold of the first dish, and “said to the king, ‘Now king, I will show you my country fash,’ and immediately sent the plate to the queen, and continued helping the remainder of the females.” In addition to sending food to the women, Clarkson personally served them, physically diminishing the space between them. His actions sent several messages: he implied that he was sharing his country’s superior custom; that he knew better than Jimmy; and that the ladies present deserved greater attention than Jimmy paid them. Clarkson reported that his serving the women out of turn “occasioned a general laugh,” but there is really no way to know whether or not Jimmy took Clarkson’s challenge with good humor.86 Perhaps he found the situation funny—but perhaps he thought it a bit presumptuous for a guest to alter serving etiquette. On other visits Britons enjoyed less choice over what and how they ate. When colonist James Strand went to stay with Naimbana for a few days, he brought along “a few presents” so that Naimbana would “supply me with fresh provisions.”87 Yet even when Brit- ons brought presents to local rulers to get what they wanted, there was no way to guarantee that they would enjoy the repast that awaited them. One day Strand described his dismay at “the sight” of “an eagles talon stuck up in the dish” that appeared for him. Though Strand was surprised, he “was prevailed on for want of something else, to eat of the Fricassee,” indicating that during this moment he must have initially refused the dish, and that his hosts spent time convincing him to try it. Unfortunately he found his “weak stomach unable to digest eagles,” and he reported “suffering woefully in this experimt.” Did Strand become ill in public? Or did he retreat to suffer privately? Strand’s account is silent on the matter. He did begin to “think of effecting [his] retreat,” and confirmed this decision after being “shewn a huge Crocodile that Evening … which though they assured me seriously of the contrary, I apprehended they might smuggle into … a plate of fricassee.”88 The British had to stomach a few unfamiliar meals rather than go hungry, and different ideas about taste meant that hilarity sometimes ensued.

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British notions of Christian superiority over nonbelievers also colored their judgment of African foodways. In 1793 Zachary Macaulay visited Signior Domingo and Pa Sirey, another ruler of Port Loko. Macaulay described Sirey as “a Marabou or Mahometean [Muslim] priest” involved “in assisting” other Africans “at their Sacrifices to the Devil.” Immediately thereafter, Macaulay commented that “Their meal consisted of nothing but Rice moistened with Palm oil and washed down with Water.”“The warm admirers of patriarchal Simplicity might here have gratified their taste,” he observed, “but for my own part I felt no inclination to change a piece of cold Mutton & a bottle of wine I had with me, for the honour of dining on rice & palm oil even with Majesty.”89 His notion of the Muslim faith may have influenced Macaulay’s willingness to eat his host’s food, as evidenced by his displeasure that their meal included no alcohol. Still, it is notable that even though Macaulay suspected his hosts of making sacrifices to the devil, he ate their food without comment and saved his reflections for his journal. At least in the early 1790s Britons successfully concealed their disgust with “patriarchal” African religion and foodways. Yet sometimes even though Britons thought they had behaved in an acceptable manner, indigenous Africans made it clear that officials had somehow erred in their practice of food diplomacy. When James Watt was on his way to Furry Canaba’s in 1795, a group of runners from a nearby town stopped him. Before intimating “the disappointment the Head Man felt at our not calling in our way up,” the deputy offered Watt and his party “some clean Rice,” and apologized “for the want of Fowls to render it more worthy.”90 The message here seemed clear: Watt had offended a local leader by neglecting to pay him a visit. The gift of rice was meant to maintain good relations while also rebuking Watt, who could have obtained a tastier repast by appearing in person. Generally, English visitors who cut their stay short received rough rice; hosts offered live fowls to those who lingered longer; and esteemed visitors ate fully cooked meals, with meat included.91 Women, however, may have received special treatment; Anna Maria Falconbridge wrote that “Wher- ever” she went, “there was commonly a fowl boiled for me.”92 These moments effectively reinforced the fact that although Britons could and did use food to maintain peace (just as Africans did), they rarely held the upper hand. When British officials tried to curtail supplies of alcohol to indigenous African leaders, the two groups clashed. By October 1793 Zachary Macaulay complained that colonists found themselves “much pestered” by visiting Africans bearing “some present of Rice or Fouls … with a view of having it returned in Liquor.”93 Macaulay called these items presents, but it is clear that Natives expected the colonists to reciprocate in kind. When told that Macaulay would not trade with them, Farama’s representatives clarified that “they did not mean trade”; they meant a “present” for Farama. Farama even charged Macaulay with treating “the King’s messengers with Contempt when they came to ask for liquor.”94 Englishmen did not comprehend the fact that when African rulers demanded alcohol, they were suggesting that presents of food or drink were compulsory commodities in keeping the peace. Attempts to enact analogous changes among other African rulers proved similarly unsuccessful. In November 1793 regents called King James, Pa London, and Prince George “came to renew their application for Rum.” Governor William Dawes refused them, but knew he could not send them away empty-handed. Tellingly, he offered them food instead of drink. The men “partook of our dinner … with tolerable humor.”95 This moment testifies to the extent to which white Councilmen viewed exchanges of food as a way to prevent conflict, even during a time when people disagreed about the distribution of alcohol.

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The Council enjoyed more luck curtailing the sale of alcohol to non-ruling Natives. By 1794 the Council observed a “general rule of not making any considerable presents of Liquor to Natives.”96 When these Africans appeared hoping to exchange edibles for alcohol, the colonists “receive[d] their present paying them somewhat less than its value, but absolutely refusing the demand for Liquor.”97 The Council’s use of the term “present” acknowledged African ideas about the term, given the fact that the colonists now knew they had to offer something in exchange. But by proffering less and less money colonists nevertheless hoped to restrict the practice.98 Britons thus exerted power in their dealings with non-elite Natives, but this act meant little to the ruling indigenous regents in the area. At other times, even the act of sitting down to share a meal could result in clashes. Some incidents seemed relatively innocuous, as in the instance shortly after the colonists’ arrival in 1792, when a ruler named Yamacopra—mother to Naimbana’s son, Henry Granville Naimbana—met John Clarkson in an unusual gathering at tea. During this meeting, wrote Clarkson, Yamacopra “contrived to steal a teaspoon.” An unidentified British lady, “who suspected her majesty,” noticed “the spoon under the queen’s wrapping cloth” and “pulled it out.” An embarrassed Yamacopra, in a state of “much uneasiness … took great pains to convince us it must have got there by mistake.”99 Clarkson presented Yamacopra’sdis- comfort jokingly, even though he admitted that a British woman literally reached into Yamacopra’s bosom in the company of a number of men in order to retrieve the spoon. John Clarkson knew that the Temne did not treat Yamacopra as a dominant ruler. She was “an old queen,” he wrote, “who does not appear to have much power.”100 Colonists could afford to call her out because she possessed little influence at this time. In emphasizing the fact that Yamacopra’s theft took place during teatime (a meal at the height of British propriety), Clarkson implicitly underscored the obnoxiousness of her crime. He could do so, however, because teatime meetings rarely occurred (one thinks of Furry Canaba having to ask for a tea kettle), so he did not have to risk a clash with a more important personage. Such incidents sometimes escalated, and in this instance Yamacopra made use of the little power she did enjoy to turn that British ceremony on its head by accusing Britons of poisoning her son with a cup of chamomile tea.101 John Frederick Naimbana, King Naimbana’s eldest son, travelled from Sierra Leone to England in 1791 with Alexander and Anna Maria Falconbridge.102 After beginning a study of the Bible and the Hebrew language, he was baptized into the Anglican Church as Henry Granville Naimbana in Clapham, London in October 1792. Soon afterward, he set out on his return, intending to preach Christianity in Africa—but he became mysteriously ill en route.103 By the time his vessel landed, Henry’s fever had progressed too far, and he never reawakened.104 On 18 July 1793 colonists in Freetown received word of his death, and events quickly accelerated.105 Yamacopra wrote a letter that voiced her charge of foul play, and Henry’s brother Bartholomew delivered it to Freetown.106 British officials met the Temne at a palaver,or meeting, to resolve the issue. Signior Domingo “opened the business,” speaking “in the Timmaney language.”107 Because Yamacopra had yet to arrive, he conveyed the substance of her complaint: she accused Captain Woolis, the ship’s captain, of poisoning “her Son while at sea with a cup of tea.” Yamacopra “demanded that the sum of 600 bars Should be instantly paid to her, in which case she would drop all thoughts of war.”108 The British may have known that Yamacopra’s threat was largely bluster. Although the Temne possessed the capacity to attack the British, they had thus far refrained from doing so; the meeting was a diplomatic attempt to maintain peace. Perhaps Yamacopra knew this, because in her letter she also offered an alternate option: if Captain Woolis denied the

102 “ IF THE KING HAD REALLY BEEN A FATHER TO US” charge and refused to pay the fine, Yamacopra suggested that he undergo the traditional Temne trial-by-fire experience: the drinking of “red water,” brewed from the deadly Calabar bean. According to Temne law, when accused persons drank red water, only the innocent survived. But in Anna Maria Falconbridge’s estimation the people passing judgment possessed more of a say in the matter, making the beverage “strong or weak, as they are inclined by circumstances.”109 “Guilty” people died, whereas “innocent” people merely became very ill.110 Even at the climax of this palaver, room for compromise remained. Temne, not British, actions made it clear that Woolis would not need to undergo the red water ordeal. When Yamacopra suggested it, the Temne released “Such a general burst of laughter” that Zachary Macaulay believed “they regarded” the idea “as absurd and impracticable.”111 It seemed as though the Temne possessed little wish to follow up on this portion of Yamacopra’s accusation. Maybe so, but Governor William Dawes still demanded, on Woolis’s behalf—and in adherence to British legal traditions—to hear the evidence against him. They brought forward the original accuser, a man named James, whom Henry Granville Naimbana had dismissed from his shipboard cabin and Captain Woolis had “put … before the mast … to do some duty.”112 It seemed that the switch had injured James’s pride, leading him to suggest the poisoning attempt. Now, however, he admitted that although someone had prepared chamomile tea for Henry, he “could not Say” whether someone “had put poison there.”113 Yamacopra’s arrival the next day saved the unfortunate Woolis. British attendees convinced Henry’s mother that she needed a witness to confirm Woolis’s guilt. In light of the unconvincing evidence (as well as clear lack of support from fellow Temne leaders), Yamaco- pra let the poison charge drop, and Woolis was free to go.114 Although the two sides had reached an agreement that avoided bloodshed, the incident demonstrated the extent to which fears and accusations about poison persistently undergirded British–Temne interactions. This particular clash continued beyond the poisoning charge. Even though it seems unlikely that the English poisoned Henry, the circumstances surrounding his death remained troublesome. After palaver attendees addressed the question of poison (but before Yamacopra arrived and formally exculpated Woolis), someone read Henry’s will, the contents of which, Macaulay related, “staggered them all very much.” Some of the Temne began “manifesting doubt” concerning its authenticity.115 It seemed that Henry, on his deathbed, had decided to give the British a very generous gift of food supplies. As he lay dying on 14 July, Henry had dictated a will that instructed his brother Bar- tholomew to pay thirteen tons of rice and three cows to the Sierra Leone Company. If Bartholomew possessed no cows to spare, he was to “purchase three cows” to give in Henry’s name. After this bequest, Henry “complained of fatigue” and said, “he would postpone the remainder till he had taken a little rest.” But shortly thereafter, “his fever and Delirium returned with increased violence,” and he died.116 Although the Temne did not know about this unexpected offering of grain and animals before they accused the British of poisoning Henry, they must have found the will strange nonetheless. Why had Henry bestowed such largesse upon the British colonists? Was there a chance that his conversion to Christianity had committed him so fully to the British that he sought to ensure their continuing presence in Freetown? Or was it possible that the British had manipulated the situation to enhance their food security? The discovery of Henry’s will occurred at a particularly opportune moment for the British. By mid-1793, Macaulay estimated that the colonists could easily consume a half

103 R.B. HERRMANN ton of rice per day.117 It remained difficult to maintain cattle, and although the colonists had managed to grow some food crops, the May to August rainy season always reduced stored supplies.118 This gift not only allowed the fledgling Sierra Leone Company to survive, it also, in effect, guaranteed that the British would remain in Freetown. Perhaps it appeared unlikely that Henry possessed breath enough only to ensure that the colonists were well fed before he died, but the Temne had only recently failed to make a poisoning accusation stick. They reluctantly accepted the will as genuine. In truth, a gift of rice that would provide twenty-six days of food for hungry colonists on the coast of West Africa did not pose a significant enough threat to Temne power. *** When colonists ventured into Africans’ territory, however, indigenous leaders demonstrated their strength, Britons felt the middle ground disintegrating underneath their feet, and less-than-creative misunderstandings over food resulted in tense moments. James Watt’s journey to Robaga to see Farama witnessed an utter breakdown of British food diplomacy and further emphasis on African paternalism. When, in 1794, Farama became the most powerful regent, Watt found himself headed to see him as Zachary Macaulay’s representative. In keeping with established etiquette, Watt was supposed to reaffirm diplomatic relations with this new ruler—atrickytask,given the fact that Farama had seized several of the Sierra Leone Company’s ships (they had procured approximately ten ships by that time) during the French attack that September.119 Watt reached Pa Kokilly’s town first, and blundered almost immediately. There, he was informed that Pa Kokilly had “expected us the former Day, and had kill’d a goat to make [a] good dinner for us.” Kokilly “proposed killing another if we would consent to stay all day,” but Watt was “urgent to get our business setled,” and refused the offer.120 Kokilly had honored Watt as an important guest by butchering and preparing food for him. By arriving late and neglecting to stay for a meal, Watt inadvertently indicated that Kokilly was a ruling member of little consequence. Watt continued to Robaga with Kokilly in tow, where Farama and his deputy, Banna, both appeared pleased to see the colonists, and according to custom provided each man in Watt’s party with “a live fowl for supper which is Customary.”121 Watt’s description of this practice was not entirely correct. As a visitor he could have received rough rice, cooked rice, some meat to cook, or a fully-prepared meal. The fact that his hosts gave him meat seemed appropriate to Watt, and it is true that they did not make him procure it himself. But this meal was already a step down from the one Kokilly offered him, and the fact that he had to prepare some of his own repast did not necessarily bode as well as Watt hoped. Indeed, when Watt subsequently attempted to speak about “the business we came about,” Farama and Banna put him off—“they said they cou’d not speak about it” until another ruler named Pa London arrived. Yet when Pa London appeared, those present told him that they still “cou’d not speak,” as Pa Arrow remained at large. Watt instructed them to “send for him and every person else” who retained complaints against Governor Macau- lay, but it became increasingly clear that Watt would be bound by his hosts’ timeline for business, rather than his own.122 Watt’s meal should have signaled the fact that leading rulers found his mission relatively trivial. The situation really began to deteriorate the next morning, after Watt made two accusations that undercut Farama’s food diplomacy, and thus his ability to govern. After

104 “ IF THE KING HAD REALLY BEEN A FATHER TO US” someone informed Watt that the other members of the meeting remained absent—thus necessitating a further delay of business—an unidentified person asked him whether or not “the King did not always take very good care of us?” An already frustrated Watt responded that Farama “appeared to take care of us ‘all same as Leopard take care of Goat.’” Everyone present laughed, but later in the day his hosts cut the palaver short by claiming that their complaints against Macaulay were too great, and that only he could answer them.123 Later, Watt would learn that his indictment of Farama (saying that he treated the Sierra Leone colonists as leopards treated goats) was tantamount to a curse.124 Leopards, of course, preyed on livestock in the area, and by suggesting that Farama was like a leopard Watt implied that Farama wished the colonists dead. This allegation alone was likely enough to end the meeting, but Watt made things worse with a second charge. He stated that Macaulay would not appear in person regardless of who wanted him there, because he was obliged to “find Victuals for all the people at Sierra Leone.”“If the King had really been a father to us,” concluded Watt, referring to Farama, “he would have sent down rice and Stock to us before this.”125 Watt not only suggested that Macaulay was too important and too busy to meet with Farama; he also questioned Farama’s inclination to provide the colonists with sustenance. Coupled with the accusation that Farama wanted the colonists dead, palaver attendees could have easily interpreted Watt’s charge to mean that Farama sought to kill the colonists by withholding food. The next day began as a hungry one for Watt. His hosts provided a breakfast that consisted “of Rice and a single fowl of a very small size” shared among the five other men in his party—a sure sign of his hosts’ growing hostility. Then, other rulers started in again on Watt. Pa London “began to accuse Mr. McCaulay and myself for never coming to see him at his own house.” Rather than apologize for neglecting this necessary custom, Watt explained his absence by stating that he felt “very little encouragement to go” because when “we went it was difficult to get any thing to eat.” After once again accusing an indigenous African ruler of neglecting to feed him sufficiently, Watt turned his attention to critiquing the present situation. “This was now the third Day since we came here,” he observed, “and we had not got at much of any kind of Animal food as to satisfy us.”126 Instead of realizing that he had not received meat because he was acting like a rude guest, Watt began to boss his hosts around by suggesting they begin killing animals to feed him. Watt noted that he had seen “several goats in the town,” which he knew “belonged to Pa London.” He said that if Pa London “loved us he would kill a goat for us, altho. we were not at his town.”“In a very bad humour,” Pa London initially refused. “The goats I saw were sent here to do God service,” and London told Watt that he “could not kill them for people.” Watt countered that “if I went to his own town he wou’d have equally as good an excuse.” Enraged, Pa London retired immediately, and came back with a goat “which he killed directly.” Watt related that Pa London performed the butchering “with so bad a grace, that altho rice and water is no palatable diet,” he “wou’d have put up” with such a repast, “rather than eat his goat.”127 Watt pushed Pa London to cease observing African ideas of food etiquette, and to feed Watt because he demanded it. Pa London’s violent slaughter of the goat demonstrated the extent to which Watt had stepped outside the bounds of conventional food diplomacy. It also boded poorly for Watt’s attempts at securing peace. Instead of sending Watt home after the failed meeting, his hosts informed him that he was to stay on as Farama’s prisoner while the rest of his company departed for Freetown. After they detained Watt, something curious occurred: Watt was fed an excessive amount

105 R.B. HERRMANN of food. An hour after the rest of Watt’s traveling coterie left Robaga, Watt was visited by a woman who gave him oranges. Then Farama “came to bring me some palm wine,” and told him “dinner shoud soon be ready.” Watt dined with Farama, Pa London, and Bar- tholomew Naimbana. Two hours after that dinner, Farama’s private dinner arrived, and Farama once again invited Watt to partake. Farama also offered him “some gin and water, which was even by me considered as a treat.” After this, Watt ate some of Banna’s dinner, as well. He concluded, “I had three dinners today, altho while Capt. B and the others were with me we coud hardly get enough to eat.”128 It proved a significant end to the affair. In overfeeding Watt after depriving him and his companions of meat and other edible goods, Farama demonstrated his ability to observe excellent food diplomacy when he wanted to do so. Especially in the aftermath of Watt’s failure to do the same, Farama’s generosity demonstrated continuing Temne power. Watt could not force Farama to return the company’s ships; he could not persuade them to release him; and he was reduced to complaining that he was hungry. Given Freetown’s constantly uncertain position with regard to provisions, it remained clear that the Temne retained control of these interactions. And Pa London’s aggressive butchering of the goat foreshadowed future conflicts when British colonists once more transgressed their bounds. *** As the turn of the century approached, relations in Freetown worsened. With the approval of the Sierra Leone Council, black Loyalists began passing food laws that infrin- ged on the foodways of indigenous Africans.129 The Council’s recantation on this position, combined with continuing problems regarding land allotments, resulted in the black Loy- alists’ decision to rise in rebellion in September of 1800.130 Temne attacks in 1801 and 1802 threatened the food security of the colony, as did the failure of indigenous Africans’ food crops in 1803.131 In January 1808 the British Crown assumed formal rule of Free- town.132 Such events demonstrated British officials’ inabilities to adequately govern their colonists, and the metropole’s skepticism of their capacity to do so. Failed British food diplomacy elucidates the prevailing weak British position during the early years of Freetown. The Sierra Leone Company’s inability to provide provisions set the stage for low food supplies, a problem that members of the Sierra Leone Council did not remedy upon arrival in West Africa. Long rainy seasons, problems apportioning land, and shoddy storage facilities threatened the colony’s food security, quickly necessitating Britons’ dependence on Africans for food. Despite the fact that African polities remained in flux, British officials rarely enjoyed much power in their interactions with indigenous African leaders. Throughout the 1790s Africans and Britons used food diplomacy to communicate through a series of creative misunderstandings that mirror Richard White’s concept of the middle ground. This situation was indeed a middle ground in the sense that Britons rarely reveled in the opportunity to dictate the terms of food exchange; sometimes they challenged weaker leaders, and especially women, on points of etiquette, but they seldom did so when venturing beyond the colony’s borders. When they strayed far from Freetown they tended to breach the confines of acceptable behavior, thus provoking conflict. When James Watt accused Africans of trying to starve the colony, he found himself symbolically overfed in a display of indigenous might. The history of the early modern Atlantic is full of examples of starving colonists struggling to survive during the early years of colonization. But whereas colonists such as those

106 “ IF THE KING HAD REALLY BEEN A FATHER TO US” at Roanoke, Jamestown, and Plymouth enjoyed the dubious honor of going hungry ﬁrst in British North America before depending upon indigenous peoples for food, colonial oﬃ- cials in Sierra Leone could refer to almost two full centuries that might have encouraged them to learn from past examples.133 They did not. West Africa remained an area where British power was weak, and where paternalistic African rulers dictated the terms of food exchange, and thus, more broadly, of day-to-day existence.

Notes 1 Jennifer Cockrall-King defines food security today as “a catchall term for the level of accessibility to fresh, healthy, nutritious food for a person, family, or community.” Jennifer Cockrall-King, Food and the City: Urban Agriculture and the New Food Revolution, Amherst: Prometheus Books, 2012, p. 318. Eighteenth-century versions of food security differed in that class and racial difference obviously altered certain peoples’ access to food. In addition, towns and villages sometimes deliberately made themselves food insecure in order to prevent enemies from carrying away movable crops and meat in the event of an attack. 2 29 September 1794, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (3), Macaulay Papers, the Hunting- ton Library, San Marino, CA (hereafter HL). Many of the manuscript citations that follow also appear in Christopher Fyfe, ed., “Our Children Free and Happy”: Letters from Black Settlers in Africa in the 1790s, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1991. 3 28 September 1794, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (3), Macaulay Papers, HL. 4 3 October 1794, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (4), Macaulay Papers, HL. This evidence challenges the argument that the French attack resulted in a colony-wide food shortage. Wallace Brown, “The Black Loyalists in Sierra Leone,” in John W. Pulis, ed., Moving On: Black Loyalists in the Afro-Atlantic World, New York: Garland, 1999, p. 121. 5 22 October 1794, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (5), HL. 6 In a modern-day context, a country offers food aid or practices food diplomacy in order to ensure the food security of another country. Many authors assume that US food diplomacy stretches back only as far as the 1950s. One scholar states that the United States instituted food diplomacy with the United States Agricultural Trade and Development Assistance Act of 1954, otherwise known as PL 480, because only by this period had the United States become self-sufficient enough to produce surplus agricultural commodities. B.J.B. Krupadanam, Food Diplomacy: A Case Study, Indo-US Relations, New Delhi: Lancers Books, 1985, p. 16. For works that consider the earlier decades of the twentieth century see Kristin L. Ahlberg, “‘Machiavelli with a Heart’: The Johnson Administration’s Food for Peace Program in India, 1965–66,” Diplomatic History, vol. 31, no. 4, September 2007, pp. 665–701; Kristin L. Ahlberg, Transplanting the Great Society: Lyndon Johnson and Food for Peace, Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 2008; Enrique C. Ochoa, Feeding Mexico: The Political Uses of Food since 1910, Wilmington: Scholarly Resources Inc., 2000. Yet I am not the first scholar to notice the presence of food in negotiations between peoples, especially between Indians and Anglos in early America. In historians’ books people break bread together, reference it when they seek to end wars, and attack food stores when peacemaking efforts falter. Richard White’s Indians and Anglos in the pays d’en haut, for example, spoke of having “To eat from a common dish” when they wanted to convey feelings of alliance, friendship, and peace. Richard White, The Middle Ground: Indians, Empires, and Republics in the Great Lakes Region, 1650–1815, New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011 [1991], pp. 441–2. See also Elizabeth A. Perkins, “Distinctions and Partitions amongst Us: Identity and Interaction in the Revolu- tionary Ohio Valley,” in Andrew R.L. Cayton and Fredrika J. Teute, eds, Contact Points: American Frontiers from the Mohawk Valley to the Mississippi, 1750–1830, Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1998, esp. p. 233; Daniel H. Usner, Jr., Indians, Settlers, & Slaves in a Frontier Exchange Economy: The Lower Mississippi Valley Before 1783, Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1992, esp. Ch. 6. 7 For British weakness in Africa see Trevor Burnard, “The British Atlantic,” in Jack P. Greene and Philip D. Morgan, Atlantic History: A Critical Appraisal, New York: Oxford University Press, 2008, p. 122; Philip D. Morgan, “Africa and the Atlantic, C. 1450 to C. 1820,” in Greene and

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Morgan, Atlantic History, p. 225. For the call for Atlantic historians to delve more deeply into the experiences of people in Africa, see Alison Games, “Atlantic History: Definitions, Challenges, and Opportunities,” American Historical Review, vol. 111, no. 3, June 2006, 754. For recent work attempting to address this call see David Northrup, “Becoming African: Identity Formation among Liberated Slaves in Nineteenth-century Sierra Leone,” Slavery & Abolition, vol. 27, no. 1, August 2006, 1–21. For the ascendancy of the British empire in places like India see for example P.J. Marshall, The Making and Unmaking of Empires: Britain, India and America, c. 1750–1783, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005. 8 Christopher Fyfe, A History of Sierra Leone, London: Oxford University Press, 1962; James W.St.G. Walker, The Black Loyalists: The Search for a Promised Land in Nova Scotia and Sierra Leone 1783–1870, New York: Africana Publishing Company, 1976; Ellen Gibson Wilson, The Loyal Blacks, New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1976; Mary Louise Clifford, From Slavery to Freetown: Black Loyalists After the American Revolution,Jefferson: McFarland & Company, Inc., 1999; Pulis, Moving On; Cassandra Pybus, Epic Journeys of Freedom: Runaway Slaves of the American Revolution and their Global Quest for Lib- erty, Boston: Beacon Press, 2006; W. Bryan Rommel-Ruiz, “Colonizing the Black Atlantic: The African Colonization Movements in Postwar Rhode Island and Nova Scotia,” Slavery & Abolition, vol. 27, no. 3, December 2006, 349–65; James Sidbury, Becoming African in America: Race and Nation in the Early Black Atlantic, New York: Oxford University Press, 2007; Maya Jasanoff, Liberty’s Exiles: American Loyalists in the Revolutionary World, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2011. 9 For a recent essay on British struggles to obtain food in Sierra Leone, see Philip Misevich, “The Sierra Leone Hinterland and the Provisioning of Early Freetown, 1792–1803,” Journal of Coloni- alism and Colonial History, vol. 9, no. 3, Winter 2008. Online. Available at: http://muse.jhu.edu (accessed 21 June 2013). 10 A group of 411 of London’s black poor preceded a second group of black Loyalists from Nova Scotia. The black poor departed from the metropole after the very harsh winters of 1784–5 and 1785–6. Mary Beth Norton, “The Fate of Some Black Loyalists of the American Revolution,” Journal of Negro History, vol. 58, no. 4, October 1973, 407; Ellen Gibson Wilson, John Clarkson and the African Adventure, London and Basingstoke: Macmillan Press Ltd, 1980, p. 53; Pybus, Epic Journeys of Freedom, pp. 87, 103. 11 Wilson, John Clarkson and the African Adventure, pp. 70, 76; Fyfe, A History of Sierra Leone, p. 36; Sid- bury, Becoming African in America, p. 98. 12 Anna Maria Falconbridge, Narrative of Two Voyages to the River Sierra Leone During the Years 1791–1792–1793, ed. Christopher Fyfe, Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2000, p. 16. 13 Early American colonists in Jamestown were more interested in searching for merchantable commodities than they were in growing their own food, and they depended on Indians for gifts of corn and deer meat. Colonists at Plymouth also struggled through periods of intense dearth and hunger. Rachel B. Herrmann, “The ‘tragicall historie’: Cannibalism and Abundance in Colonial Jamestown,” William and Mary Quarterly, 3d series, vol. 68, no. 1, January 2011, 47–74. 14 Thomas Clarkson to John Clarkson, 2 January 1792, f. 66, Add. MS 41262A, the British Library, London, UK (hereafter BL). 15 Granville Sharp to John Clarkson, Garden Court Temple, London, 24 July 1793, f. 154, Add. MS 41262A, BL. 16 Wilson, John Clarkson and the African Adventure, pp. 81–2, 117. Falconbridge arrived in Sierra Leone with his wife, Anna Maria, who remained in the colony after his death. She stayed until 1793, and eventually married John Clarkson’s friend and correspondent, Isaac DuBois. Anna Maria Falconbridge composed a narrative—written first as letters, with the intent to publish them—that informs portions of this chapter. Falconbridge, Narrative of Two Voyages, pp. 1, 4, 95. 17 Robin W. Winks, The Blacks in Canada: A History, New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1971, pp. 74–5; Wilson, John Clarkson and the African Adventure, p. 85; Wilson, The Loyal Blacks, pp. 191–2. 18 Wilson, John Clarkson and the African Adventure, p. 86. 19 Falconbridge, Narrative of Two Voyages, p. 74. 20 Wilson, John Clarkson and the African Adventure, p. 70. 21 Thomas Clarkson to John Clarkson, 2 January 1792, f. 68, Add. MS. 41262A, BL. 22 Thomas Clarkson to John Clarkson, London, 17 July 1792, f. 145, Add. MS 41262A, BL. 23 Wilson, John Clarkson and the African Adventure, p. 76; Winks, The Blacks in Canada, p. 74.

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24 Henry Thornton to John Clarkson, London, 23 November 1792, f. 204, Add. MS 41262A, BL. 25 Henry Thornton to John Clarkson, London, 14 September 1792, f. 180, Add. MS 41262A, BL. 26 Rev. E.G. Ingham, Sierra Leone After a Hundred Years, London: Frank Cass & Co. Ltd., 1968 [London: Seeley and Co. Limited, 1894], p. 65. 27 Ingham, Sierra Leone after a Hundred Years, p. 65; 19 November 1792, “Diary of Lieutenant J. Clarkson, R.N. (governor, 1792),” Sierra Leone Studies, no. VIII, March 1927, 106; Council Min- utes, 12 May 1792, ff.37–38, CO 270/2, TNA. By August 1792, Anna Maria Falconbridge was reporting that employees received two shillings per day in wages, but had to pay four shillings per week for provisions. Falconbridge, Narrative of Two Voyages, p. 87. 28 Before they departed Nova Scotia, Clarkson had made some promises to the black Loyalists that contradicted the Company’s policy on quitrents, or payments levied on land. The Company clung to its initial policy, and Clarkson’s removal made that decision easier. There were also rumors from Freetown—perhaps promulgated by fellow council members—that Clarkson was drunk on the job, quarrelsome, and incapable of working. On 23 April 1793, the day that Clarkson was scheduled to depart London for his wedding, the Sierra Leone Company informed him that his future services were not needed. William Dawes took over as governor. Wilson, John Clarkson and the African Adventure, pp. 130–5; Sidbury, Becoming African in America, p. 104. 29 Falconbridge, Narrative of Two Voyages, p. 36. 30 Ingham, Sierra Leone After a Hundred Years, pp. 74, 76. 31 Minutes of Council, on board the Harpy, Sierra Leone River, 29 February 1792, f. 6, CO 270/2, TNA. As of 1791 the Company owned only three ships (the Lapwing, the Amy, and the Harpy—of 35, 190, and 380 tons, respectively). Misevich, “The Sierra Leone Hinterland and the Provi- sioning of Early Freetown, 1792–1803.” 32 Minutes of Council, Freetown, Sierra Leone, 6 March 1792, f. 8, CO 270/2, TNA. 33 7 August 1792, “Diary of Lieutenant J. Clarkson,” p. 2. 34 Henry Thornton to John Clarkson, London, 23 November 1792, f. 204, Add. MS 41262A, BL. 35 10 January 1793, f. 4, Add. MS 41263, BL. 36 12 January 1793, f. 5, Add. MS 41263, BL. 37 Ingham, Sierra Leone After a Hundred Years, p. 146. It is also possible that cattle did not thrive because of the presence of the tsetse fly, though one article asserts that horses did not become significantly prone to disease from the fly until the last quarter of the nineteenth century. D.C. Dorward and A.I. Payne, “Deforestation, the Decline of the Horse, and the Spread of the Tsetse Fly and Trypanosomiasis (nagana) in Nineteenth Century Sierra Leone,” Journal of African History, vol. 16, no. 2, 1975, 239–56, esp. 242–4. 38 Falconbridge, Narrative of Two Voyages, p. 76. 39 For meat see 12 January 1793, f. 5, Add. MS 41263, BL; for alcohol see 12 May 1792, f. 38, Add. MS 12131, BL. 40 Minutes of Council, Freetown, 20 April 1792, f. 34, CO 270/2, TNA. 41 Ingham, Sierra Leone after a Hundred Years, pp. 91–2; Wilson, The Loyal Blacks, p. 247. 42 Sidbury, Becoming African in America, p. 98; Fyfe, A History of Sierra Leone, pp. 1–6; Kenneth C. Wylie, The Political Kingdoms of the Temne: Temne Government in Sierra Leone, 1825–1910, New York: Africana Publishing Company, 1977, pp. xiii, 3. 43 For news of Naimbana’s death see 12 February 1793, f. 15, Add. MS 41263, BL. As Christopher Fyfe has noted in his editor’s remarks to Anna Maria Falconbridge’s Narrative,theword“King” is a misnomer for these rulers. Naimbana became king in form only after his death in 1793. Britons used the term because it fit conveniently into their concept of rule, but Temne regents’ rule did not extend as far politically or geographically in comparison. Falconbridge, Narrative of Two Voyages, n.19, p. 19. 44 For primary sources describing the various African groups surrounding Freetown, see 10 and 17 March 1792, ff. 9, 13, Add. MS 41264, BL; 3 October 1792, “Diary of Lieutenant J. Clarkson,” 71; 18 July 1793, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (1), ff.71–2, Macaulay Papers, HL. For secondary works, see Fyfe, A History of Sierra Leone, pp. 10, 54; Wylie, The Political Kingdoms of the Temne, p. xv; Clifford, From Slavery to Freetown, p. 75. 45 On land purchase issues, see Henry Thornton to John Clarkson, London, 14 September 1792, f. 178, Add. MS 41262A, BL. 46 Thomas Clarkson to John Clarkson, 2 January 1792, f. 66, Add. MS 41262A, BL. 47 Thomas Clarkson to the Chairman of the Sierra Leone Company, N.D., f. 20, Add. MS 12131, BL.

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48 Thomas Clarkson to the Chairman of the Sierra Leone Company, N.D., f. 20, Add. MS 12131, BL. 49 Henry Thornton to John Clarkson, London, 30 December 1791, f. 41, Add. MS 41262A, BL. 50 Henry Thornton to John Clarkson, London, 30 December 1791, f. 41, Add. MS 41262A, BL. 51 William Wilberforce to John Clarkson, London, 27 April 1792, f. 82, Add. MS 41262A, BL. 52 James Sidbury, “‘African’ Settlers in the Founding of Freetown,” in Suzanna Schwarz, Paul Lovejoy and David Richardson, eds, Rebuilding Civil Society in Sierra Leone, Past and Present (forthcoming 2014), p. 4. I am grateful to Jim for sharing a version of this piece before its publication. My citations of page numbers come from the draft document. For the white colonists see Fyfe, “Our Children Free and Happy,” p. 6. 53 Zachary Macaulay to Henry Thornton, Thornton Hill, 7 June 1797, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (21), HL. 54 For example, see Henry Thornton to John Clarkson, London, 30 December 1791, ff.39–40, Add. MS 41262A, BL. 55 Thornton, Africa and Africans, p. 315. Before 1750 Senegambia, Sierra Leone, and the Windward Coast were responsible for only 9 percent of the enslaved peoples sent out of Africa, but from 1751 to 1755 that percentage jumped to 22 percent (after 1775 it fell to 12 percent). David Eltis, Philip Morgan, and David Richardson, “Agency and Diaspora in Atlantic History: Reassessing the African Contribution to Rice Cultivation in the Americas,” American Historical Review, vol. 112, no. 5, December 2007, 1340. 56 For descriptions of the events of 1800 see Fyfe, A History of Sierra Leone, pp. 81–7; Pybus, Epic Journeys of Freedom, pp. 191–202; Sidbury, Becoming African in America, pp. 25–8; Wilson, The Loyal Blacks, pp. 383–401; Clifford, From Slavery to Freetown, pp. 189–96. 57 [N.D., but likely August–November 1801], f. 301, CO 270/6, TNA. 58 11 April 1802, f. 79, CO 270/8, TNA. 59 Rachel B. Herrmann, “Food and War: Indians, Slaves, and the American Revolution,” Ph.D. dissertation, the University of Texas at Austin, 2013, pp. 19–21. 60 Herrmann, “Food and War: Indians, Slaves, and the American Revolution,” Ch. 3. 61 21 April 1792, f. 34, Add. MS 12131, BL. 62 See for example Peter C. Mancall, Deadly Medicine: Indians and Alcohol in Early America, Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1995. 63 Falconbridge, Narrative of Two Voyages, p. 45. 64 Ingham, Sierra Leone After a Hundred Years, p. 27. 65 3 October 1792, “Diary of Lieutenant J. Clarkson,” p. 71. 66 On slave gardens see Ira Berlin, “Introduction,” in Ira Berlin and Ronald Hoffman, eds, Slavery and Freedom in the Age of the American Revolution, Urbana and Chicago: The University of Illinois Press, 1986 [1983], p. xix; Dylan C. Penningroth, The Claims of Kinfolk: African American Property and Community in the Nineteenth-Century South, Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2003, Ch. 2, esp. pp. 46–9. 67 Thomas Clarkson to John Clarkson, London, 28 August 1791, f. 12, Add. MS 41262A, BL. 68 “THE INTERESTING NARRATIVE OF THE LIFE OF OLAUDAH EQUIANO, OR GUSTAVUS VASSA, THE AFRICAN. WRITTEN BY HIMSELF,” London, 1794 [1789], in Vincent Carretta, ed., Unchained Voices: An Anthology of Black Authors in the English-Speaking World of the Eighteenth Century, Lexington: The University Press of Kentucky, 1996, pp. 283–4. For an in-depth discussion of Equiano’s origins, see Vincent Carretta, Equiano, the African: Biography of a Self-Made Man, London: Penguin Books, 2006, pp. 4–5. 69 Ingham, Sierra Leone After a Hundred Years, p. 19. 70 12 September 1797, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (22), Macaulay Papers, HL. 71 4 April 1792, f. 24, Add. MS 41264, BL. 72 “Anana’s” are pineapples, from the French ananas. 17 March 1792, f. 13, Add. MS 41264, BL. 73 23 October 1792, “Diary of Lieutenant J. Clarkson,” p. 91. Although white council members claimed the commodities that the Temne traded for fresh fruits, it was the black Loyalists who, in keeping with extant trade etiquette, conveyed these foods throughout the colony. A.G. Hopkins, An Economic History of West Africa, New York: Columbia University Press, 1973, p. 63; Misevich, “The Sierra Leone Hinterland and the Provisioning of Early Freetown, 1792–1803”; Winston McGowan, “The Establishment of Long-Distance Trade between Sierra Leone and Its Hinter- land, 1787–1821,” Journal of African History, vol. 31, no. 1, 1990, 37.

110 “ IF THE KING HAD REALLY BEEN A FATHER TO US”

74 Misevich, “The Sierra Leone Hinterland and the Provisioning of Early Freetown, 1792–1803.” 75 7 February 1795, f. 76, Add. MS 12131, BL. 76 2 January 1794, ff. 118–19, CO 270/2, TNA. 77 14 May 1792, f. 38, Add. MS 12131, BL. 78 3 January 1793, f. 1, Add. MS 41263, BL. 79 10 February 1795, f. 54, Add. MS 12131, BL. 80 In Council, 16 December 1795, ff. 284–5, CO 270/3, TNA. 81 White, The Middle Ground, p, xii. 82 13 January 1793, f. 5, Add. MS 41263, BL. 83 For more on Signior Domingo, see Wilson, The Loyal Blacks, p. 245. 84 13 January 1793, f. 5, Add. MS 41263, BL. 85 The colonists may have suspected Jimmy because previously he had burned Granville Town (the first village of London’s black poor) in 1789 after colonists goaded a passing ship into burning King Jimmy’s town; Jimmy gave the colonists three days to vacate, and torched the town to cinders. Alexander Falconbridge assisted the colonists in the wake of the attack, which may have been partially why he resented Clarkson’s appointment as superintendent over him. Fyfe, A History of Sierra Leone, p. 25; Sidbury, Becoming African in America, p. 53; Falconbridge, Narrative of Two Voyages,p.4. 86 Ingham, Sierra Leone After a Hundred Years, p. 27. 87 14 June 1792, ff.39–40, Add. MS 12131, BL. 88 The crocodile in question was charged with killing and eating “the Kings youngest Son,” which was why Strand supposed the Temne had killed it. 14 June 1792, ff.39–40, Add. MS 12131, BL. 89 19 June 1793, f. 18, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (1), Macaulay Papers, HL. 90 1 February 1795, f. 65, Add. MS 12131, BL. 91 See, for example, 20 October 1794, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (5), Macaulay Papers, HL; 8 February 1795, f. 50 and 1 February 1795, f. 65, Add. MS 12131, BL. 92 Falconbridge, Narrative of Two Voyages, p. 46. 93 7 October 1793, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (2), Macaulay Papers, HL. 94 22 October 1794, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (5), Macaulay Papers, HL. 95 27 November 1793, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (2), Macaulay Papers, HL. 96 2 January 1794, f. 118, CO 270/2, TNA. 97 7 October 1793, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (2), Macaulay Papers, HL. 98 Africans valued things in cash as well as bars. A bar was originally the quantity of goods that indigenous Africans considered equivalent to a bar of iron because they did not use the paper and metal currency that Europeans used. All goods fetched a price in bars that changed according to demand and supply. On the fluctuation of bars as currency, see Christopher Fyfe’s editor’s note in Falconbridge, Narrative of Two Voyages, n. 32, p. 35. 99 Ingham, Sierra Leone After a Hundred Years, pp. 20–1. See also 21 March 1792, f. 15, Add. MS 41264, BL. 100 Ingham, Sierra Leone After a Hundred Years, p. 20. 101 For an in-depth discussion of this incident see Rachel Herrmann, “Death By Chamomile? The Alimentary End of Henry Granville Naimbana,” The Appendix: A New Journal of Narrative and Experimental History, vol. 1, no. 1, December 2012, pp. 43–7. 102 Falconbridge, Narrative of Two Voyages, pp. 1, 4, 74, 95. 103 For Henry Granville Naimbana’s education by Anna Maria Falconbridge, see Falconbridge, Narrative of Two Voyages, p. 70; Fyfe, A History of Sierra Leone, p. 30. For his religious inculcation in London see Peter Fryer, Staying Power: The History of Black People in Britain, London: Pluto Press, 1984, p. 427; Cassandra Pybus, “‘A Less Favourable Specimen’: The Abolitionist Response to Self-Emancipated Slaves in Sierra Leone, 1793–1808,” Parliamentary History, vol. 26, Issue Sup- plement S1, June 2007, p. 99, n. 12; for the story of his death by poison, see Fyfe, A History of Sierra Leone, p. 54. 104 18 July 1793, Margaret Jean Knutsford, ed., Life and Letters of Zachary Macaulay, London: Edward Arnold, 1900, pp. 37–8. 105 18 July 1793, ff.71–2, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (1), HL. 106 21 July 1793, ff.81–2, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (1), HL. It is not entirely clear who was initially responsible for conceiving of the accusation. Bartholomew dictated the letter to

111 R.B. HERRMANN

his translator, Abraham Elliot Griffiths, King Naimbana’s secretary and translator. When the Temne met the British, however, the accusation was presented as Yamacopra’s. 107 2 August 1793, f. 97, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (1), HL. 108 2 August 1793, f. 97, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (1), HL. For an explanation of bars see note 98. 109 Falconbridge, Narrative of Two Voyages, p. 48. 110 At times the ordeal seemed so predetermined by the impulse of the judges that some people chose to be sold into slavery (an admission of guilt), rather than leave their fate to chance. 111 2 August 1793, f. 98, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (1), HL. 112 21 July 1793, f. 82, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (1), HL. 113 2 August 1793, ff.98–9, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (1), HL. 114 3 August 1793, f. 101, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (1), HL. 115 2 August 1793, f. 99, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (1), HL. 116 18 July 1793, ff.74–5, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (1), HL. 117 8 August 1793, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, f. 118, MY 418 (1), Macaulay Papers, HL. 118 Clifford, From Slavery to Freetown, p. 114. 119 18 October 1794, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (4), HL. On ship growth see Misevich, “The Sierra Leone Hinterland and the Provisioning of Early Freetown, 1792–1803.” 120 20 October 1794, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (5), HL. 121 20 October 1794, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (5), HL. 122 20 October 1794, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (5), HL. 123 22 October 1794, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (5), HL. 124 24 October 1794, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (5), HL. 125 22 October 1794, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (5), HL. 126 23 October 1794, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (5), HL. 127 23 October 1794, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (5), HL. 128 24 October 1794, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (5), HL. 129 See for example Council Minutes, Freetown, 27 May 1793, f. 73, CO 270/2, TNA; 4 July 1793, f. 77, CO 270/2, TNA; 21 August 1794, Journal of Zachary Macaulay, MY 418 (3), Macaulay Papers, HL; Resolutions of Council, 23 August 1794, Freetown, Sierra Leone, ff.5–6, CO 270/3, TNA; Richard Corankapoor and Thomas Jackson to [the Governor and Council], Free Town, 8 June 1795, f. 175, CO 270/3, TNA; In Council, 9 June 1795, f. 174, CO 270/3, TNA; In Council, 12 October 1795, ff. 230–3, CO 270/3, TNA. 130 For the history of these food laws see Herrmann, “Food and War: Indians, Slaves, and the American Revolution,” Ch. 8. 131 Wallace Brown, “The Black Loyalists in Sierra Leone,” p. 122. 132 Fyfe, A History of Sierra Leone, p. 97. For the history of the decades that followed see David Lambert, “Sierra Leone and Other Sites in the War of Representation over Slavery,” History Workshop Journal, vol. 64, no. 1, Autumn 2007, 103–32. 133 Michael A. LaCombe, Political Gastronomy: Food and Authority in the English Atlantic World, Phila- delphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012; Michael A. LaCombe, “‘A continuall and dayly Table for Gentlemen of fashion’: Humanism, Food, and Authority at Jamestown, 1607–9,” American Historical Review, vol. 115, no. 3, June 2010, 669–87.

112 7 STOLEN BODIES, EDIBLE MEMORIES The inﬂuence and function of West African foodways in the early British Atlantic

Kelley Fanto Deetz

Williamsburg, Virginia, 1767 Before sunrise on a hot summer day, Sukey Hamilton, the governor’s enslaved cook, began melting butter for the day’s meals. This task, while seemingly simple, required constant attention and a delicate hand. Hamilton had likely been taught the following technique:

Nothing is more simple than this process, and nothing so generally done badly. Keep a quart tin sauce-pan, with a cover to it, exclusively for this purpose; weigh one quarter of a pound of good butter; rub into it two tea-spoonfuls of flour; when well mixed put it in the sauce-pan with one table-spoonful of water, and a little salt; cover it, and set the sauce-pan in a larger one of boiling water; shake it constantly till completely melted, and beginning to boil. If the pan containing the butter be set on coals, it will oil the butter and spoil it. This quantity is sufficient for one sauce-boat. A great variety of delicious sauces can be made, by adding different herbs to melted butter, all of which are excellent to eat with fish, poultry or boiled butchers’ meat. To begin with parsley-wash a large bunch very clean, pick the leaves from the stems carefully, boil them ten minutes in salt and water, drain them perfectly dry, mince them exceedingly fine, and stir then in the butter when it begins to melt. When herbs are added to butter, you must put two spoonfuls of water instead of one. Chervil, young fennel, burnet, tarragon, and cress, or peppergrass, may all be used, and must be prepared in the same manner as the parsley.1

Ms. Hamilton not only had to “constantly shake” the pan, but she also had to keep the temperature and consistency of the roux at perfect levels; melting butter, a simple sounding task, required skill, strength, and perseverance. The elaborate dinners put on in plantation dining rooms were produced in the kitchen, a space unique to enslaved cooks and separated from the public sphere of the main house. If the small gravy boat ﬁlled with butter required this much attention, what kind of labor and skill went into the rest of the meal? More importantly, what can written recipes tell us about the past, the people who cooked them, and their cultural inﬂuences?

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Although the history of African Diaspora foodways has traditionally been kept in the minds of the cooks, until the nineteenth century, the written record missed such chronicling. The oral tradition was central to preserving the rich cultures of enslaved Africans, especially during the years of the slave trade. While geographical locations yielded specific crops, individuals brought their own style of cooking. This pragmatic assumption is the foundation of this chapter. The scarcity of written records describing early African influences on British food challenges scholars to use a more interdisciplinary approach. Traveler’saccounts, diaries, letters and receipt books yield some information, but the absence of the specificities of cuisine and ingredients lead one to look elsewhere for supplementation. This chapter draws from written records as well as oral history, archaeological data, and architectural sources. It is through these diverse perspectives that one can triangulate the materials to create a multidimensional narrative that reveals the influences of West African foodways throughout the Atlantic world. While much of the early written record2 focused on European-inspired menus and excluded African-influenced ingredients and recipes, by the nineteenth century such food was recorded in the cookbooks of white mistresses. Seeing that enslaved cooks worked in the kitchens throughout the centuries, they undoubtedly cooked many African-influenced dishes during the early periods, but it took some time to formally remember them in writing. By 1824, Virginia housewife Mary Randolph chronicled such recipes, such as ochre (okra) and tomatoes, gumbo and Pepper Pot. She recorded the following recipe:

Boil two or three pounds of tripe, cut it in pieces, and put it on the fire with a knuckle of veal, and a sufficient quantity of water; part of a pod of pepper, a little spice, sweet herbs according to your taste, salt, and some dumplins; stew it till tender, and thicken the gravy with butter and flour.3

Such traditional African dishes were cooked in the homes of planters as well as in the field quarters. Their popularity is proven in the receipt books. Once a recipe makes its way into a cookbook, it passes a cultural test. It becomes more than a memory, but a requirement, a reminder that it must be cooked and eaten again. The significance of these West African dishes appearing in a published cookbook also speaks to the acceptance of African food and its importance as a signifier of socioeconomic class, national identity and pride. Literate housewives read these recipes and duplicated them in the ultimate performance of white womanhood—mimicking the plantation fare—one that is clearly a mixture of European and African food. The recipes that made their way onto the pages of published work are clearly not the only things that were cooked, but rather the dishes that were preferred. Therefore, there were undoubtedly countless more African dishes cooked, served, and eaten by colonists throughout the centuries. This chapter traces the history of enslaved cooks, from their ancestral homes in West Africa, throughout the middle passage, and into Anglo kitchens, where their talent became irreplaceable. It is challenging to tease out the precise influences of West African foodways in the early Atlantic world. Colonists transferred a plethora of foodstuffs, some of which were West African in origin, to become part of the Atlantic cuisine. What historian James C. McCann calls the “Atlantic Circulation”, also known as the “Columbian Trade,” drastically transformed the global markets, which were previously semi-bound to land.4 Black-eyed peas, okra, millet, and yams are some ingredients that directly transformed both the new colonies’ crops as well as the dinner table. However, the essence of culinary influence is not simply

114 STOLEN BODIES, EDIBLE MEMORIES found in these key ingredients, but rather in the techniques of the African cook, whose memories, creativity, and effort transformed crops into cuisine. African Diaspora foodways were complicated and diverse, stemming from enslavement, forced labor, and constant adaptation to new surroundings. Foodways exemplify the importance of food as culture, a way to maintain connections to the ancestors and to a land and people left behind. Instead of simply looking at the edible influences that were brought by the enslaved Africans, this chapter seeks to discuss this transformation from the perspective of the diverse interfaces that occurred during colonization. For example, a traditional foodways approach would simply trace the ways in which African flavors altered traditional colonial fare. While this approach shows the significance of African foodways, it is from the perspective of the colonists and voids a holistic understanding of the ways in which adaptation and agency affected cuisine and dining as a whole and its intersections with race, class, and gender dynamics. The forced interactions created a complicated web of cultural, economic, and regional differences in food preparation, consumption, and culture. It is not the food that makes a cuisine, but rather the cook who creates and sustains it. This is the narrative of crop and hand, technique and utensil, memory and adaptation, and the transformation of dining in the English-speaking Atlantic world that began in West Africa and carried onto colonial Virginian plantations.

A brief demographic of the transatlantic slave trade In 1482, the Portuguese built Elmina Castle off present-day Ghana, then the Gold Coast. Earlier Portuguese exploration brought interactions with the Congo Kingdom and long- term political, cultural, and economic relationships spawned the beginning of the transatlantic slave trade. While slavery existed on the continent and throughout the world before the trade, this particular system defined a transition to racial slavery, a complex system fueled by war, greed, colonial desires, and a developing racial ideology. The transatlantic slave trade was the largest forced migration of humans in history. Between 1500 and 1866 an estimated 12,521,336 enslaved Africans were captured and transported throughout the Atlantic world.5 During the first fifty years of the trade, Spain and Portugal were responsible for the enslavement and migration of 64,126 West African people to Uruguay and Brazil. By the 1550s Great Britain joined the trade, followed by France in the 1570s, and lastly the Netherlands in the 1590s.6 The European colonists took the land from indigenous populations to develop plantations and mines. These early colonies relied on slave labor, specifically that of captive Africans and native populations. These settlements were established without the assurance of success and oftentimes yielded a troublesome environment. Native American slaves worked alongside enslaved Africans and often these groups outnumbered the European slavers. There were many failed attempts to enslave the indigenous populations. Scholars have debated as to why this was so, but it is agreed that enslaving native populations was less likely in the British colonies than in the Spanish and Portuguese ones.7 Parts of Brazil and most of Spanish America relied on an integrated labor force, which in turn affected their foodways. Spain and Portugal forced over a million West Africans to labor in the Western hemisphere. Between 1501 and 1700 Spain brought 266,232, and Portugal 1,265,383 enslaved laborers to work on their lands, compared to Great Britain, which shipped 430,184 Africans to its colonies. The later centuries brought even more slaves. Between 1701 and 1800, Portugal increased its import of human subjects, enslaving

115 K. FANTO DEETZ approximately 3,378,386 Africans over this hundred year period. Similarly, Great Britain was responsible for an estimated 2,975,481 men, women, and children being stolen and shipped to European colonies.8

Roots and culture The 12.5 million captive Africans came from a diverse continent with a plethora of kingdoms that spanned hundreds of centuries. West Africa was home to thousands of ethnic groups, linguistic families, and rich cultural traditions. Just as in the rest of the world, complex social structures led to wars between groups and prisoners of war were often the victims of battle. As the European traders made contact with West African kingdoms, they began exchanging merchandise for prisoners of war, cloth, gold, ivory, and iron.9 These captive West Africans brought little with them in terms of material items—as they were often prisoners of war and/or kidnapped from their homes. Aside from the minimal objects kept on their bodies, they retained their memories and notions of self. Their distinct cultural practices were often meshed together with other ethnic groups’ customs. The transatlantic slave trade forced Ibo, Akan, Yoruba, and others to become African; an identity forced upon the victims of the trade. While scholarly work has shown the sig- niﬁcance of ethnicity in trade preferences, the distinctness transformed as more and more generations were sold into the Diaspora.10

Edible memories: food as culture West African societies depended on the fertile land and skilled farmers to maintain a stable food source. The diverse geographical and geological landscapes yielded rich agriculture and farming traditions were essential to survival and the development of a nutritionally rich and flavorful cuisine. Wild grass grain (rice), fruit trees, tamarind, watermelons, yams, millet, eggplant, onions, garlic, cucumbers, pumpkins, okra, bambara groundnut (similar to peanuts), sorghum, cabbage, and black-eyed peas were all commonly grown throughout the region before and during the era of Atlantic circulation. For centuries the trade routes from Asia and East Africa brought varieties of foodstuffs: rice, coconuts, and spices, all of which became staples for West African cuisines. The introduction of American maize (corn), chili peppers, peanuts, and sweet potatoes blended with the established flavor profiles. West African food transformed alongside European and Native American, all within the liminal space of the Atlantic rim.11 During the transatlantic slave trade era, the West African diet consisted mostly of foods from crops as well as from hunting and fishing. Many West Africans kept bees and livestock for both sustenance and trade. Meat (cattle, wild game, sheep, goats, dogs, camel, and poultry) was consumed although not as an essential part of the diet. More typically, daily diet consisted of vegetable (cabbage, onion, garlic, pumpkin, turnip, and eggplant) stew-type dishes served with rice, chickpeas, lentils, and/or legumes. Rice and barley-based porridges, also called puddings, were common. Meat was typically reserved for kings and special occasions like religious ceremonies or rites of passage. Wheat, millet, and sorghum flours provided ample starch for bread making. Records show the baking of bread in Mali in the sixteenth century, which was sold at markets for iron and small currency. Little honey fritters were often cooked and sold at these markets, described with high praise by a sixteenth-century traveler, as being cooked “by a skillful

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Negro woman.”12 Fruit trees bore apples, figs, pomegranates, plums, lemons, oranges, dates, and grapes. These foods would be preserved, added to stews, eaten fresh or dried and kept for future meals.13 Grains and fruits were also used to make beers and wine.14 As mentioned previously, meats were not essential to West African cuisine; however, the importance of meat in keeping with religious ceremonies insured the consumption of flesh at certain points throughout the year. Many West Africans practiced various types of ancestor worship, which required the sacrificing and consumption of animals. The preparation of meat varied depending on the availability of foodstuffs and the season. The West African diet included goat, chickens, crocodiles, turtles, snakes, wild game, and beef. These meats were often salt-cured, ground up, dried with a butter sauce, or roasted and flavored with Sudanese spices. Africans, depending on their proximity to water, also ate a substantial amount of fishandseafood.Theseafoodwasoftensalt-curedand/or cookedinbutteroroils.15 While geographic and environmental distinctions favored certain crops, there was still a diverse culinary style throughout the regions and between different cultural communities. The commonality was the style of food—the vegetarian stews flavored with spices and thickened with okra, lentils, and served with grain starches. Fish and meat might appear in the stew, or on the side, but the pot remained diverse and rich with flavors, regardless of the exact ingredients. It is this “one-pot” meal that sustained the people of West Africa before the Europeans came, and continued to do so throughout the Diaspora. Foodways continued to survive without much loss. The brutality of the trade was not enough to strip Africans of their memories of home, especially that of edible nature. However, the middle passage grotesquely changed their sacred traditions of food consumption. Africans went from eating as nurture, or ritual, to being force-fed on slave ships. The Atlantic Ocean became a world in itself. Coastal edges became the liminal spaces between the indigenous, the colonists, and the captives. The waters carried human cargo and foodstuffs, providing the colonies with a new cultural drama.

The British colonies: Africans in Virginia The colony of Virginia was established in 1607 after King James I issued a charter authorizing the Virginia Company of London to settle somewhere in North America. On May 14, 1607, 104 English colonists arrived on Jamestown Island and established Britain’s first successful colony in North America. The Virginia Company continued to bring new male settlers to the Island. Food was merely a function of living for the early colonists, and not part of any sort of cultural expression. These settlers ate what they could: rats, vermin, and grains. By the winter of 1609 they began starving to death and this lack of food resulted in over 400 settlers dying.16 Later in 1620 the Virginia Company of London sent ninety unmarried women to Jamestown, followed by more the next year. This diversification of the gender ratio signified the transition from a satellite settlement to a long-term colony. The creation of family life is recognized as the beginning of a Virginian domestic space.17 The early settlers, now accompanied by women, wives, and indentured servants, focused on building homes on plantations and farming tobacco. As the colony began taking shape, so did the labor market. The influx of black labor into the Old Dominion began early. Virginia’s black community is almost as old as the colony itself. The distinct Afro-Virginian experience began in 1619 when a Dutch ship dropped off “20. and odd Negroes” in Jamestown, Virginia.18

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Their status as free or enslaved was not recorded, but their presence in Virginia marked the beginning of an African, and later African-American, presence in the new English colony.19 The seventeenth century brought turbulent times to the English settlers and laid the foundations for a plantation society. Early Virginia plantations were constructed along the James River to enable easy access to transportation and movement of their crops. These early plantations focused on tobacco production and relied on both indentured servants and enslaved Africans to plant, grow, process, and transport tobacco.20 Settlements such as Kingsmill (est. 1619), Flowerdew Hundred (est. 1619), and Shirley Plantation (est. 1613) were some of Virginia’s first tobacco plantations and were considered the models of success and wealth in early Virginia. This early period in American history has been referred to as a “society with slaves” rather than a “slave society” and reflects the early stages of racial caste in America.21 Towards the end of the seventeenth century, plantation owners began preferring enslaved Africans over indentured servants since their life-long status and African-derived agricultural skills were superior to those of indentured whites with a mere seven-year contract. While the first generation of Afro-Virginians were likely indentured, the following generations were undoubtedly enslaved. In 1625 there were twenty-three Africans in Virginia and by the middle of the century there were as many as 300. By 1640 some Africans had been bound to a life sentence of servitude and, within two decades, Virginia put statutes in place, known as “Slave Codes” that began to formalize the legality and preference for enslaved labor over indenture. These laws not only applied to adults but also to their children, who would be born into a life-long sentence of enslavement.22 By 1705, Virginia passed a series of slave codes that governed the actions and status of enslaved blacks, and solidified a race-based caste system of slavery.23 It was during this period when the early plantations were constructed and the formation of Virginia’s domestic realm took place. The role of enslaved cooks began to take shape. Britain’s Royal African Company was responsible for shipping over 1,000 enslaved Africans every year to Virginia during the late seventeenth century. By 1708 there were 12,000 Afro-Virginians compared to 18,000 whites, and by 1756 the Afro-Virginian population grew to 120,156 compared to 173,316 white Virginians.24 In 1790 there were 292,627 enslaved blacks in Virginia, roughly 39.1 percent of the total population. Thirty years later, in 1820, the population almost doubled, with 206,879 enslaved women, 218,274 enslaved men, and four-fifths of the enslaved population lived on rural plantations. By 1860, there were 241,382 enslaved women and 249,483 enslaved men. On the eve of the Civil War, the vast majority of the 4,308 plantations housed 20–40 enslaved people and 1,355 plantations had 40–100 enslaved people each, working and living on their land. Lastly, there were 113 plantations in Virginia that housed between 100 and 300 enslaved people each. Thus, at the very least, these 114 plantations were the most likely to have a designated enslaved cook who performed specialized tasks.25 These high numbers reflect a larger plantation that equated wealth with a particular level of cultural production. By the early eighteenth century, over half of Virginia’s African population consisted of people from the Igbo from Nigeria. As the century progressed, more enslaved Africans were brought from Bight of Biafra and Angola and, by 1739, they comprised 85 percent of newly enslaved subjects.26 Noting these ethnic affiliations is important in understanding the skills of Virginia’s enslaved Africans, specifically their knowledge of foodways, medicine, and poisoning. While Igbo were preferred field hands, there is no doubt that with their high population percentage in the eighteenth century, many of them cooked in the main house.27

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Plantation society took on many characteristics over the three centuries. Seventeenth- century plantations were smaller and the planter often worked alongside indentured servants, enslaved Africans and African Americans. White women labored in the field too, and cooked, cleaned, and took care of the domestic space. By the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, changing ideas about race and class began to transform plantation culture. The increase in tobacco profits caused an influx of Englishmen to relocate to Virginia. These Englishmen brought with them an elite cultural standard. With this influence a new patriarchal plantation culture formed. The planter was the head of household; however, he was often disconnected from the direct management of his laborers. Overseers were hired; often they were poor whites or sons of planters, who were to manage, control, and punish the enslaved. The planters’ wives remained in charge of the domestic sphere and coordinated formal functions such as dinner parties, balls, and dances, but stopped laboring alongside enslaved bodies.28 This lavish lifestyle was only possible due to the heavy reliance on skilled enslaved laborers. Blacksmiths, brick masons, farmers, laundresses, butchers, seamstresses, and cooks were some of the many positions enslaved Afro-Virginians held on these large plantations and it was their forced labor that made Virginia’s plantation culture thrive. Enslaved laborers typically worked in the fields and lived in the field quarters or they resided in close proximity to the main house as domestics. Some neighboring plantations would be close enough for the enslaved populations to interact with each other and they often took advantage of proximity in order to maintain a sense of community. By the middle of the eighteenth century, race and status were melded and a caste system was firmly in place. Therefore enslaved people had to be issued a pass by the overseer in order to travel away from a plantation. This made visiting neighboring plantations a stressful, cumbersome, and illegal experience.29 A rich, vibrant African American community developed within the confines of enslavement and influenced many aspects of American culture, especially its food. Many scholars have explored this phenomenon, although less attention has been paid to the culture of those enslaved people living and working within the planters’ homes.30

Peppering the pot: food as cultural survival The British colony of Virginia was home to a rich and culturally diverse enslaved population. Early slave quarters often housed diverse groups of linguistic and cultural families. In the formation of pidgin English or Atlantic creole, common words were found, creating a communication style that paralleled creole foodways. Just as there is a grammar to language, there is a grammar to culture and specifically food preparation. Grammar, as a set of rules that organize and formalize a process, can be applied to cooking. West African food, as mentioned previously, had a common profile, or grammar, even if the ingredients were not always the same. Having a pot filled with varieties of seasoned vegetables and sometimes meat, rice, and possibly an additional starch (sweet potato, flatbread, or foo foo), was grammatically specific to much of West Africa. Once the African captives were placed onto plantations, they were typically given a large pot to cook in and this was often large enough to cook communal meals.31 With the labor demands of plantation slavery, many enslaved persons were not allotted much time to cook anything with too much attention. In the Chesapeake region, Native Americans taught English and Africans to catch bear, fish, deer, and small animals and

119 K. FANTO DEETZ these skills helped supplement their diets. Larger plantations had designated cooks for the field hands as well as one or more for the main house. Smaller farms differed in that enslaved persons would typically have to cook for themselves and the planter family, as well as work the fields. The size, location, and culture of the plantation dictated how exactly these relationships worked and every plantation environment differed. Archaeological evidence as well as oral history tells us that the field quarter communities typically had a central pot that was used for communal meals. This pot was kept on the hearth and the daily and weekly rations would be shared with the group. Corn meal and animal fat were the basic provisions, accompanied by bits of meat or vegetables. Gardens were kept to supplement these minimal supplies, and hunting and fishing were also common. Slave cabins typically had gardens adjacent, as well as chicken coops. Archae- ological research shows that while chicken was undoubtedly eaten, the enslaved populations in Virginia used chickens more for their eggs than for their meat. After laboring in the field from sun up to sun down, the hands would return to the quarter where the cook (typically an older person, with the help of children) was finishing supper. The iron pot that was on the fireplace, filled with rations, vegetables from the gardens, and whatever meat was available, acted as more than a container for food. It was in this pot where enslaved Africans recreated their culture within the confines of slavery and the unfamiliarity of Virginia’s land. This pot typically held African-inspired stews and allowed for a sense of home in a foreign land. Field quarters recreated many traditional West African dishes such as gumbo, stewed vegetables, roasted meats, all seasoned with hot peppers and spices to signify and sanctify their edible qualities. Fried foods, cooked in oils and butters similar to those in West Africa, were also manifestations of the African culinary grammar. It was not simply the ingredients or cooking techniques that emulated West African culture, but also the utensils used to eat such stews. Archaeological evidence shows clear patterns in the dishes that were used to eat such stews. Handmade earthenware ceramics were built in the shape of semi-shallow bowls. These vessels, a form of what archaeologists refer to as colonoware, were made by enslaved Africans and made in a familiar fashion to mimic both the form and function of West African dishes.32 These sorts of ceramics exemplify the transference of both African cuisine and material traditions to the English colonies.

Peppering their pot: food as presentation The value of West African foodways wasn’t apparent solely in the field quarter. By the start of the eighteenth century, most plantation cooks in Virginia were enslaved African or African American, and held a significant role in elite plantation culture. Behind every meal and in the shadow of the mistress was an enslaved cook, whose responsibility was to create lavish meals. These cooks existed within a complex social space, created by racialized and gendered ideologies and fueled by the domestic wants of the mistress. This environment, similar to a stage, relied on props, actors, and performance of domesticity and stringent social class mores. The relationship was built on status roles, negotiations, and a constant threat of violence. Enslaved plantation cooks performed strict roles that created the essence of plantation social culture. Since food was such a critical part of plantation mechanics and success, enslaved cooks were highly valued and sought after. In order for a mistress to have a proper home, she needed to inherit or purchase a skilled cook. Virginia’s newspapers were filled with “for sale” ads, containing everything from land to enslaved blacks. Cooks were some of the

120 STOLEN BODIES, EDIBLE MEMORIES highest valued and promoted slaves within this realm. Among thousands of eighteenth- century ads, cooks were clearly a commodity. For example, in the March 3, 1770 issue of the Virginia Gazette, a sale at the Amelia courthouse is advertised as having, “ABOUT 20 very likely Virginia born S L A V E S, chiefly men and women … and one of them a very good cook.”33 Other ads read, “I have for sale a negro woman that is generally thought of by those that know her an exceeding good COOK”34 and “TEN likely Virginia born NEGROES, all under 20 years of age but one, which is about 38, a good cook, and as handy a wench as any in the colony.” The promoted value of slaves was rampant within these sale ads and spoke to a particular audience, one that wanted the status of a skilled cook within their household. Age also carried a particular level of worth in that skill was accumulated; while field hands might get weaker with time, a cook only gained talent. Chattel slavery created a particular kind of labor structure, where both the mistresses and enslaved cooks held unique positions in the plantation household. Elite white women functioned within the patriarchy but carved out gendered space in a highly organized and segmented household. Within this space, they found power to control enslaved domestics and relied on their labor for their social elevation. Just as Sukey Hamilton was a highly skilled and professionally trained cook, so were many of the cooks in the British colonies. They cooked up a combination of European and African inspired dishes, like okra stew.35 Stew is not unique to West Africa, however ingredients like okra, a very distinct vegetable that thickens broth without the need of flour, undoubtedly changed both the texture and flavor of the dishes, making it more similar to West African consistency than a French inspired roux-based stew. Lastly, okra naturally thickens broth, while roux takes remarkably long to perfect. Slicing okra and letting nature take control of the thickness is far less time- consuming than stirring a vat of fat and flour. This surely provided the cooks with more time to do other things. Okra functioned as a means of cultural inclusion and a labor adaptor. There was a network of domestics that contributed to putting food on the table. This larger “catering network” was essential for the output of a meal and the cook was at the center of production. The kitchen as a backstage provided a space for the cook and mistress to negotiate their relationship behind closed doors, as well as a center for production. Enslaved plantation cooks were kept on tight schedules, performed precisely timed duties, and had strict deadlines, compared to other laboring positions. Their skills were manifold, and their role was central to both plantation dining and the larger enslaved community. Enslaved cooks encompassed incredible skill and technique that separated them from the larger labor pool. Cooks were accountable for the full production of daily meals, catering of banquets, and presenting a caliber of dining that made Virginia known for its hospitable nature.36 This specialized role came with distinctive training, responsibilities, hardships, and perks. Enslaved cooks and mistresses had a unique relationship which revolved around the labor and production of food, all tangled in the web of power, oppression, violence, and negotiations.37

Backstage: food preparation and techniques With multiple meals being prepared on both short- and long-term schedules, the kitchen was an active space. Plantation recipes reveal the breadth of items being prepared at a single time. For example, if the day’s menu consisted of morning biscuits, eggs, smoked meats, jams, mid-day breads, roasted meats, soups and evening game, stews, vegetables and desserts, the cook would prepare some items that day as well as prepping long-term

121 K. FANTO DEETZ items such as breads, jams, wines, dairy, head cheeses, and sausages. Thus cooks strategically scheduled their days, and what they prepared on a daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly schedule, including the smoking of the meat, milking of cows, and butchering of meat. While many different factors helped flavor plantation cuisine, the Igbo’s use of okra is one of the most prevalent legacies in Southern foodways.38 Used as a thickening agent, enslaved cooks relied on this ingredient and one can assume it became a good substitute for a roux. Presumably enslaved cooks had knowledge, either first-hand or passed down, of making certain foods from their homeland. For example, palm wine was a common staple in many parts of West Africa, as was fried foods and stews. Their organic culinary knowledge was easily transferable to the needs of elite plantation culture.39 Virginia’s cuisine was also heavily influenced by both British and French cuisine. Depending on the plantation, mistresses favored one over the other and made sure their cook was up to par. Every plantation served bread, which, like the melted butter, is simple, yet easy to ruin. A common recipe for Family Bread called for the following:

2 quarts of ﬂour. 2 tablespoonfuls of lard or butter. 2 tablespoonfuls of salt. Enough sponge for a two quart loaf of bread. Mix with one pint of sweet milk. Make into rolls and bake with very little ﬁre under the oven.40

Precise measuring and counting was required for the proper chemical balance of this typical dietary staple. Not only did the cook have to be precise in his/her measurements but she had to be able to control the temperature of the Dutch oven and ﬁre. In addition, most recipes called to “knead the bread for half an hour without intermission.”41 For an item prepared daily, this labor-intensive food relied on both craft and the physical strength needed to constantly knead a ball of dough for thirty minutes. While the bread was being prepared, the cook had other short-term items in progress. Fish was consumed on a daily basis and was prepared in multiple ways. For example “Fish- a-la-crème” and stewed halibut were Virginian favorites. The following recipes were some of Virginian classics prepared by enslaved cooks:

Fish a la Crème Boil a firm fish, remove the bones, pick it to pieces. Mix one pint cream or mild with two tablespoonfuls flour, one onion, one-half pound butter (or less), and salt. Set it on the fire and stir until it is as thick as custard. Fill a baking-dish alternately with fish, cracker, and cream. Bake for thirty minutes, use four crackers.42

Halibut Boil one pound halibut, then chop it very ﬁne and add eight eggs well beaten; pepper and salt to taste, then one cup butter. Put it in a stewpan and cook until the eggs are done suﬃciently. Serve very hot on toast.43

While the halibut recipe is fairly straightforward, the fish-a-la-crème involves some skillful techniques. Depending on the type of fish, the bones are anywhere from large and easy to pick to small and cumbersome. Picking the bones out of a catfish or small local shad,

122 STOLEN BODIES, EDIBLE MEMORIES perch, or bass would require excellent eyesight and command of the fish’s anatomy. Making the fish meat into custard over the hot fire is yet another challenging task, as the use of dairy provided a wildcard in hearth cooking. The consistency, temperatures, and timing must be precise; otherwise the dish would burn, curdle, or not set correctly. In addition to fish, enslaved cooks used oysters in many Virginian dishes. Eighteenth- century tutor Phillip V. Fithian mentioned eating oysters in some fashion almost every day while living at the Carter family plantation. Oysters were readily available in the adjacent rivers and were caught by both enslaved men and plantation gentry. Similar to enslaved cooks, enslaved fishermen were often sold separately and at higher rates than field hands.44 These fishermen would spend the days in Virginia’s waterways catching fish and oysters for the main house. Fishermen and cooks worked together to put seafood on the plantation table. While catching seafood is at times a challenging task, so was preparing it for the guests. Oysters, more than other seafood, required immediate cooking and intense labor. For example a basic “Oyster Sauce for Fish” called for the following procedure:

Scald a pint of oysters, and strain them through a sieve; then wash some more in cold water, and take oﬀ their beards; put them in a stew-pan, and pour the liquor over them; then add a large spoonful of anchovy liquor, half a lemon, two blades of mace, and thicken it with butter rolled in ﬂour. Put in half a pound of butter, and boil it till it is melted – take out the mace and lemon, and squeeze the lemon juice into the sauce; boil it, and stir it all the time, and put it in a boat.45

This sauce was one of many served at a plantation dinner. Approximately 30–60 oysters compile a pint. This means the cook had to first shuck them, which requires a hard, sharp tool, a firm and steady hand, and finesse to shuck without getting shells in the meat. After forcefully prying open dozens of oysters, the cook would then have to sear them over a hot fire, push them through a metal sieve (making a oyster mush), remove their individual beards and add items such as floured butter (which, as seen previously, took its share of labor) and anchovy liquor (another complex recipe). This entire process could have taken over an hour if not more. In addition, oyster soup was a common meal consisting of the following techniques:

100 Oysters 1 teaspoonful salt. 1 tablespoonful black pepper. ¼ pound butter. Yolks of three eggs. 1 pint rich milk, perfectly fresh. 3 tablespoonfuls ﬂour. Separate the oysters from the liquor: put the liquor to boil, when boiled add salt, pepper and butter, then the ﬂour, having previously made it into a batter. Stir all the time. When it comes to a boil add the eggs well beaten, then the milk, and when the mixture reaches a boil, put in the oysters; let them also just boil, and the soup is done. Stir all the time to prevent curdling.46

Similar to ﬁsh preparation, the cook’s attention was constantly focused on the pot, as a slight distraction or mistake would result in a curdled soup, a waste of time, ingredients, and an upset mistress.

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Performing the Virginia tradition As the woman of the house, the planter’s wife was in charge of the house servants, and constantly negotiated her power and control over the meals and labor within her household. However, the success of a meal, especially when guests were entertained, depended heavily on the cook’s ability, and in some sense willingness, to perform a professional task like putting on a formal or “proper” dinner. With all the constraints of enslavement in place, some cooks were able to put off special dinners and banquets until they felt ready to perform such a task. Records show that enslaved cooks worked long hours, often more hours than those in the field. Cooks had to wake before dawn in order to cook the family breakfast, start supper, and tend to any sort of baking, spirit making, or menu planning. There were instances where enslaved cooks reported being ill, and mistresses writing to cancel suppers and postpone events due to such sickness.47 One might assume that the cooks knew their social currency and banked on that to negotiate their labor demands. While records also show the long-standing mental and physical abuse endured by enslaved people, it is also clear that slaves would often fake illness in an effort to rest. These moments of agency were wrapped up in their skill set, one that fueled the mistress’s respectability in her elite social world. Nonetheless, their role was to produce sophisticated plantation fare, influenced by British and French cuisines and managed by the plantation’s mistress. “The matrons of the Old Dominion [had] enviable reputation for their superb cooking and their delightful housekeeping.”48 The reputation of the plantation mistress was connected to her success as a housewife; reputation was also instrumental in the performance of white womanhood. Even in the nineteenth century, housekeeping books praised this archetype: “Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies … She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness.”49 Proper white domesticity was valued above jewels and, as such, it was the ultimate goal of many of Virginia’s mistresses. Virginia’s plantations were self-contained social spaces, and sometimes painfully isolated. Many white women were often confined to their homes and complained about chronic loneliness. The physical distance of a plantation from the center of town sometimes spanned over sixty miles, which created a seclusion based on both distance and the patriarchal desire to protect white womanhood. The planning of social events became for some the only time they were afforded public interaction. While occasional trips to the market or daily letters connected mistresses to the happenings of the colony, their world consisted primarily of the household, which acted as a public and highly social venue for Virginia’s elites.50 The food served at dinner and suppers were similar to each other: a variety of meats, game, vegetables, salads, and stews. Typically the earlier meals were of a smaller scale, as fewer guests were present at lunchtime. Suppers (also referred to as dinner) were the ultimate venue for showing off the mistresses’ hospitality and domestic ability as well as her cook’s talent. These spreads consisted of multiple kinds of roasted, boiled, smoked, broiled, salted, and stewed meats, European-inspired sauces, jellies, head cheese, vegetables, and breads. “Meats usually smoked or salted for preservation. Never know how many people would show up for dinner … Ham was perfect for this occasion.”51 These plantation dinners were the pulse of Virginia’s domestic pride and reputation. Tutor Phillip V. Fithian fondly remembered these grand suppers: “we were rung into supper. The room looked luminous and splendid; four very large candles burning on the

124 STOLEN BODIES, EDIBLE MEMORIES table where we supp’d, three others in diﬀerent parts of the room: a gay, sociable assembly & four well instructed waiters!”52 Fellow Virginian Ms. Helen Coles also described these meals: “we sat down to dinner drest in our best, and looking as though we had never thought of anything more pleasant than to simply taste the various delicacies placed before us – such a dinner was customarily served by placing a variety of dishes on the table, which was latter cleared for the dessert course.”53 Coles also commented:

We were entertained in a most sumptuous fashion … the table was spread with double table cloths and the first course consisted of beef, mutton, oysters, soup, etc. The first cloth was removed with these viands, and the clean one below covered with pies, puddings, tarts, jellies, whips, floating island, sweetmeats, etc. and after these we came to the plain mahogany table. Clean glasses were brought on and a lighter kind of wine with fruit, raisins and almonds … atypicalfirst course would include a large standing cold ham wrapped in a linen napkin at the top of the table balance by a hot saddle of mutton, leg of lamb, roast beef, turkey or goose at the bottom of the table … the centerpiece might be a mock turtle, a huge meat pie, a haunch of venison, or a “made dish,” a complicated composition of meat, sauced and garnished with such ingredients as eels, chicken livers, mushrooms, oysters and coxcombs.54

These culinary spreads were influenced by both British and French culture. Elite Virgi- nians, mostly of English descent, had their own traditions, whereas French cuisine and rituals were popular. Eating in the French fashion meant the consumption of sauces and condiments that made each dish superbly delicious. In addition, “sugar from the West Indies gave rise to desserts. Upper-class Anglo-Americans thought French cuisine was superior to their own.”55 French culinary influence began in the eighteenth century and grew into Virginian cuisine by the 1800s. Eating in the “French fashion” also meant having a large variety of food, but only eating some. This tradition marks a transition from eating for sustenance to eating as a performance of elite “cultured” ways. It also shows a connection between wealth and waste. The food, as such, became essential “props” within Virginia’s plantation society and an overt style of conspicuous consumption. What they ended up with was French-inspired food, with heavy West African accents. British Atlantic food, cooked by enslaved Africans with techniques and flavor profiles that resembled not the “old country,” but rather a complex sophisticated fare, one that had the presumed sophistication of France’s kitchens with the richness of West African food.

The formal African–European interface: special training In 1784 James Hemings traveled to Paris to learn the art of French cooking. He was the head cook at Monticello while Jefferson was governor of Virginia. This extraordinary opportunity was unique considering he was Jefferson’s slave. Hemings spent three years in Paris training under some of France’s most notable chefs. While experiencing temporary free status, he managed to negotiate his own freedom upon his return to Virginia. James passed his knowledge of French cooking on to his enslaved brother Peter and as a result he was manumitted on September 15, 1793. While Monticello might have been the epitome of the planter class, many other well-to-do Virginians invested in their cooks as well. Chefs were appraised at significantly higher rates than the rest of the domestic laborers. William

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Marshall of Fredericksburg described his cook as “an excellent cook about 35 years of age, and inferior to none.”56 While James Hemings was able to travel to France, gain formal culinary training, and ultimately free himself, his story was not typical. Formal French training, while presumably highly desired by planters, was risky. The free status gained by traveling to France in the nineteenth century welcomed escape. However, the potential for escape didn’t outweigh Jefferson’s desire for a French trained chef, and played to both Hemings’ and Jefferson’s needs. Many of Virginia’s enslaved cooks were formally trained on the plantation, either by the mistress or the head cook. Plantation papers reveal a system in which cooks were trained and promoted within the kitchen hierarchy. In 1858 Dr. Richard Eppes’ cooks, forty-five-year- old Susan and seventy-two-year-old Harriet, ran the kitchen.57 Records reveal that, by 1859, former field hand Ursula Sanders was recruited as assistant cook and was tipped $0.50 for good coffee on top of her $1.00 Christmas present. Susan and Harriet, who were the head cooks, received $5.00 Christmas gifts, which was only second in value to the butler, Madison Ruffin, who was given $10.00. By 1860, Ursula was still apprenticing under Susan and Harriet and receiving $1.00 for Christmas.58 This record shows not only the hierarchy within the kitchen roles, but the fact that slaves were chosen from the entire plantation community and did not simply inherit the position. Therefore, while family members lived within the kitchen walls, they were not necessarily next in line for “Head Cook.”

Secondary literacies Some enslaved cooks were taught how to read by their mistresses. This was a pragmatic solution to dealing with recipes and food production. Because mistresses found themselves in the kitchen teaching cooks the particularities of certain European dishes, they relied on a level of understanding and performance from their cooks. It is unlikely that the mistress stayed in the kitchen for long periods of time or walked the cook through every step of preparation. Instead, the cook would be taught recipes and either memorized them or possibly read them as reminders. There is no record of this; however, cooks undoubtedly learned to read. The currency of proper food was so vast that the teaching of very basic reading could have been an essential aspect to guarantee culinary delight. In addition to sometimes learning basic phonetics, enslaved cooks also had to know basic math. Counting, fractions, and arithmetic proportions are all essential aspects to cooking and are in the recipes as such. Knowing how to double or triple a recipe was essential for large-scale plantation cooking. Especially for baking, precise measurements were imperative in order for the bread to rise, for biscuits to bake, and for cakes to form. In addition to basic reading and math, enslaved cooks learned general anatomy from the butchering and cooking of animals. If a recipe called for a calf’s heart, the cook was forced to become familiar with not just the location but also the anatomy of such organs. Much of Virginia’s plantation fare included organs and heads, and relied on the proper butchering and preparation of these parts. These secondary literacies were gained via kitchen training and built upon their skill set.

Negotiations with the mistresses Enslaved cooks often knew more about their jobs than their mistresses did.59 While the mistress was proud of her cook, she rarely lingered in the kitchen or visited the smokehouse

126 STOLEN BODIES, EDIBLE MEMORIES or other outbuildings.60 Since the mistress did not cook the food, she was sometimes met with controlling demands from her cook. There are records of cooks telling their mistress to get out of kitchen, a practice only functional in a negotiated relationship.61 The only real control the mistress had was through her provisions. Mistresses handed out sugar, spices, butter, and were in charge of smokehouse provisions.62 The smokehouse and dairy were part of white landscape, and thus, the mistress was in charge. This contrasts with the management of field hands who were looked over by an overseer. The role of sugar in the kitchen must have demanded extra attention. Contemporary knowledge of physical and emotional effects of sugar must have led to a cycle of craving food, desire, and control between the supplier of sugar (mistresses) and the producer of sweets (cook).63 Cooks had the ability to “steal” items, such as raw materials or prepared food, for themselves and their family. The mistresses did not watch every movement of the cook, and as a result, there was room for inconspicuous consumption. In addition to being able to sneak food from the white folk’s groceries, cooks sometimes let things happen while turning a blind eye. On Monday December 14, 1857, Richard Eppes awoke to find a disturbing scene in his new kitchen well: “Much shocked this morning on opening the new well back of the cook’s garden to find that some scoundrel had stolen a hog and pitched the entrails and ribs down the well. Could not find who did it.”64 Eppes’ cook clearly would have heard a killing of a hog, or the noises associated with a quick butcher, and her silence represents a loyalty to other slaves. This account also speaks to the slave palate; this person clearly took the preferred meat, and left the intestines and ribs to rot. Or perhaps this person did not want to partake in the lengthy process of cleaning them for consumption. Either way, the cook, living adjacent to the well, must have turned a blind eye, or perhaps done it herself. Not all household resistance was passive. As previously mentioned, the majority of enslaved Afro-Virginians were Igbo and brought with them knowledge of both poisoning and foodways.65 Igbo were known for their knowledge of herbs and poisons, as well as their use and knowledge of supernatural powers. Tutor Phillip Fithian recalled an attempted murder by poison on a local plantation:

Ben returned about seven from Westmorland court house–he informed us that Mr. Sorrels’ Negroes had their trial there today, concurring their accusation of entering their master’s house in the night and with an intention to murder him. It was proved (so far as negro evidence will go) that the brother of this Sorrels early last spring bribed some negroes to poison his brother and when that diabolical attempt could not succeed he has since tried to persuade them to murder him!66

The idea of poisoning goes hand-in-hand with food production and consumption. While the “servants” were not cited as the cook, they nonetheless had to have access to the vic- tim’s food. Similarly, in April of 1849, an enslaved man named Billy was charged with poisoning his owner Thomas Wilcox, at North Bend plantation in Charles City County. Ten years later, another house servant was charged with poisoning Wilcox’s son.67 Although rare, this was one of the many modes of resistance practiced by enslaved Afro- Virginians. The role of feeding one’s enslavers begs for more understanding as to why more cooks didn’t poison their masters. Clearly, they had access to poison, food, and trust—the ideal situation for murder. Perhaps their role as cook provided them with enough collateral power to negotiate their living conditions and treatment. So much of the

127 K. FANTO DEETZ mistress’s reputation was based on the cook’s labor and this relationship had a particular level of negotiation and invited covert power struggles. Some enslaved cooks were not willing to stay within bondage, even with their unique position, and ran away from their plantations. Enslaved cook Rachael, belonging to Mr. John Aylett, ran away after three months of cooking for Mr. Aylett. A runaway ad was placed in the Virginia Gazette reading:

THREE months ago I purchased, from the executors of Littlebury Hardiman,a negro woman named RACHAEL, formerly Mr. Hardiman’s cook, since which I have not seen her. I am informed she has a husband at one of Col. Carter’s quarters on James River, through whose benevolence I imagine she is now harboured. Whoever brings her to me, at Drummond’sNeck, near Cowels ferry, shall receive 30s, or 20s if conveyed to Charles City prison. I am determined not to dis- pose of her, and will sue any who entertain her.68

Rachael obviously was sold away from her family and was not able to negotiate her placement as some others were able to. It is clear by the ad that Mr. Aylett valued her skills and would go to great ends to capture her again.

The birth of Afro-Atlantic cuisine: the ultimate functionality of foodways Foodways are more than food, but rather the uses, functions, and performance of cuisine. West African foodways were dispersed throughout the Diaspora and functioned in a multitude of ways depending on the interface. Food acted as memory, a connection to the past, and a signiﬁer of one’s ancestral roots. Cooking as a skill gave enslaved cooks avenues to negotiate their position and navigate the power dynamics of chattel slavery. West Afri- can foodways became American food. It is hard to imagine an American summer BBQ plate without watermelon, or the absence of gumbo in New Orleans, or the lack of Southern cuisine on the whole. It is due to the strength and perseverance of the millions of enslaved Africans who brought with them the memories of home, the techniques and culinary grammar of West African food, and transformed the culinary grammar of the new colony. Some people chronicle their lives through writing, but cooks do so through recipes. Enslaved cooks not only provided a sense of home for their enslavers, but also made that sense of place one that was ﬂavored by West Africa, and which undoubtedly helped the enslaved community remember their homelands. Cooks were key historical actors in a complex structure of bondage, survival, and negotiations. Their legacy speaks to their perseverance throughout enslavement, and the cultural potency of their work. The smells, tastes, textures, and sights of traditional West African cuisine made their way into the meals of the African Diaspora and as a result permanently transformed Atlantic cuisine.

Notes 1 Mary Randolph, The Virginia Housewife or, Methodical Cook: A Facsimile of an Authentic Early American Cookbook 1824, New York: Dover, 1993, p. 93. 2 In this essay, “early written records” refers to colonial-era cookbooks, letters, and notes. 3 Randolph, The Virginia Housewife, p. 81. 4 James McCann, Stirring the Pot: A History of African Cuisine, Athens: Ohio University Press, 2009.

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5 For more on the history of the transatlantic slave trade see David Eltis and David Richardson, Atlas of the Transatlantic Slave Trade, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. 6 www.slavevoyages.org/tast/assessment/estimates.faces (accessed June 20, 2013). 7 John Thornton, Africa and the Africans in the Making of the Atlantic World, 1400–1800, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. 8 www.slavevoyages.org/tast/assessment/estimates.faces (accessed June 28, 2013). 9 Thornton, Africa and the Africans, p. 44. 10 For more on ethnicity see Joseph E. Holloway, Africanisms in American Culture, Bloomington: Indi- ana University Press, 2005 and Michael Gomez, Exchanging Our Country Marks, Chapel Hill: Uni- versity of North Carolina Press, 1998. 11 Tadeusz Lewicki, West African Food in the Middle Ages, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1974, Chapter 2. 12 Lewicki, West African Food in the Middle Ages, pp. 48–9. 13 Lewicki, West African Food in the Middle Ages, Chapter 2. 14 Lewicki, West African Food in the Middle Ages, Chapter 4. 15 Lewicki, West African Food in the Middle Ages, p. 102. 16 Warren M. Billings, Jamestown and the Founding of the Nation, Gettysburg: Colonial and National Historic Parks Booklet, Chapter 3. See also Emily J. Salmon and Edward D.C. Campbell, Jr., eds, The Hornbook of Virginia History, Richmond: Library of Virginia, 1994, pp. 13–15. 17 Fredrick Douglas Opie, Hog and Hominy: Soul Food from Africa to America, New York: Columbia University Press, 2010, p. 20. 18 Salmon and Campbell, The Hornbook of Virginia History, p. 13. 19 There are no birth records to document when the first “African American” was born. 20 William Kelso, Kingsmill Plantations, 1619–1800, Orlando: Academic Press, 1984, Chapter 2. 21 Ira Berlin, Many Thousands Gone: The First Two Centuries of Slavery in North America, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998, Chapters 1 and 5. 22 John Hope Franklin, From Slavery to Freedom: A History of African Americans, Boston: McGraw Hill, 2000, pp. 65–8. 23 Salmon and Campbell, The Hornbook of Virginia History, p. 18. 24 Franklin, From Slavery to Freedom, p. 66. 25 Historical Census Browser. Retrieved from the University of Virginia, Geospatial and Statistical Data Center: http://fisher.lib.virginia.edu/collections/stats/histcensus/index.html.2004 (years 1790, 1820, 1830, 1840, and 1860) (accessed October 26, 2010). 26 Allan Kulikoff, “The Origins of Afro-American Society in Tidewater Maryland and Virginia, 1700 to 1790,” The William and Mary Quarterly, Third Series, Vol. 35, No. 2, April 1978, p. 231. The exact breakdown of gender and age are not available. 27 Joseph E. Holloway, Africanisms in American Culture, Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2005, p. 31. 28 Allan Kulikoff, Tobacco and Slaves: The Development of Southern Cultures in the Chesapeake, 1680–1800, Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1986, Introduction. 29 Kulikoff, Tobacco and Slaves. 30 Some examples of classic works are John W. Blassingame, The Slave Community: Plantation Life in the Antebellum South, New York: Oxford University Press, 1972; Philip D. Morgan, Slave Counterpoint: Black Culture in the Eighteenth-Century Chesapeake and Lowcountry, Williamsburg: Omohundro Institute for Early American History and Culture, 1998; and Lawrence W. Levine, Black Culture and Black Consciousness: Afro-American Folk Thought From Slavery To Freedom, London: Oxford University Press, 1977. 31 For more on cultural grammar see James Deetz, In Small Things Forgotten: The Archaeology of Early American Life, New York: Doubleday Press, 1996. 32 See Deetz, Chapter 3 and Ferguson, Chapter 5 in Teresa Singleton, ed., I, Too, Am America: Archaeological Studies of African American Life, Charlottseville: University of Virginia, 1999. 33 Virginia Gazette, March 8, 1770, page 3, column 3. 34 Virginia Gazette, April 11, 1777, page 2, column 1. 35 Randolph, The Virginia Housewife, p. 95. 36 Philip Vickers Fithian, Diary, 1747–1776, Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1957. 37 Thavolia Glymph, Out of the House of Bondage: The Transformation of the Plantation Household, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008.

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38 Douglas B. Chambers, Murder at Montpelier: Igbo African in Virginia, Jackson: University of Mississippi Press, 2005, p. 40. 39 Chambers, Murder at Montpelier, p. 166. 40 Marion Cabell Tyree, ed., Housekeeping in Old Virginia, Louisville: John P. Morton and Company, 1879, p. 29. 41 Tyree, Housekeeping in Old Virginia, p. 20. 42 Tyree, Housekeeping in Old Virginia, p. 98. 43 Tyree, Housekeeping in Old Virginia. 44 Virginia Gazette, December 25, 1779, page 2, column 2. 45 Randolph, Virginia Housewife, p. 92. 46 Tyree, Housekeeping in Old Virginia, p. 69. 47 Randolph-de Potestad family letters, 1826–1913, folder 1, Rockefeller library, Colonial Williamsburg Foundation. 48 Tyree, Housekeeping in Old Virginia, front cover. 49 Tyree, Housekeeping in Old Virginia, front cover, Proverb xxxi, pp. 10, 27. 50 Glymph, Out of the House of Bondage, Chapter 2. 51 Robert Beverly, The History and Present State of Virginia, London 1705, Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina, 1947, p. 101 52 Vickers Fithian, Diary, 1747–1776, p. 45. 53 Elizabeth Langhorn, K. Edward Lay, and William D. Reilly, eds, A Virginia Family and its Plantation Houses: Papers of Helen Coles 1704–1907, Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 1987, p. 102. 54 Carole McCabe, “Woodlawn Hospitality,” Early American Life, Vol. 19, no. 1, Feb. 1988, 58–70. 55 Richard J. Hooker, ed., Harriot Pinckney Horry Receipt Book, 1770, Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1984, p. 19. 56 Virginia Gazette, March 26, 1779, page 3. 57 Richard Eppes, Diary, 1858, p. 20, from The Virginia Historical Society Special Collections, Eppes Family Papers, 1722–1948. Section 43, Mss1 Ep734 d293 58 Richard Eppes Diaries, 1857–64. From The Virginia Historical Society Special Collectons, Eppes Family Papers, Diary, 1854 March 12 and 1855 October 24–1857 December 31, Mss1 Ep734 d 292. 59 Elizabeth Fox-Genovese, Within the Plantation Household: Black and White Women of the Old South, Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1988, p. 137. 60 Fox-Genovese, Within the Plantation Household, pp. 98, 137. 61 Fox-Genovese, Within the Plantation Household, p. 142. 62 Jane Francis Walker, Commonplace Book, Castle Hill Plantation, Albemarle County, Virginia, 1802–45, Virginia Historical Society, Manuscript Collections, Mss5:5 P1432:1. 63 It is common knowledge that sugar is addictive and consumption causes psycho-physical reactions in most people. See www.princeton.edu/pr/news/02/q2/0620-hoebel.htm (accessed June 28, 2013). 64 Richard Eppes Diary, 1857, p. 322, Mss1 Ep734 d 292. 65 See Lorena S. Walsh, From Calabar to Carter’s Grove: The History of a Virginia Slave Community, Char- lottesville: University of Virginia Press, 2001 and Chambers, Murder at Montpelier. 66 Fithian, Diary 1747–1776, p. 252. 67 James P. Whittenburg and John M. Coski, Charles City County Virginia, An Oﬃcial History, Four Cen- turies of the Southern Experience: Charles City County, Virginia, from the Age of Discovery to the Modern Civil Rights Struggle, Salem: Don Mills, 1989, p. 65. 68 Virginia Gazette, March 24, 1775, page 4, column 2.

130 8 SPREADING THE WORD Using cookbooks and colonial memoirs to examine the foodways of British colonials in Asia, 1850–1900

Cecilia Leong-Salobir

Rice is consumed by most European families at breakfast, tiffin, and dinner. It is eaten at breakfast with fried meat, fish, omelet, country captain, or some other curried dish, and, being invariably followed by toast and eggs, jams, fruit, &c., … The rice at dinner is usually preceded by soup, fish, roast, and made dishes … Kitcheerees are occasionally sub- stituted for boiled rice at breakfast, and are eaten with fried fish, omelets, croquets, jhal freeze, &c.1 Singapore breakfasts, though tolerably substantial and provided with a goodly array of dishes, are rarely dwelt over long … A little fish, some curry and rice, and perhaps a couple of eggs, washed down with a tumbler or so of good claret … Tiffin time … a plate of curry and rice and some fruit or it may be a simple biscuit with a glass of beer or claret … Dinner in Singapore … Soup and fish generally both precede the substantials, which are of a solid nature, consisting of roast beef or mutton, turkey or capon, supplemented by side-dishes of tongue, fowl, cutlets, or such like, together with an abundant supply of vegetables, including potatoes … The substantials are invariably followed by curry and rice which forms a characteristic feature of the tables of Singapore … There are usually two or more different kinds [of curries] placed on the table, and accompanying them are all manner of sambals or native pickles and spices.2

The ﬁrst passage from a cookbook, written by an anonymous author, is based on his or her culinary knowledge of thirty-ﬁve years of living in India. The cookbook is one of hundreds of cookbooks and household guides written for the Anglo-Indian mistress or her cook and was one of the ways in which the colonial hybrid cuisine spread. The second passage, authored by the editor of The Straits Times in Singapore (1861–81), was typical of colonial memoirs written by administrators, hunters, explorers, adventurers, scientists and missionaries who traversed the colonies. These two passages, depicting similar foods being consumed by colonials in India and Singapore, show that colonial culture in the form of food practices was transplanted to, or replicated in, other colonies of Asia. One of the ways in which this colonial culture was transmitted was through the medium of cookbooks.3

131 C. LEONG-SALOBIR

Introduction The emergence of the British hybrid colonial cuisine in Asia came about as a result of negotiation and collaboration between colonizer and colonized. British hybrid colonial cuisine, comprising unique dishes such as countless varieties of curries, mulligatawny, ked- geree, country captain and pish pash evolved over time and was a combination of elements of British food practices and Asian foodways. The cuisine was not the result of a deliberate act of imposing imperialistic designs but involved a process of consuming local and European foods through the efforts of Asian servants.4 The memsahib’s (memsahib is the form of address for a European woman in India. In Malaya, Singapore and the Borneo colonies the word memsahib was abbreviated to mem) supervisory role in the household, the servants’ local knowledge, the lack of European foods and the availability of local ingredients all contributed toward colonial cuisine. Further, it was one of the paradoxes of the hierarchical relationships between the ruling elite and the ruled (domestic servants) that led to the development of colonial cuisine. Essentially, domestic servants in the colonies who were generally represented as dirty, dishonest and lacking in intelligence in colonial circles were responsible for the preparation of food for the family. Here lies the core con- tradiction at the heart of the colonial-servant relationship. The colonists’ fear of dirt and disease and the need for separation and social distance was at odds with their dependence on servants for food preparation, a service that was both intimate and vital to health. This chapter utilizes the genres of cookbooks and colonial memoirs to gain an understanding of the food history of British colonizers in Asia. Through foodways we are able to analyse the relationship between food practices and colonial engagement with the colonized populations of the colonies of India, Malaysia and Singapore. Cookbooks are printed records that suggest what a community might have consumed at a particular time. How- ever, as other scholars have observed, cookbooks can be viewed as prescriptive texts and may not necessarily reflect the true food practices of a people. When analysed together with colonial memoirs, though, the two genres can convey a fuller picture of the food history of the colonial community in Asia. The first section of this chapter looks at those cookbooks that memsahibs or mems and their cooks used in the colonial homes, clubs, European-style hotels and hill stations. The second part of the chapter examines the descriptions of food practices in colonial memoirs that were written by a large range of British expatriates in the colonies, including retirees from the colonial administration, missionaries, adventurers and entrepreneurs. Colonial cookbooks and colonial memoirs clearly show that the British in colonial Asia did not strictly follow a British diet as a means to differentiate themselves from the colonized people. Existing scholarship on British colonialism supports the idea that, to set themselves apart as rulers, the British had to follow a lifestyle completely different from that of the local inhabitants, in dress, abode and food consumption.

British colonies in Asia The nineteenth century was a time of rapid social change in Britain and its territorial expansions in the Far East by century’s end included northern Borneo, Malaya, Singa- pore.5 British rule in India commenced with the East India Company assuming control from the second part of the eighteenth century. Between 1858 and 1947 India came under Crown colonial rule and this period was commonly known as the Raj.

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From the mid 1800s there were increasing numbers of Britons arriving in India. By 1901 there were 154,691 Britons in India while the Indian population was 300 million.6 The British there included administrators, scientific explorers, entrepreneurs, missionaries, adventurers and their families. At the same time the Malayan civil service numbered 220 administrators to govern 3.2 million people.7 As the numbers of British women who went to the colonies steadily increased from the late nineteenth to the early twentieth centuries, they were burdened with the gendered role of gatekeepers of empire. The memsahib was responsible for creating a pure and pristine imperial household, both for display and as a barrier against the colonized environment and its inhabitants. Cookbooks and household manuals provided instructions on how to manage the household, how to maintain cleanliness in the home, and above all, how to feed a family and the perennial visiting colonials from other districts. These publications were self-help texts, written by women (and to a lesser extent, men) with practical experience on the ground. The earliest cookbooks pioneered the ways in which colonial foodways were introduced to the early and subsequent arrivals of colonials and their families. Cookbooks published in later generations added to the repertoire of dishes from other colonies as well as other food practices from other cultures. These publications can be seen as ideological tools as well. In the prefaces and dedication pages, authors boldly and proudly proclaimed the colonial woman’s role in upholding the home as the white and ideal household in the colonized environment. The tone of the cookbooks and household guides was authoritative and sometimes imperious. Nowhere else was the connection made more explicit between linking household to empire than F.A. Steel and G. Gardiner’s proclamation that, ‘We do not wish to advocate an unholy haughtiness; but an Indian household can no more be governed peacefully, without dignity and prestige, than an Indian Empire’.8 Other cookbook authors alluded to dutiful imperialism in promoting the household as a means to help empire-building in their prefaces and dedications. Elizabeth Garrett dedicated her household management manual of 1887, ‘To my countrywomen in India’.9 Gardiner and Steel dedicated their influential household guide and cookery manual to ‘The English girls to whom fate may assign the task of being house-mothers in “India’s foreign strand”’.10 A.R. Kenney-Herbert’s comprehensive cookery book for Madras was written for ‘the Ladies of Madras – to whom, in all humility, I dedicate the first fruits of my labours – discover here and there a word of assistance when perplexed about their daily orders, I shall be bountifully rewarded’.11 These publications also contained advice on medical aid and hygiene rules, with separate chapters devoted to invalid cookery, home cures and the like, similar to other cookbooks and household guides of the time.12 Not all the cookbooks were written by patriotic authors or honest authors. Many would have been written with pecuniary motives and there were many instances of plagiarism in the supplementary notes to recipes and prescriptive texts.13 The bulk of cookbooks written for the British colonial community were published for the Indian colony as it was where the largest number of Britons were stationed. In terms of relations between the British and Indians, there were two clear patterns of behaviour for the two periods of British rule. From the eighteenth century when India came under the East India Company, to the time when India became a Crown colony in 1858, Anglo-Indians,14 in efforts to engage pomp and ceremony to promote their ruling status, adopted outwardly Indian customs such as smoking the hookah, wearing Indian clothes and employing large numbers of servants. Anglo-Indians were known to consume

133 C. LEONG-SALOBIR vast quantities of food, particularly meat.15 Further, colonizers came from the middle classes and they tried to emulate the British aristocracy in the colonies. This included partaking in substantial meals, a clear contrast to the comparatively light meals consumed by Asians. After the Indian Revolt of 1857 or the First War of Independence, the British hardened their attitudes towards the Indians and conspicuously started reducing outward consumption of Indian tradition, culture and food. The loss of lives on both sides, the emergence of racial theories and the legitimizing of British rule encouraged distance between ruler and subjects. Although the British colonial diet in Asia was hardly frugal in the second half of the nineteenth century, Kenney-Herbert wrote that ‘the molten curries and florid oriental compositions of the olden time – so fearfully and wonderfully made – have been gradually banished from our dinner tables’.16 Nevertheless Anglo-Indians continued to consume local dishes on a daily basis and Kenney-Herbert himself stated that although curry or mulligatawny were ‘very frequently given at breakfast or luncheon’, they no longer featured in the ‘dinner menu of establishments’.17 One could suggest that the reason why curry and mulligatawny were absent from the more formal venues then was British effort to present a more British or European presence in official settings. This shift in consumption practices was also true for the other colonies, as most menus from Government House formal dinners did not feature curry and other hybrid dishes popular among the British.

Cookbooks as a genre There are different schools of thought on the role that cookery books can perform as historical documents. Some historians have argued against using cookbooks as a methodology for historical inquiry as they are seen as prescriptive and do not reflect actual practices of the time. Edith Horandner states that it is ‘exaggerated and imprudent to declare that food research could best be pursued by means of recipe books’.18 Historian Edward Higgs cautions against relying on the use of domestic manuals when writing about domestic service, comparing it to ‘reconstructing the average modern home from the pages of Vogue’.19 On the other hand, another scholar, Karen Hess, argues that the study of recipe books is the best method of historical food research.20 This chapter takes the position that cookbooks and household guides, used in conjunction with another genre of writing, the colonial memoir, can ascertain the kinds of food the British ate in the colonies and how colonial cuisine developed. In looking at nineteenth-century cookery in the colonies through cookbooks, it is necessary to examine foodways preceding that century in Britain and in the colonies. Domestic cookery was a perpetuation of the ways of at least two previous generations’ styles of cooking and eating, according to Valerie Mars.21 She observed that there are several books rooted in the eighteenth century, extending eighteenth-century culinary style through edi- tions published in the nineteenth century. She adds that cooking techniques frequently have a much longer life than the life of the particular book in which they are written, existing outside of texts, for cookery is essentially a craft: ‘texts follow practice so that day- to-day cookery is not usually text-based.’22 In the uneven transition of cookbooks preceding or following food practices to reflect a more accurate account of the foodways of a community, it would be problematic to be able to neatly select a set number of cookbooks for a specific period. For example, The Malayan Cookery Book published in 1930 would have recipes similar to those followed by mems in the nineteenth century. In its introduction the

134 SPREADING THE WORD book claims that it ‘constitutes a serious attempt to aid the housewives (European) of Malaya the art of cooking … a representative list of the recipes handed from generation to generation of Malayan (European) housewives … There are first the dishes known to many generations of Indians’.23 The bulk of colonial cookbooks were written for and by Anglo-Indians. Cookbooks targeting the Malaysian and Singaporean colonial readership number only a handful. The majority of mems in the two colonies would have referred to Anglo-Indian cookbooks and this was one way in which the colonial cuisine was replicated in the other colonies. Cookbooks transmit knowledge and a recipe functions as part of a permanent record rather than as oral tradition passed from chef to apprentice.24 Cookbooks and household guides were published in large numbers in Britain in the eighteenth century and helped men and women from the middle and upper classes in food purchases, preparation and presentation.25 In her analysis of cookbooks, Janet Theophano describes them as ‘cooking manuscripts, intimate documents of daily life and kitchen artefacts’ and cautions the reader against thinking that all women ‘who wrote or contributed to one another’s books were social equals’.26 Theophano draws a distinction between the household advice books and the personal recipe books of the nineteenth century. She points out that the former were aimed at educating middle-class women on how to treat and teach their servants while the latter indirectly discussed class, race and ethnicity.27 These publications enabled women to reach beyond their family and friendship circles through the choice of language that was ‘as prosaic and nontechnical as they could muster to reach the widest possible audience’. Theophano observes that these cookbooks, aimed mainly at British readers and exported to the colonies, were ‘not simply a reflection of the social and occupational hierarchy of eighteenth century England and the gentry’s dependence on a servant class, but attempts to reach entire “communities of readers”’.28 Originating from the United States at the time of the American Civil War,29 compiled or contributed cookbooks are another type of cookbook that shed light on the food practices of a community. Their importance lies in the nature of their everyday, actual practices, as compared to more general cookbooks which can be seen as more static and less representative of daily food preparation and consumption routines. Lynne Ireland goes as far as to say that the ‘compiled cookbook’ can be viewed as autobiographical, that is, the recipes can be examined for insights into food preference.30 Further, the compiled cookbook, also known as the fund-raising cookbook, has recipes that reflect what is eaten in the home in contrast to magazines and cookbooks of the popular press that set standards and attempt to influence consumption.31 They are compilations of favorite recipes of members of organizations with proceeds of sale of the cookbooks going to charity. Contributed cookbooks were published in colonial circles where there were sizeable numbers of British wives. Favorite recipes were collected from a charity or a communal organization with proceeds from sales donated to a particular cause.32 The ‘compiled cookbook’ can be used as a research guide for gauging preferred food through frequency of inclusion of the recipes.33 This can certainly be applied to Anglo-Indian cookbooks where curry recipes are almost certain to be included in every volume. By the late eighteenth century cookbooks in Britain appealed to middle- and upper- class women who were keen to relegate food preparation to the servants. Cookbooks were used as a medium to communicate with the servants on food preparation.34 It was during the Victorian era and the expansion of empire that British writers started to include their

135 C. LEONG-SALOBIR travel experiences in culinary writing. No book of the eighteenth century or earlier had a chapter dedicated to Indian cookery.35 A century later, Alan Davidson cites an 1827 book, Domestic Economy and Cookery by ‘A Lady’, which includes ‘the mullakatanies and curries of India’.36 By the twentieth century, foreign recipes started making an appearance in European cookbooks. In her study on the recipe tradition in Germany, Cecilia Novero notes two main reasons why women tried out foreign recipes in the ﬁrst half of the twentieth century.37 First, cooking an exotic dish at home brought variety to the family’s daily fare, and second, it evoked memories of the colonial experience, helped by the Kolonialwaren (imported groceries) available in the country.38 Novero also states that German women travelers who cooked once back in Germany were ‘useful collaborators in the colonial project, which for Germany was a civilizing one’.39

Cookbooks for the colonies While it is acknowledged that cookery books and household guides can be seen as prescriptive of ideals and aspirations, it is also argued that both the Victorian and colonial cookbooks were followed more closely by readers in the colonies for a number of reasons. First, colonial readers were too geographically distant from the metropole when trends or practices came into vogue; second, they were too isolated from family or friends for domestic advice;40 and third, colonial cookbooks were reference texts for the memsahib and the domestic servant to refer to recipes for the emerging colonial cuisine. It would also be fair to say that cookbooks and household guides could be seen as terms of reference for the job description of maintaining the colonial household. The aspirational meals calling for sophisticated and prescriptive recipes such as turtle soup and French classical dishes were, in reality, for formal banquets in Government House. In her morning consultation with the cooks about the day’s meals, the memsahib would point out the curries, mulligatawny and other dishes from the cookbooks to be prepared. Caroline Lieffers states that a cookbook, as a printed reference guide, implies order, rationalization and demystification. The once-informal oral transfer of information, sometimes supplemented by the recording of an occasional recipe for personal use, became a process of official instruction as single authorities enforced a proper mode of cookery.41 Additionally, women continued to produce their own manuscript cookbooks, often containing recipes passed through generations and between families and exemplifying female community.42 Cookbooks for the colonial mistress gave her a sense of reliability and consistency in her efforts to maintain the colonial home. A colonial mistress posted in a remote station would have felt acutely isolated and colonial cookbooks would have provided some sense of belonging to the wider colonial community. Alice Berry Hart reported that her kitchen in a Malayan rubber estate bungalow had no running water, sink or ‘ice-box’.43 Having in hand a cookbook such as Mrs C. Lang’s would have been reassuring to Hart, not the least in her opinion of how local servants were quite competent. Lang claimed that her book would be

a help to many young inexperienced English girls starting housekeeping in India … as a rule, Indian cooks are excellent, and you will be surprised what nice dishes they make out of a little, and my ﬁrst cook, although expensive, cooked beautifully, and it was extraordinary the few kitchen utensils he managed with.44

136 SPREADING THE WORD

In his study on cookery-book illustrations in eighteenth-century England, Troy Bickham focuses on diagrams for table settings, portraits of the authors and kitchen scenes.45 These illustrations informed mistresses of the ideal kitchen and of how guests would expect the meal to appear. Bickham notes that cookery book authors and social commentators placed great importance on these details as running an eﬃcient kitchen ‘reﬂected the quality of the household and its mistress and master’.46 Similarly, cookbooks for the colonies helped to set culinary standards, marking the colonial standing in the community, in the types of meals prescribed and on how dinner rituals were observed. They also hammer home the point that it was the colonial mistress’ duty to nourish the colonial family. Steel and Gar- diner wrote:

a good mistress will remember the breadwinner requires blood-forming nourishment, and the children whose constitutions are being built up day by day, sicklyorhealthy,accordingtothefoodgiventhem;andbearinmindthefact that, in India especially, half the comfort of life depends on clean, wholesome, digestible food.47

There were some among the British oﬃcers who were not content with just administering the colonies but participated in coaching the colonial mistress to cope with household matters and who took to writing cookbooks and manuals. W.H. Dawe, the assistant-secretary to the Board of Revenue, North-Western Provinces, Allahabad, compiled a reference book with selected recipes on the ‘art of Indian cookery’ and its title explicitly targeted the colonial mistress, The Wife’s Help to Indian Cookery: Being a Practical Manual for Housekeepers.48 Dawe wrote in the preface:

As the chief promoter of man’s happiness is woman, it should be in the hands of every Female Economist; the most enlightened will find some useful hints in its pages … The recipes have been carefully selected, and have been compiled with the view of meeting the requirements not only of Residents in India but of English and Anglo-Indian Families at Home, who will find in it reminiscences of olden days. It teaches Habits of Economy, the way to turn everything in Household- affairs to the best account; these are among the things which every Mother should teach her Daughters.49

The book promotes following a healthy diet in India, purifying water, and managing Indian servants, including the Indian cook. Other chapters touch on various methods of cooking, with recipes for entrees, soups, vegetables, omelettes, pastry, puddings, and notes on milk and cereals, drinks, and the preservation of health in India. Anglo-Indian cookery books written for British residents in India and other Asian colonies contain not only recipes but information on diet, household hygiene, usually ending with chapters on medical advice and invalid cookery. Few books were restricted to recipes only. To help manage the imperial household, Anglo-Indians depended on the emerging genre of Anglo-Indian cookbooks and household management guides. The essence of these guides, states Mary Procida, was the ‘daily round’ (of deciding the day’s menus, sorting out the accounts for the previous day’s purchases, measuring out ingredients for the day’smeals), culinary hygiene and kitchen ﬁnances.50 Procida’s observation that in ‘rethinking the purpose of the cookbook in a society where only the servants cooked’, one should not accept the view

137 C. LEONG-SALOBIR that cookbooks were intended for a female audience only.51 She states that both the authorship and readership of Anglo-Indian cookbooks reveal the fluid nature of gender in the imperial household. Although most of these cookbooks were written by experienced memsahibs for new arrivals to the colony, other cookbooks were authored by male officials of the Raj. Procida suggests that Anglo-Indian cookbooks served ‘many imperial purposes beyond the functions of simple didactic or prescriptive texts’.52 They helped to reconfigure the domestic sphere of the Raj, to construct new ideas about gender in the empire and to contribute to the dissemination of imperial knowledge. Further, she adds that the imperial ideal was the household with well-trained domestic staff requiring no managerial intervention.53 While the cooks followed the orders for the types of meals to be cooked each day, they were responsible for the purchasing and preparation of these meals. This tension between the mistress–servant relationship extended to the anxiety that the colonials felt was the undue closeness of the British child and the ayah or nursemaid. For many young and inexperienced memsahibs, the ayah, exercising immense control over childrearing, was the most important servant in the home.54 This closeness of ayah and child resulted in the child tasting Asian foods at a young age. Steel and Gardiner complained that ‘it’s no unusual thing to see an English child eating his dinner off the floor, with his hands full of toys, while a posse of devoted attendants distract his attention, and the ayah feeds him with spoonfuls of pish pash’.55 Included in every colonial cookbook, pish pash is a rice gruel, an Anglo-Indian nursery food, and it is also prepared for invalid cookery. ‘A Lady Resident’, in 1864, recommended broth, cutlets, mince, roast meat, chicken and plenty of bread for children from two-and-a-half to five years. She noted that while ‘many doctors highly disapprove of curry and mulligatawny for children, but I have known them refuse everything else for these dishes, and have myself given mulligatawny, made simply and not too hot’.56 The author added that she had ‘always found that ordinary curries, made with proper meat and vegetables and all concomitants, have never failed to agree with and satisfy the amah (wet nurse) as well as the infant’.57 Curry formed an important part of the culinary repertoire of everyday life in British India and in the other Asian colonies. It evolved as a hybrid, practical dish that could be made from leftover meat and poultry and which incorporated spice ingredients specifically selected for their preservative and nutritious qualities. Almost all cookbooks written for the colonies featured a diverse range of curries. Along with the commercialization of curry powders in the nineteenth century, curry became a defining dish of empire and it helped to form culinary links between British colonies.58 While curries were seen as an economical way of stretching family meals in Britain, they were even more essential in India, as quality meat and poultry were in short supply. There were also other compelling reasons for the popularity of curry, one of which was that, as servants were responsible for cooking in the colonial household, it was one dish that needed no supervision from the memsahib. Cookbook writers clearly demonstrate that curry was cooked in many ways to bring variety to meals, to stretch meals and to improve meat and poultry in the colonies and not for any particular imperial design. ‘J.H.’, author of a cookbook using tested recipes collected ‘during 23 years’ residence in India’, stated that the popular vegetable curry soup of the time was made from the vegetable curry left from breakfast. Writing in 1902, J.H. advised placing ‘what curry remains into the stock, oil well together, rub it through a coarse sieve and serve’.59 In her work on curry and cookbooks in Victorian England, Susan Zlotnick examines the relationship between domestic ideology and imperialism in the early 1800s by ‘charting the domestication of curry’. However this chapter disagrees with Zlotnick’s argument that

138 SPREADING THE WORD

‘Victorian women neutralized the threat of the Other by naturalizing the products (such as curry) of foreign lands’.60 Zlotnick maintains that through this process, Victorian women domesticated imperialism at both the symbolic and the practical level. Zlotnick claims that curry powder was ‘fabricated’ by British colonials and that the commodification of it for British taste was linked to the notion of eating India itself.61 She uses curry advertisements of the time to highlight its ‘ideological function’. It is more likely, however, that curry powder was developed by the British as they were genuinely fond of the taste of the combination of curry spices and that the local servants cooked it very well. Merchants flocked to sell curry spices, particularly when curries became popular both in India and Britain. It was highly unlikely that as the memsahib and local cook, ‘in poring over recipe books and stirring the curry pot on a primitive stove were consciously having imperial designs over the hybrid dish and culturally appropriating it for empire’.62 Angela C. Spry wrote in 1894 that ‘curry is eaten in almost every household at least once daily, generally at breakfast or Bari Hazri’.63 Spry complained however that too often the curry was ‘tasteless’ as the cooking was left entirely to the cook or khansamah who left out many of the necessary spices. She praised the cooks however on the cooking of rice; ‘rice is always eaten with curries … The natives prepare it to perfection, so that no remarks are necessary. Rice Kidgeree is much appreciated with curry’.64 The historical value of a cookbook lies also in the prefaces, acknowledgements, other notices and notes that accompany recipes. These supplementary notations offer more than glimpses of meal planning and recipes. They inform us of processes in which dishes were hybridized and emerged as part and parcel of the colonial cuisine. In describing the intricacies of the ideal curry, G.L.R. wrote:

as curries form an important part of an Anglo-Indian breakfast, and as there are such a nice variety, I have compiled them separately, so that the housewife will find no difficulty in the choice of one for breakfast … The secret of a good curry lies in care taken to brown the curry stuffs till the raw smell disappears, and when cocoanut milk is added, as in some of the recipes, the pan should be left uncovered, as the milk will curdle. A careful seasoning of salt also is essential to a tasty curry.65

Fish moolee, a dish of South Indian origin, was enjoyed by Anglo-Indians at the ﬁrst meal of the day. G.L.R. noted that ﬁsh moolee:

is a breakfast dish, served with boiled rice or toast handed round, and is much appreciated. One pound of ﬁsh cut into squares and fried, a small tea-cup of thick cocoanut milk, the same quantity of gravy or stock made from trimmings and bones, two ounces ghee, two sliced onions, half an inch of turmeric ground, half a dozen very thin slices of ginger, two or three green chillies sliced, half a teaspoon of salt, one tablespoon vinegar or tamarind juice. Melt the ghee, fry half the onions in it to a light brown, add the turmeric, ginger and salt, gradually the cocoanut milk; cook for a few mins, add green chillies and the remainder of onions; stir, add your ﬁsh. Keep pan uncovered and simmer. Add vinegar or tamarind juice just before serving.66

Books on Indian cookery were increasingly being published in Britain from the 1830s as the colonial administration in India expanded and consolidated.67 Numerous Anglo-Indian

139 C. LEONG-SALOBIR cookbooks were also published in India. In her bibliography of cookery books, Elizabeth Driver observes that the early books were collections of genuine recipes. Gradually both the authors and readership became more diverse with most writers presenting an Angli- cized version of the cuisine. Retired Indian officers and their wives offered recipes for British women running households in India, adapting British cuisine to Indian conditions, but all included instructions for Indian dishes.68 Cookbooks of the colonial era not only inform us of the hybrid dishes that colonials consumed but there were cookbooks published in Britain specifically for the returning East India Company employees and others who craved the colonial type meals. Hen- rietta Hervey, wife of a retired colonial officer, wrote Anglo-Indian Cookery at Home (1895) specifically ‘for returned exiles’. The Oriental Club in London was founded in 1824 as a meeting place for returning officers from India and the other colonies. Richard Terry, chef de cuisine at the Oriental Club, composed a cookery book in 1861, listing colonial hybrid meals that Britons returning from their empire travels could once again enjoy. He supplied a comprehensive list of curry recipes, including dry mutton curry, mutton curry another way, mutton with vegetables, chicken curry, Bengal curry, rabbit curry, rabbit curry with vegetables, breast of mutton curry, breast of veal curry, calf’s foot curry, sheep’s head curry, beef curry, lark curry (using thirty-six larks), partridge curry, teal curry, curry of ox palates, nugalu curry, Melay curry, lobster curry, oyster curry, fillet of sole curry, skate curry, crab curry and salmon curry.69 Terry wrote in the preface that in the ten years as chef de cuisine at the Oriental Club he had also gathered information for his recipes not only from his own repertoire ‘but from Native Cooks, the proper ingre- dientsthatarerequiredineachCurryorSouptogiveitthatflavor which it should possess to make it a palatable dish’.70 The ‘native cooks’ would have been those South Indians who worked in the numerous Indian restaurants or coffee houses from the 1770s.71 Sake Dean Mahomed established Britain’s first curry house, the Hindostanee Coffee House, near Portman Square in London.72 In her cookery guide to India for the memsahib Mrs John Gilpin explained why she had not given recipes for curries and other local dishes as these were part of the repertoire of dishes that any good cook would have. Still she slipped in recipes for curried sheep’s head, curry balls (made of rice) and fish kitcheree among the menus for ninety days, catering to breakfast, luncheon and dinner. The menus consisted of a mixture of European and Indian dishes. Arjun Appadurai promotes the idea that cookbooks, as the ‘humble literature of complex civilizations’, have unusual cultural tales to tell.73 Cookbook writers in the colonies put their stamp on their commitment to the colonial project as the publications were testament to the particular hardships they faced. The ways in which hardships were overcome were written up and served as instruction guides to new and young memsahibs. Daniel Santia- goe was one ‘native’ servant who put pen to paper on recipes of the colonial cuisine. He had a small collection of recipes published when his colonial employers, John Loudoun Shand and a Mr Haldane, brought him to work for them in England. Just as the Oriental Club targeted returned nostalgic Britons for custom, Santiagoe’s The Curry Cook’s Assistant aimed at teaching those who had enjoyed colonial dishes to cook curries in Britain.74

Cookbooks for the servants Another category of cookery books published in both the metropole and the colonies were designed as manuals or handbooks for the servants. In Britain, cookery books were written

140 SPREADING THE WORD for servants working for the upper classes in the late eighteenth century. An illustration in a household manual showed a mistress presenting her servant with a cookery book, with the caption, ‘A Lady presenting her Servant with the Universal Family Cook who diffident of her own knowledge has recourse to that Work for Information’.75 In Asia, while colonial cookbooks were written principally for the colonial housewife, there were also a handful published with translation into local languages within the books for the use of local servants.76 A Friend in Need English-Tamil Cookery Book was published by Friend-In-Need Society, a charity organization founded in 1813 ‘to assist the deserving poor and to provide a Home for the aged, infirm and destitute’ European and Anglo-Indian Christians of every denomi- nation in Madras.77 One cookery book was published wholly in ‘Hindustani’ in 1939.78 Often, even in some of the cookbooks published in English, there were pages translated into the local language. The existence of cookbooks presupposes some degree of literacy;79 if the cook were illiterate, however, it was his duty to look for someone who could read and translate the dishes to be cooked that day. It is only in the complex and peculiar colonial culture that a text was written for a target audience who could not read. As common at the time, long titles of cookbooks in the nineteenth century served to spell out the objectives of the book. The title of R. Riddell’s cookery and household manual promised ‘numerous directions for plain wholesome cookery, both oriental and English; with much miscellaneous matter answering for all general purposes of reference connected with household affairs, likely to be immediately required by families, messes, and private individuals, residing at the presidencies or outstations’.80 Clearly written for the memsahib’s directions towards her servants, Riddell stated in the preface, ‘[T]he Receipts are rendered in as plain a manner as possible so that no difficulty may arise in their communication to Natives; the selects are such as are most easily attainable; and the means for their preparation generally procurable’.81 In chapter 28 on ‘Oriental Cookery’, Riddell listed, among other dishes, curries, three mulligatawny soups (using chicken, rabbit, mutton or pea fowl), two recipes for ballachong (a spicy side dish comprising dried prawns, chillies, salt, garlic, green ginger, tamarind juice, ghee, onions, limes or orange and fresh lime leaves) and seventeen chutney recipes.82 Riddell advised that:

in fact a curry may be made of almost any thing, its principal quality depending upon the spices being duly proportioned as to ﬂavour, and the degree of warmth to be given by the chillies and ginger. The meat may be fried in butter, ghee, oil, or fat, to which is added gravy, tyre, [sic] milk, the juice of the cocoanut, or vegetables, &c. All of these when prepared in an artistical manner, and mixed in due proportions, form a savoury and nourishing repast, tempting to the organs of scent and taste, but if carelessly prepared, are as equally disagreeable to the eye and stomach.83

Riddell also included two recipes for mock turtle soup, a reinvented dish of the expensive turtle soup that in Victorian times was seen as a sophisticated and aspirational dish. Most mock turtle soup involved the use of calf’s head and feet but Riddell suggested that two sheep’s heads and eight feet would also ‘make an excellent imitation mock turtle’.84 In the colonies, turtle soup was served usually on formal occasions, such as banquets at Government House. For example, a description of a banquet for Governor E.W. Birch in 1904 included turtle soup served at ‘a brilliant gathering of 68 ladies and gentlemen, the largest number of Europeans that have ever been mustered in one place in the history of British North Borneo’.85

141 C. LEONG-SALOBIR

As its title explicitly proclaims, What to Tell the Cook; or the Native Cook’s Assistant, being a Choice Collection of Receipts for Indian Cookery, Pastry etc. etc., this cookbook aimed at assisting the mistress of the colonial home in getting more free time. Publisher Higginbothams wrote in the front of the book:

The object of this little work is not only to assist Native Cooks in preparing good dishes, but to save house-keepers the trouble of describing the modus operandi. The headings are in English, so a lady ordering a dinner has simply to mention the names of the various dishes and the Cook reads for himself in Tamil what is required.86

This cookbook is representative of the majority of the cookbooks for the colonies that inform us that British colonials consumed a mixed diet of European and Asian meals. In

Table 8.1 Modified from: Anonymous, What to tell the cook; or the native cook's assistant, being a choice collection of receipts for Indian cookery, pastry etc. etc., Madras: Higginbothams Ld., 1910 1st day: clear soup, roast leg mutton, harico, chicken curry, bread and butter pudding. 2nd day: mulligatawny, beefsteak pie, cutlets a la soubise, kabob curry, pancakes. 3rd day: vegetable soup, boiled fowls and tongue, mutton and cucumber stew, dry curry, custard pudding. 4th day: pea soup, a-la-mode beef, roast teal, prawn curry, sweet omelette. 5th day: ox-tail soup, boiled mutton and onion sauce, chicken cutlets, vegetable curry, plum pudding. 6th day: white soup, roast ducks, beefsteak, ball curry, sago pudding. 7th day: hare soup, roast kid and mint sauce, mutton pudding, sardine curry, mango fool. 8th day: turnip soup, roast fowls, irish stew, toast curry, arrowroot jelly. 9th day: rice soup, game pie, mutton cutlets, salt fish and egg curry, plantain fritters. 10th day: carrot soup, roast beef, minced mutton, cutlet curry, jam roll pudding. 11th day: mock turtle soup, mutton rolled and spiced, boiled chickens, mutton curry, blancmange. 12th day: gravy soup, boiled salt beef, stewed quails, fish curry, batter pudding. 13th day: mutton broth, roast venison, maintenon cutlets, sheep's head curry, cheese cakes. 14th day: tomato soup, jugged hare, debris pudding curry puffs, rice flummery. 15th day: giblet soup, roast goose, boiled mutton chops, brain curry, potato pudding. 16th day: Palestine soup, breast of veal and peas, wild ducks, malay curry, Thorpe pudding. 17th day: julienne soup, roast pork, chicken salad, egg curry, arrowroot pudding. 18th day: oyster soup, braised leg mutton, pigeons and peas, gravy curry, fair rosamond pudding. 19th day: partridge soup, spiced beef, fricasseed fowl, vegetable curry, george pudding. 20th day: potato soup, stewed ducks and turnips, beef persillade, kabob curry, rice pudding. 21st day: green pea soup, stewed shoulder veal, sheep's tongues, dry curry, imitation apple and rice edge. 22nd day: cucumber soup, chicken pie, sheep's head chartreuse, mutton curry, tipsy cake. 23rd day: pot-au-feu, rock pigeons, prawn curry, Snowden pudding. 24th day: gravy soup, roast fore-quarter mutton, sweetbreads, chicken curry, sago jelly. 25th day: mulligatawny, fowls a la Carlsfors, China Chilo, lemon suet pudding. 26th day: mock turtle soup, roast mutton, fowl and pillau, castle pudding. 27th day: white soup, roast filet of veal, boiled mutton chops, chicken curry, chocolate pudding. 28th day: clear soup, boiled ducks, rissoles, sheep's head curry, coconut pudding. 29th day: game soup, beefsteak pudding, mutton and tomato cutlets, brain curry, Adelaide pudding. 30th day: ox-tail soup, roast fowls and sausages, Breslau of beef, fish curry, Bombay pudding. 31st day: julienne soup, pigeon pie, roast lamb, vegetable curry, tart and custard.

142 SPREADING THE WORD the suggested meals for a month of dinners there was curry listed for every menu except for one day out of the thirty-one days.87

Colonial memoirs as a genre In discussing the autobiographies written by British men and women during the Raj, Mary Procida notes that those men and women presented their individual life stories as a mirror of the larger history of British imperialism in the subcontinent. These constructed autobiographical narratives linked the intimate personal events of their individual and family histories with the public, political questions of the empire.88 While autobiographies of rulers and well-known personalities implicitly allude to the general public’s interest in their life experiences – many colonial memoirs in India and the other colonies were written by the Chota (little) Sahib – as they believed that their colonial experiences warranted public interest and attention.89 Many of the memoirs drew on professional work experiences, family history and personal anecdotes against the backdrop of imperial rule. Importantly for this chapter, many of the memoirs written by both men and women richly illustrated colonial foodways. In the debate on the use of autobiographies and personal documents as historical texts, there are some historians who prefer letters and diaries to memoirs. This notion is based on ‘the assumption that they are more reliable evidence of what their authors were thinking at the time of events than are texts written later’, and these narratives ‘seem more spontaneous and less governed by rules of genre or propriety’.90 The dissenting view is that perspectives in letters and diaries, known collectively by the term ‘ego-documents’, should not be privileged over the retrospective view as hindsight could allow a clearer view of past experiences.91 Colonial memoirs published both in Britain and the colonies provide evidence of the hybrid cuisine enjoyed by the British in Asia. Right from the start when the British set foot on colonial outposts until the fall of empire, thousands of colonial officials and others published their memoirs and diaries. The British colonial was a prolific writer; meticulous reports were written up of his travels, work and recreation. For the food historian the pertinent question would be the accuracy of the accounts of food practices of the time. Undoubtedly, there would be exaggeration for difficult living conditions, difficulties in sourcing food supplies and the incompetence of domestic cooks. In writing about the colonial household, female authors had a fine balancing act to follow. It was important to illustrate the hardship of supervising large numbers of native servants in a household that was so different from the British family home. At the same time, authors had to express that, in the end, memsahibs would triumph against all odds. The colonial women had to be seen as doing empire’s work, ensuring that the colonial household was run smoothly and their families and visiting administrators and others were well nourished. As for male writers, their memoirs usually focused on their work, frequently on travel to the hinterland as that was where hardship and the dangerous and impenetrable jungle could be depicted graphically. Most of the memoirs published on Asian experiences were written by colonial officials or with official endorsement. The narrative typically starts with the author’s family history, then moves on to the Colonial Office or private company interview, the voyage out, colonial life, travel to the untamed interior and ends with the voyage home. Most of the publications were generously illustrated and would have found a readership eager for

143 C. LEONG-SALOBIR depictions of primitive living conditions in barbaric lands in the far-flung posts of the empire. These memoirs were written in the context of coping with hostile environments and unfamiliar inhabitants but, in the end, the colonial managed to contribute towards the colonial project. Detailed descriptions of foodways in the colonies were not confined to the colonial home but extended to other institutions of empire such as clubs, resthouses, hill stations and camps on jungle expeditions. While countless memoirs were written by colonial women (wives, missionaries, travellers), men provided the bulk of adventure travel narratives in the hinterland, reinforcing the notion that colonization was a masculine undertaking. In any case colonial officers were exclusively male and they commanded the convoys of native men marching across the colonial landscape. Hunters, explorers, adventurers, scientists and missionaries traversed the interior of the colonies, to bring home trophies, civilize the indigenous peoples, discover ‘new’ fauna and flora, all of which were part of the colonial project. Many of these memoirs were published from travellers’ and explorers’ diaries or letters written home and added to the growing popularity of travel narratives in the nineteenth century.92 The memoirs illustrate colonial attitudes towards the guides and cooks who sustained the travellers and these attitudes ranged from being paternalistic and condescending to downright dislike and mis- trust. Anecdotes from the memoirs confirm that Asian servants were responsible for food preparation. Sentiments on local cooks resonate with those expressed in cookbooks, that their dirty habits, dishonesty and ineptness were universal. By articulating these character flaws, colonizers reiterated the rhetoric that the natives needed to be managed and led.

Remembering the past from repasts In scrutinizing descriptions of foodways in colonial memoirs, one could argue that these accounts would be less subject to exaggeration as compared to, for example, subjective descriptions of behaviours of domestic servants in the colonial home. A memoir author could lament about the distasteful chicken offered at the dinner table but the evidence, for the food historian’s purpose, is that chicken was indeed eaten at a particular time and place. Colesworthy Grant, in a letter (published book-length) written in India to his mother in England, conveyed that foods consumed by the colonials were not confined to only cooked dishes but to the large variety of tropical fruits in India and the other Asian colonies. In describing life in India in 1862, Colesworthy Grant wrote of the ‘cocoa-nut, or Nariyul’, ‘in its first state of perfection, and filled with about a pint and a half of sweet liquid’ and that ‘[A]s it ripens, the nut becomes lined with a sweet pulp, sometimes eaten in that state, and sometimes cooked in curries, salads, patties and sweetmeats’.93 Anglo- Indians so loved the mango that Grant noted that it was considered ‘moderate’ to eat twenty or thirty mangos in one sitting. He supported the popularity of the fruit in cooked dishes too, such as mango pickle, preserve and chutney, and these were clearly reflected in recipes in almost every Anglo-Indian cookbook.94 The ‘sweet-sop’ or custard apple is considered ‘a very favourite dish’, ‘containing a great quantity of seeds, covered by a soft rich pulp of exceedingly pleasant flavour … and one of the finest fruits we possess’.95 Grant wrote that the tamarind fruit was used to make ‘sherbets, sirups and conserves’. Grant observed that the ‘alligator or avocado pear’ as ‘a soft raw vegetable, which requires salt and pepper to make it palatable’ and compared it to ‘an English melon’.96 According to Grant, after the early morning constitutional, the Briton in India would either retire back to bed to doze away an hour before breakfast at eight or nine o’clock.

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He wrote, ‘[R]ice, kitchuree, fried, preserved, or tamarind fish, cold or fried meat, chops, curries, omelette, eggs, muffins, toast, fruit and “a variety of other entertainments,” may sometimes be seen on the table at once, – the characteristic and almost invariable dishes being those of rice and fish’.97 Tiffin was served at one or two o’clock. Grant, quoting Captain Mundy in ‘Pen and Pencil Sketches’: ‘This subsidiary meal is a favourite midday pastime of both the ladies and men of the Presidency, and is the only repast at which appetite generally presides. A rich hash or hot curry, followed by a well cooled bottle of Claret or Hodgson’s Pale Ale, with a variety of eastern fruit’.98 The evening meal in India, ‘being strictly English, offers no peculiarities’, according to Grant.99 Grant also berated his compatriots for eating too much ghee.100 In the Southeast Asian colonies, meal times were similar to those adopted by Anglo- Indians. An early breakfast of tea or coffee and toast after five preceded the morning walk. In Singapore, Frederick William Burbridge, writing in 1877, reported strolling in the main thoroughfares, returning home about eight and having a second breakfast of ‘[B]eef-steaks and mutton-chops, one or two well-made curries and rice, eggs and bacon, cold ham, boiled eggs, salads, vegetables and plenty of fresh fruit’.Thiswas followed by ‘bottled Bass, claret, or Norwegian beer’.101 Lunch or tiffinwasservedat one o’clock, usually consisting of curry and rice.102 Dinner was between half-past six and seven, starting with soup and fish; the ‘substantials’ of roast beef or mutton, turkey or capon; curry and rice; side dishes of tongue, fowl, cutlets and vegetables; these were followed by pudding or preserve and local fruit. Drinks were sherry, bitters and beer.103 The large meals enjoyed by the colonials had parallels to the tradition of consuming roast beef and mutton by the English middle-to-upper class as a sign of good living.104 By emulating the social mores of the upper classes, the Anglo-Indians styled themselves as the aristocracy in India. This was not replicated to any extent in the Southeast Asian colonies, due mainly to the far fewer numbers both in colonizers and the colonized. Thus, the bountiful dinner table was one way to display affluence and sophistication. In other colonial communities and settings it was not always possible to consume conspicuously. Even when the substantial meals described in the memoirs seem more British than hybrid, they were always supplemented by curry and rice and local side dishes. Thus the colonial hybrid cuisine was not only about consuming hybrid dishes, but including local dishes. Chicken was much maligned, both in the home, in the kitchens of resthouses, hill stations and especially on jungle travel. The ubiquitous chicken on the jungle travel menu prompted Hatton to write this to a family member in Britain, ‘I shall be with you, my dear – so expect me and order anything for dinner except fowl!’105 Almost always available, chicken was usually the standby source of protein when the traveller’s European supplies ran out. In a letter to his mother from Labuan, Hatton wrote that when travelling in the bush his dinner generally consisted of ‘American meat (when there is any), biscuits, sweet potatoes and occasionally a “Dusun fowl”, followed by beer’.106 Hatton also described an event, where, on reaching an area inhabited by the Bajau people, they managed to obtain

some fowls and cooked a breakfast – luckily having a tin of cocoa and milk left. I never relished a meal more, being desperately hungry – our dinner the evening before consisting of half a tin of sweet biscuits, washed down by some Hollands strong waters – not the sort of dinner one would order as a rule.107

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George M. Barker, in his memoir as a tea planter in Assam in the 1880s, also complained about the frequency of having to consume chicken. He wrote:

Day succeeds day, and the monotony of chicken meat remains unchanged: chicken in every form, chicken cutlets, steaks, minced, spatchcocked, rissoled, roasted, boiled, curried, in soup, on toast, fried, devilled, and many other ways. No man exists who has been in India and has not been compelled to sit down every day of his life to at least one meal in which chicken ﬁgured conspicuously in some form or another. These miserable fowls, a weak burlesque on their English prototypes, are procured by the moorgie-wallah, whose duty it is to start oﬀ every morning and scour the surrounding villages for the purpose of buying up all available chickens, ducks and eggs.108

In the preface Barker explained that his book was about ‘the daily life of the Planter who toils in the jungle far from civilization to provide the civilized with their cheering beverage’.109 Indeed, he lamented that his diet would have more variety if only he was ‘fortunate enough to live in the vicinity of three or four other planters [so that we] can form a sheep club, and kill once a month or once a fortnight’.110 An alternative to eating the eternal chicken was to rely on tinned provisions, but they were expensive to purchase for the assistant tea planter on 150 rupees a month.111 Tinned foods, useful in emergencies, once opened could not be kept for any length of time. Barker noted:

curry is the only dish that can be taken with anything approaching to satisfac- tion … curry can be made palatable by the addition of chutney, and we reluctantly eat the former in order to indulge in the latter … Native curry is unlike the abomination that in England passes by that name as it is possible to imagine … there is a delicacy of ﬂavour that can never be attained away from the East – a blending of good things that makes it what it is – uncommonly palatable.112

While not attributing the delicious curry to the native cooks but to ‘the East’ he nevertheless noted, ‘It is astonishing how a native with his limited supply of cooking utensils will contrive to turn out five or six courses for dinner: given three bricks, a pot, and fire, and an Indian will do wonders’.113 In his memoirs of his time in Malaya and Singapore, George L. Peet recounted a visit to a rubber estate carved from ‘virgin jungle’ in the Kluang district of Johore. On Sundays, planters from D.V. Byles’ estate and a neighbouring estate would gather in Byles’ bungalow for a curry tiffin. Peet wrote that there were four kinds of curry – pigeon, chicken, beef and hardboiled eggs, all prepared by his Indian cook.114 The dessert most often mentioned was sago pudding, or Gula Melaka, a local sweet. Gula Melaka is the Malay name for palm sugar but in colonial patois it referred to the combination of sago and the sugar syrup that was poured over it.115 One memsahib described sago pudding as ‘cooling and delicious’ after a Malayan curry116 and an Australian tin miner, reminiscing on his time in Malaya, exclaimed, ‘[T]o eat this dainty is to forget one’s troubles and to slide into a voluptuous dream of gastronomic joy’.117 Margaret Shennan stated that ‘[A]ccording to hallowed tradition curry makan (meal) was followed by gula Malacca … altogether an unforgettable experience’.118 However another Malayan ‘old

146 SPREADING THE WORD hand’ thought ‘Gula Melaka was delicious, but it was far too rich a sweet to eat on top of a big plateful of curry and rice with all the trimmings’.119 In adapting to local conditions, the British expatriates adopted not only local foods but consumed them in ways that were prepared diﬀerently from those they were used to. George Woodcock, in his social history of Malaya and Singapore, wrote:

there were variations within this general pattern of feeding, depending on the kind of materials that were locally available. In Malaya the beef was tough and ﬁt only for use in soup, but poultry was abundant and cheap, mutton usually excellent … In Malaya it was tropical fruits that gave an individual touch to every menu; they included plantains, ducoos, mangoes, rambutans, pomeloes and mangosteens.120

Emily Innes and her husband James spent two years in the ‘godforsaken spot’ of Kuala Langat in the state of Selangor in Malaya. On their three weeks’ local leave in Singapore in mid-1877, they stayed at the Hotel de l’Europe and ate ‘fresh beef and mutton instead of the eternal fowl’.121 The end of the local leave meant the return to Kuala Langat which Emily viewed as a ‘butcherless, bakerless, tailorless, cobblerless, doctorless, bookless, milkless, postless and altogether comfortless jungle’.122 At the time, meat in Malaya and Singapore was either local buffalo meat or imported from Thailand; pork was either from local, Chinese or Balinese supplies; milk and bread were sold by Bengali vendors and potatoes came from Java. As the number of British officers were so few in relation to the Indian population (this was also true of the other colonies but on a much smaller scale) this entailed constant travel from district to district, in the form of judges, policemen, health inspectors, agriculturalists and so on. As hotels and restaurants were far and few in between, the European travellers relied on staying in the homes of other Britons in the area. The hospitality was renowned, and served to provide access to a white imperial home to the British traveller and reinforced colonial solidarity. Needless to say, it was the Asian cooks who catered to the ever-expanding dining table. A ritual was put in place in Assam among the expatriate community where all meal times were fixed at the same time across all the British homes in Assam so that ‘the frequency of stray visitors alighting unexpectedly at the bungalow’ would know when the next meal was and ‘his host shall not have all his domestic arrangements upset by his servants having to serve various meals at odd times’.123

Jungle fare Memoirs describing jungle travel in Southeast Asia show another kind of colonial cuisine – outside the setting of the colonial home. The depiction of the colonial’s willingness and readiness to imbibe foods not generally consumed in the colonial home added to the notion of duty and endurance for empire. Charles Brooke was not enamoured of the turtle eggs he sampled when he visited the islands of Satang and Talang Talang in Sarawak, describing them as:

not disagreeable to the taste when mixed with curry, but when eaten without any condiments, possess a dry, sandy ﬂavour, which somewhat resembles a stale fowl’s- egg, but doubtless by the skill of a Soyer they would become very delicious.124

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In recounting his experiences in jungle travel to stamp out ‘insurgencies’ in Sarawak, Brooke noted, ‘[w]e were not well supplied with food, and the single fowl daily was scarce enough to keep four lusty Christians in condition’.125 On another occasion he wrote, ‘[w]e cooked and dined in a tumble-down place, but it was better than a confined boat. Our dinner consisted of stew and vegetables’. Brooke chose to say ‘we’ when obviously it was the male servants (known as ‘boys’) who cooked.126 On long travels in the interior when the magnificent colonial table could not be replicated, the British traveller had to eat what was available. At bleak times when even the ever-present jungle fowl was not to be found, travellers resorted to eating sago. Charles Brooke wrote, ‘[w]e had some wild sago-plant cooked for dinner; the taste is too bitter to be pleasant’.127 European travellers recognized the importance of rice as the staple food of the indigenous people in the jungle trek, both for their sustenance each day and also as a standby that Europeans could fall back on when their own supplies ran out. It was the single most important food item to be included for jungle travel; it was relatively non-perishable, portable and easily cooked by local guides and boys. Hatton reported that on one boat travel trip they stopped three times to cook rice.128 There were other Europeans who were not so accommodating when the usual colonial type meals were not replicated on jungle travel. On a hunting expedition, Frederick Boyle berated his boy, Paham, who had failed to organize meals for a two- to three-day journey among the Dayaks in Sarawak. Boyle stated, ‘I made frantic inquiries about the “country captains” (a chicken dish), and the curries, and the savoury meats, which should have been provided to alleviate our sojourn’.129 The colonial home was the site where the memsahib had carefully constructed it to be the space of prestige and exclusion, guarding it against the encroachment of the colonized environment and its people. This also included particular standards of behaviour, marking the social distance between colonizer and colonized – in dress, home décor, employing large numbers of household servants and in food practices. The ‘relaxing’ of colonial standards of behaviour extended to consuming foods that ‘boys’ or other local people offered. At times when in the homes of local dignitaries, etiquette and protocol demanded that the British traveller had to partake of local foods. In their hunting expedition to Sar- awak, brothers Frederick and Arthur Boyle claimed that they ‘had visited every fort and station of the Sarawak territory’.130 Frederick Boyle described visiting an old chief’s home and, while he and the host chatted and dozed, the chief’s wife prepared the evening meal. He recounted:

The eatables which she produced consisted of a pig’s leg, and a quantity of rice, boiled in bamboos, and then thrust out in a mass, like the rolly-polly pudding of our infancy. The pig’s leg was cured according to the Dyak fashion … the meat is exactly like gelatine, surrounded an inch thick envelope of coke. I had already devoured the curry presented by the Tuan Mudah, and when Gasing invited me to partake of this dish I accepted with the greatest cordiality; the choice lay between this gelatined pork and a roast fowl in the Dyak manner.131

Likewise, Isabella L. Bird, in her travels in the Malayan jungle in 1879, suggested that there were Europeans who were enthusiastic about imbibing local fare. Bird described ‘blachang’ as ‘aMalaypreparationmuchrelishedbyEuropeanloversofdurian and decomposed cheese. It is made by trampling a mass of putrefying prawns and

148 SPREADING THE WORD shrimps into a paste with bare feet. This is seasoned with salt. The smell is penetrating and lingering’.132 The founder of Sandakan, in British North Borneo, William Pryer, and his wife Ada Pryer, were served rhinoceros for dinner by the local Lamag people while travelling in the Kinabatangan River area. William ate ‘a cut of steak, which he accepted and ordered to be cooked for dinner, to my disgust. He protested that it was very good eating, and was something like pork and venison, but I declined to try it’.133 The Pryers however rejected crocodile meat when oﬀered it, with Mrs Pryer remarking, ‘[t]his culinary delicacy we politely declined’.134 On the same trip, when food supplies ran out, the Pryers and their jungle boys resorted to trapping animals, catching only mousedeer, civet cat and monitor lizard.135 Mrs Pryer wrote:

Our larder was so reduced that we were at last obliged to make our breakfast, tiffin, and dinner off sweet potatoes, and the men were almost as badly off as ourselves, for their rice was almost all finished.136

Rest and recreation Aside from the colonial home there were other enclaves of empire where Britons could congregate: hill stations, clubs, resthouses and dak bungalows. Hill stations were established in the British colonies in Asia, initially as convalescent retreats and later as rest and recreation bases for Europeans. Built in highland areas, they were seen as necessary enclaves for quarantining the European community from the native populations. John Lang recalled from his travels in India in the mid-nineteenth century of having mulligatawny soup and rice, cold lamb and mint sauce with sherry and beer for tiﬃn at Jack Apsey’s home in Mussorie.137 While camping in the Upper Provinces, his party slept until ten in the morning and breakfasted on ‘grilled fowl, curried fowl and eggs, with beer instead of tea’.138 Lang observed that:

Simlah is a much more expensive place to spend the summer at than Mussoorie, in consequence of its great distance from the plains, whence almost every article of food and all descriptions of ‘stores’ are carried on men’s shoulders. The mutton of the hill sheep is not equal to Welsh mutton; but when properly kept and dressed, it is very good eating. The hill cattle also aﬀord tolerable beef; but the joints are very small.139

Anglo-Indians were known for consuming large meals in India and they continued to do so in the hills. Lang described an army major breakfasting at the Himalaya Club in Musso- orie: after having just devoured two grilled thighs of turkey, he was eating a pigeon pie and enquiring about the Irish pie.140 Clubs were important meeting places for the British in the colonies: they served as places for socializing, dining venues and a sense of belonging to an essentially British tradition. The club represented a symbol of British culture and food and drink served here were similar to those served in the colonial home. Certain clubs or club cooks acquired fame because of their signature curries or other dishes. Anna Chitty described the recipe for nimbo pani or lime and barley water at the Adyar Club as the best guarded secret of the khansama (male cook) and ‘no amount of wheedling by various memsahibs

149 C. LEONG-SALOBIR would get the recipe out of him’.141 The Madras Club was so well-known for its prawn curry that when the Prince of Wales visited India he made a tour to Madras specifically to taste this dish.142 Local cooks at dak bungalows and rest-houses were well-known for whipping up meals for itinerant Britons who turned up suddenly. As the cooks had to rely on local ingredients, the dishes were often omelettes, roast chicken and chicken curry.143 Curried chicken seemed to be the dish that appeared most frequently in meals when colonials were travelling, presumably because chicken was easier to procure than other meat. While some travellers had complained about the monotony of dak bungalow meals the Marchioness’ description of them left no doubt that they were substantial. For breakfast she and her husband had mutton chops, chicken cutlets, omelette and ‘chupatties’ (flat bread); for lunch there was lamb with mint-sauce, cold chicken and biscuits and ‘very good butter’ to finish the meal. Dinner started with soup, followed by a joint of mutton, curry, roast chickens or pheasants, and pudding.144

Conclusion Cultural artefacts of the home such as cookbooks are now seen as important contributions to historical inquiry. Cookbooks and household manuals are one genre that have become an important source as historical documents. Apart from illustrating the types of foods consumed, cooking methods used and types and frequency of meals eaten, cookbooks are insightful in providing details of the social mores of the time. Cookbooks and household guides were important manuals for the colonial mistress to refer to each day, in pointing out to the household cook which meals were to be ordered. It was through the medium of cookbooks that recipes of the colonial cuisine were made popular and accessible to the colonial community. In a sense, these publications also served as a tool of empire as they helped to strengthen the colonial community. The colonial home was seen as a bastion of white imperialism where the memsahib imposed the rituals and tasks that defined colonial culture. Some scholars have cautioned against using cookbooks as historical texts as they are seen as prescriptive and do not necessarily reflect the food practices of a community at a particular time. Colonial cookbooks however do not comprise recipes alone; prefaces, notes to accompany dishes, and other supplementary texts informed memsahibs of the uniquely hybrid colonial cuisine that emerged from the colonies. Cookery books in the colonies thus became the standard bearer of the colonial foodways and hold themselves up as ‘the voice of authority’ and recipes are ‘the directions for detailed behaviour’.145 In conjunction with cookbooks I have used colonial memoirs to provide a more nuanced understanding of the foodways of British colonizers in Asia. Colonial memoirs illustrate the large and heavy meals consumed by Britons; roast meats were supplemented by curries and rice and other hybrid dishes. Colonizers (who came from the middle classes) copied the Victorian style of gargantuan feasts and extravagant table décor to portray themselves as the new elites in the colonies. The genres of cookbooks and memoirs employed together can be seen as a way to confirm the historical veracity of food practices of a community. Colonial cookbooks carry a combination of European, Asian and hybridized (European and Asian) dishes – these are reflected in descriptions of meal times in the homes, hill stations and on jungle travel. In the colonial memoirs, ‘food carried the flavor of memory, forging material continuities between past and present and connecting the personal to the collective’.146

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Notes 1 A Thirty-Five Years’ Resident, The Indian Cookery Book: A Practical Handbook to the Kitchen in India Adapted to the Three Presidencies; Containing Original Approved Recipes in Every Department of Indian Cookery; Recipes for Summer Beverages and Home-Made Liqueurs; Medicinal and Other Recipes; Together with a Variety of Things Worth Knowing, Calcutta: Thacker, Spink, And Co., 1880. 2 John Cameron, Our Tropical Possessions in Malayan India: Being a Descriptive Account of Singapore, Penang, Province Wellesley, and Malacca; their Peoples, Products, Commerce, and Government, London: Smith, Elder and Co., 1865, pp. 295–301. 3 Thomas R. Metcalf, in his work on imperialism, asserts that certain ways of thinking formed during the Indian colonial experience found expression in diﬀerent forms of knowledge elsewhere. Thomas R. Metcalf, Imperial Connections: India in the Indian Ocean Arena, 1860–1920, Berkeley: Uni- versity of California Press, 2007, p. 47. 4 Cecilia Leong-Salobir, Food Culture in Colonial Asia: A Taste of Empire, London: Routledge, 2011. 5 Niall Ferguson, Empire: How Britain Made the Modern World, London: Penguin, 2004, pp. 240–1. 6 David Gilmour, The Ruling Caste: Imperial Lives in the Victorian Raj, New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2005, p. 10. 7 Ferguson, Empire, p. 184. 8 F.A. Steel and G. Gardiner, The Complete Indian Housekeeper and Cook: Giving the Duties of Mistress and Servants the General Management of the House and Practical Recipes for Cooking in All Its Branches, London: William Heinemann, 1890, p. 11. 9 Elizabeth Garrett, Morning Hours in India, Practical Hints on Household Management, the Care and Training of Children, & Co., London: Trubner & Co., 1887, p. 7. 10 Steel and Gardiner, The Complete Indian Housekeeper and Cook. 11 A.R. Kenney-Herbert, Culinary Jottings for Madras, or a Treatise in Thirty Chapters on Reformed Cookery for Anglo-Indian Exiles, Totnes: Prospect Books, 1994, facsimile of 5th edition, Preface to 1st edition, 1878. 12 Steel and Gardiner, The Complete Indian Housekeeper and Cook. Chapter XV is titled ‘Simple Hints on the Preservation of Health and Simple Remedies’, pp. 171–88. 13 For example, a paragraph on ‘the secret of a good curry’ was reproduced word for word in these two publications: G.L.R., The Economical Cookery Book: Simple and Dainty Dishes (for India), Calcutta and Simla: Thacker, Spink & Co., 1920, p. 212; and Marie Young, The Old Lady’s Cookery Book (for India), Benares, 1928, no other publication details, p. 222. 14 Britons in India were known as Anglo-Indians prior to 1915 and it was in subsequent years that Indians with European and Asian heritage were called Anglo-Indians. 15 E.M. Collingham, Imperial Bodies: The Physical Experience of the Raj, c. 1800–1947, Cambridge: Polity, 2001, p. 29. 16 Kenney-Herbert, Culinary Jottings,p.1. 17 Kenney-Herbert, Culinary Jottings, pp. 1–2. 18 Edith Horandner, ‘The Recipe Book as a Cultural and Socio-historical Document: On the Value of Manuscript Recipe Books as Sources’, Food in Perspective (Proceedings of the Third International Conference on Ethnological Food Research, Cardiﬀ, 1977), Edinburgh: John Donald Publishers Ltd, 1981, p. 119. 19 Edward Higgs, ‘Domestic Service and Household Production’, in Angela V. John (ed.), Unequal Opportunities: Women’s Employment in England 1800–1918, Oxford: B. Blackwell, 1986, pp. 126–7. 20 Karen Hess, The Digest: A Newsletter for the Interdisciplinary Study of Food, vol. 1, no. 1, November 1977, 4. 21 Valerie Mars, ‘Beyond Beeton: Some Nineteenth-Century Cookery and Household Books in the Brotherton Special Collections’, in Eileen White (ed.), The English Cookery Book: Historical Essays, Totnes: Prospect Books, 2004, p. 177. 22 Mars, ‘Beyond Beeton’, p. 177. 23 J. Hubbard, The Malayan Cookery Book, Singapore: Rickard Limited, 1930, Introduction. 24 Amy B. Trubek, Haute Cuisine: How the French Invented the Culinary Profession, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000, p. 12. 25 Troy Bickham, ‘Eating the Empire: Intersections of Food, Cookery and Imperialism in Eight- eenth-Century Britain’, Past and Present, vol. 198, no. 1, 2008, 473.

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26 Janet Theophano, Eat My Words: Reading Women’s Lives through the Cookbooks They Wrote, New York: Palgrave, 2002. 27 Theophano, Eat My Words, p. 35. 28 Theophano, Eat My Words, p. 190. 29 Elizabeth Driver, A Bibliography of Cookery Books Published in Britain 1875–1914, London: Prospect Books, 1989, 37. 30 Lynne Ireland, ‘The Compiled Cookbook as Foodways Autobiography’, Western Folklore, vol. 40, no. 1, January 1981, 109. 31 Ireland, ‘The Compiled Cookbook’, 108. 32 See: Wesleyan Methodist Church, What to Tell the Cook; or the Native Cook’s Assistant; Being a Choice Collection of Receipts for Indian Cookery, Madras: Higginbotham, 1910; A.E. Llewellyn, The Y.W.C.A. Of Malaya and Singapore Cookery Book: A Book of Culinary Information and Recipes Compiled in Malaya, Kuala Lumpur: The Y.W.C.A. of Malaya and Singapore, 1951; Friend-in-Need Women, Hindustani Cookery Book, Madras, 1939; Friend-in-Need Women’s Workshop, A Friend in Need English–Tamil Cookery Book, Madras, 1950. 33 Ireland, ‘The Compiled Cookbook’, 110. 34 Sandra Sherman, ‘“The Whole Art and Mystery of Cooking”: What Cookbooks Taught Readers in the Eighteenth Century’, Eighteenth-Century Life, vol. 28, no. 1, Winter 2004, 119. 35 Alan Davidson, ‘The Natural History of British Cookery Books’, American Scholar, 1982–1983, vol. 52, no. 1, 1982–3, 98–106. 36 Davidson, ‘The Natural History of British Cookery Books’, 105–6. 37 Cecilia Novero, ‘Stories of Food: Recipes of Modernity, Recipes of Tradition in Weimar Germany’, Journal of Popular Culture, vol. 34, 2000, 178. 38 Novero, ‘Stories of Food’, 178. 39 Novero, ‘Stories of Food’, 178. 40 Troy Bickham, ‘Defining Good Food: Cookery-Book Illustrations in England’, Journal for Eighteenth-Century Studies, vol. 31, no. 3, 2008, 476. Bickham notes that in eighteenth-century England, the domestic guide was a helpful source of information for the middling housewife who was either too far away from family advisors or who had newly acquired higher social status. 41 Caroline Lieffers, ‘“The Present Time is Eminently Scientific”: The Science of Cookery in Nineteenth-Century Britain’, Journal of Social History, vol. 45, no. 4, 2012, 936–59, 938. 42 Lieffers, ‘“The Present Time is Eminently Scientific”’, 938. 43 Alice Berry Hart, ‘Housekeeping and Life in the Malayan Rubber’, Blackwood’s Magazine, London, 1927, 598–9. 44 Lang, (Mrs) C. ‘Chota Mem’, the English Bride in India: Being Hints on Indian Housekeeping, Madras: Higginbotham & Co., 1909, p. 72. 45 Bickham, ‘Defining Good Food’, 473. 46 Bickham, ‘Defining Good Food’, 473. 47 Steel and Gardiner, The Complete Indian Housekeeper and Cook, 10. 48 W.H. Dawe, The Wife’s Help to Indian Cookery: Being a Practical Manual for Housekeepers, London: Elliot Stock, 1888. 49 Dawe, The Wife’s Help to Indian Cookery, Preface. 50 Mary A. Procida, Married to the Empire: Gender, Politics and Imperialism in India, 1883–1947, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2002, p. 94. 51 Mary Procida, ‘Feeding the Imperial Appetite: Imperial Knowledge and Anglo-Indian Domes- ticity’, Journal of Women’s History, vol. 15, no. 2, 2003, 130–1. 52 Procida, ‘Feeding the Imperial Appetite’, 143. 53 Procida, Married to the Empire, p. 87. 54 Indrani Sen, ‘Colonial Domesticities, Contentious Interactions: Ayahs, Wet-Nurses and Memsahibs in Colonial India’, Indian Journal of Gender Studies, vol. 16, 2009, 299–327, 308. 55 Steel and Gardiner, The Complete Indian Housekeeper and Cook, pp. 66–7. 56 A Lady Resident, The Englishwoman in India: Containing Information for the Use of Ladies Proceeding to, or Residing in, the East Indies, on the Subjects of their Outfit, Furniture, Housekeeping, the Rearing of Children, Duties and Wages of Servants, Management of the Stables, and Arrangements for Travelling to which are Added Receipts for Indian Cookery, London: Smith, Elder and Co., 1864, pp. 99–100.

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57 A Lady Resident, The Englishwoman in India, p. 96. 58 Leong-Salobir, Food Culture in Colonial Asia,pp.39–59. 59 J.H., Household Cookery: Tested Recipes Collected During 23 Years’ Residence in India, Allahabad: Pioneer Press, 1902, p. 2. 60 Susan Zlotnick, ‘Domesticating Imperialism: Curry and Cookbooks in Victorian England’, Fron- tiers: A Journal of Women Studies, vol. 16, no. 2–3, 1996, 53. 61 Zlotnick, ‘Domesticating Imperialism’,64–5; and Uma Narayan, Dislocating Cultures: Identities, Traditions, and Third-World Feminism, New York: Routledge, 1997, pp. 164–5. 62 Leong-Salobir, Food Culture in Colonial Asia, p. 45. 63 Angela C. Spry, The Mem Sahib’sBookofCookery, 1894 (no other publishing details), 2nd edition, p. 60. 64 Spry, The Mem Sahib’s Book of Cookery, p. 61. 65 G.L.R., The Economical Cookery Book, p. 212. 66 G.L.R., The Economical Cookery Book, p. 50. 67 Driver, A Bibliography of Cookery Books, p. 31. 68 Driver, A Bibliography of Cookery Books, p. 31. 69 Richard Terry, Indian Cookery, London: F.K. Gurney, 1861, (facsimile of) East Sussex: Southover Press, 1998. 70 Terry, Indian Cookery, preface. 71 Leong-Salobir, Food Culture in Colonial Asia, p. 53. 72 Lizzie Collingham, Curry: A Biography, London: Chatto & Windus, 2005, p. 129. 73 Arjun Appadurai, ‘How to Make a National Cuisine: Cookbooks in Contemporary India’, Journal of the Society for the Comparative Study of Society and History, vol. 30, no. 1, 1988, 3–24. 74 Daniel Santiagoe, The Curry Cook’s Assistant; or Curries, How to Make Them in England in Their Original Style, London: Kegan Paul, Trench & Co, 1889. 75 G. Lehmann, The British Housewife: Cookery Books, Cooking and Society in Eighteenth-Century Britain, Devon: Prospect Books, 2003, p. 149. 76 The Ladies’ Committee, Friend-in-Need Women’s Workshop, A Friend in Need English–Tamil Coo- kery Book, Madras: Friend-in-Need Women’s Workshop, 1950; Friend-in-Need Women’s Work- shop, Friend-in-Need Women, Hindustani Cookery Book, Madras, 1939. 77 The Ladies’ Committee, Friend-in-Need Women’s Workshop, A Friend in Need English–Tamil Coo- kery Book, advertisement, p. xi. 78 Friend-in-Need Women’s Workshop, Hindustani Cookery Book, Madras, 1939. 79 Appadurai, ‘How to Make a National Cuisine’,3. 80 R. Riddell, Indian Domestic Economy and Receipt Book; Comprising Numerous Directions for Plain Wholesome Cookery, Both Oriental and English; with much Miscellaneous Matter Answering for All General Purposes of Reference Connected with Household Aﬀairs, Likely to be Immediately Required by Families, Messes, and Private Individuals, Residing at the Presidencies or Outstations, Madras: Press of the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, Vepery, 1860, 5th edition 81 Riddell, Indian Domestic Economy and Receipt Book, Preface, p. v. 82 Riddell, Indian Domestic Economy and Receipt Book, pp. 373–452. 83 Riddell, Indian Domestic Economy and Receipt Book, pp. 304–5. 84 Riddell, Indian Domestic Economy and Receipt Book, pp. 577–8. 85 The British North Borneo Herald, 2 January 1904. 86 Anonymous, What to Tell the Cook; or the Native Cook’s Assistant, being a Choice Collection of Receipts for Indian Cookery, Pastry etc. etc., Madras: Higginbothams Ltd., 1910, 7th edition. 87 Anonymous, What to Tell the Cook; or the Native Cook’s Assistant. 88 Mary A. Procida, ‘“The Greater Part of My Life has been Spent in India”: Autobiography and the Crisis of Empire in the Twentieth Century’, Biography, vol. 25, no. 1, 2002, 130–50, 131 here. 89 Procida, ‘“The Greater Part of My Life has been Spent in India”’, 131. 90 J.D. Popkin, History, Historians, & Autobiography, Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2005, p. 71. 91 Popkin, History, Historians, & Autobiography, p. 71. 92 Libbie Freed, ‘“Every European Becomes a Chief”: Travel Guides to Colonial Equatorial Africa, 1900–1958’, Journal of Colonialism and Colonial History, vol. 12, no. 2, accessed 25 July 2013: http:// muse.jhu.edu.ezproxy.uow.edu.au/journals/journal_of_colonialism_and_colonial_history/v012/12.2. freed.html.

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93 Colesworthy Grant, Anglo-Indian Domestic Life: A Letter from an Artist in India to His Mother in England, Calcutta: Thacker, Spink & Co., 1862, pp. 137–8. 94 Grant, Anglo-Indian Domestic Life, p. 143. 95 Grant, Anglo-Indian Domestic Life, p. 146. 96 Grant, Anglo-Indian Domestic Life, pp. 151–2. 97 Grant, Anglo-Indian Domestic Life, p. 175. 98 Godfrey Charles Mundy, Pen and Pencil Sketches being the Journal of a Tour in India, vol. II, London: John Murray, 1830, in Grant, Anglo-Indian Domestic Life, p. 178. 99 Grant, Anglo-Indian Domestic Life, p. 176. 100 Grant, Anglo-Indian Domestic Life, p. 63. 101 F.W. Burbridge, The Gardens of the Sun: A Naturalist’s Journal of Borneo and the Sulu Archipelago, Singapore: Oxford University Press, 1991, p. 17. 102 John Cameron, Our Tropical Possessions in Malayan India, Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press, 1965, p. 297. 103 Cameron, Our Tropical Possessions, pp. 300–2. 104 Valerie Mars, ‘19th-century Food Historians: Did they Search for Authenticity or Use the Past to Embellish their Present? Authenticity in the Kitchen’, Proceedings of the Oxford Symposium on Food and Cookery, 2005, p. 319. 105 Frank Hatton and Joseph Hatton, North Borneo: Explorations and Adventures in the Equator, London: Scribner and Welford, 1886, p. 91. 106 Hatton and Hatton, North Borneo, p. 126. 107 Hatton and Hatton, North Borneo, p. 126. 108 George M. Barker, A Tea Planter’sLifeinAssam, Calcutta: Thacker, Spink & Co., 1884, pp. 105–6. 109 Barker, A Tea Planter’s Life in Assam, Preface, p. vi. 110 Barker, A Tea Planter’s Life in Assam, p. 106. 111 Barker, A Tea Planter’s Life in Assam, p. 109. 112 Barker, A Tea Planter’s Life in Assam, p. 110. 113 Barker, A Tea Planter’s Life in Assam, p. 100. 114 George L. Peet, Rickshaw Reporter, Singapore: Eastern Universities Press Sdn Bhd, 1985, p. 172. 115 Peet, Ricksaw Reporter, p. 51. 116 K. Sim, Malayan Landscape, London: Michael Joseph Ltd, 1957, p. 140. 117 Ambrose Pratt, Magical Malaya, Melbourne: Robertson & Mullens Ltd, 1931, p. 265. 118 Margaret Shennan, Out in the Midday Sun: The British in Malaya 1880–1960, London: John Murray, 2000, p. 206. 119 George L. Peet, Rickshaw Reporter, Singapore: Eastern Universities Press Sdn Bhd, 1985, p. 51. 120 George Woodcock, The British in the Far East, London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1969, p. 179. 121 John Gullick, ‘Emily Innes: Keeping up One’s Standards in Malaya’,inJohnGullick(ed.),Adven- turous Women in South-East Asia: Six Lives, Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press, 1995, p. 171. 122 Gullick, ‘Emily Innes’, p. 171. 123 Barker, A Tea Planter’s Life in Assam, p. 103. 124 Charles Brooke, Ten Years in Sarawak, vol. I, London: Tinsley Brothers, 1866, p. 265. 125 Brooke, Ten Years in Sarawak, p. 48. 126 Brooke, Ten Years in Sarawak, p. 160. 127 Brooke, Ten Years in Sarawak, p. 297. 128 Hatton and Hatton, North Borneo, p. 289. 129 Frederick Boyle, Adventures Among the Dyaks of Borneo, London: Hurst and Blackett, 1865, p. 259. 130 Boyle, Adventures Among the Dyaks of Borneo, p. 262. 131 Boyle, Adventures Among the Dyaks of Borneo, pp. 262–4. 132 Isabella L. Bird, The Golden Chersonese and the Way Thither, London: Oxford University Press, 1967, p. 180. 133 Ada Pryer, A Decade in Borneo, London: Leicester University Press, 2001, ﬁrst published in 1893, p. 69. 134 Pryer, A Decade in Borneo, p. 70. 135 Pryer, A Decade in Borneo, pp. 74–5. 136 Pryer, A Decade in Borneo, p. 75. 137 John Lang, Wanderings in India and Other Sketches of Life in Hindostan, London: Routledge, Warne, and Routledge, 1859, p. 19.

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138 Lang, Wanderings in India, p. 150. 139 Lang, Wanderings in India, pp. 407–8. 140 Lang, Wanderings in India,p.4. 141 Jean Chitty (ed.), Anna Chitty – Musings of a Memsahib: 1921–1933, Hants: Belhaven, 1988, p. 56. 142 Henrietta A. Hervey, Anglo-Indian Cookery at Home: A Short Treatise for Returned Exiles, London: Horace Cox, 1895, p. 2. 143 Colleen Taylor Sen, Food Culture in India, Westport: Greenwood Press, 2004, p. 128. 144 Harriot Duﬀerin, Our Viceregal Life in India: Selections from My Journal 1884–1888, London: John Murray, 1893, p. 390. 145 Jessamyn Neuhas, ‘The Way to a Man’s Heart: Gender Roles, Domestic Ideology, and Cook- books in the 1950s’, Journal of Social History, Spring 1999, vol. 32, no. 3, 529–55, 547 here. 146 Susie Protschky, ‘The Flavour of History: Food, Family and Subjectivity in Two Indo-European Women’s Memoirs’, The History of the Family, vol. 14, no. 4, 369–85, 371 here.

155 9 THE GLOBALIZATION OF ALCOHOL AND TEMPERANCE FROM THE GIN CRAZE TO PROHIBITION

Jeﬀrey M. Pilcher

Alcohol assumes a leading role in the contemporary process of globalization, the worldwide integration of markets and cultures, which now is driven as much by Heineken beer and Absolut vodka as by the iconic (and teetotal) Coca-Cola. Standardization has also increased within market segments; for example, connoisseurs bemoan the growing predominance of fruity, New World-style wines championed by the influential US wine critic Robert Parker. As a result of these trends, national beverages like Scotch whisky, Mexican tequila, and Japanese sake have been reduced to product lines within the portfolios of global giants Diageo and Pernod-Ricard. Although some might consider the craft beer phenomenon to be a counterexample that is recovering local diversity, even microbrewers rely on international malt and hops markets and on common beer styles such as IPA (India Pale Ale), Pilsner, and Hefeweissen. This commercial convergence runs parallel to international concerns about the social and health consequences of excessive drinking. The World Health Organization calculates that the abuse of alcohol kills millions of people each year as a result of drunk driving, cirrhosis of the liver, cancer, and other causes. Drinking harms tens of millions more through neuropsychiatric disorders, premature births, domestic and public violence, and the like. The effects of alcohol are particularly damaging among marginalized groups, who often have little access to medical and social services. Only a dozen or so countries now enforce some form of alcohol prohibition, but governments around the world have recently carried out public health campaigns dedicated to education, taxing or restricting alcohol sales and advertising, and preventing drunk driving.1 From a historical perspective, there is ample precedent for the globalization both of alcohol and of efforts to restrict its use. Perhaps the best known example of legal prohibition, the Eighteenth Amendment to the United States Constitution, came into effect in 1920, after half a century of rapid international growth in the alcohol industry. Similar laws were passed in Canada, Russia, Hungary, and several Nordic countries. Two hundred years earlier, beginning in the 1720s, England experienced a “gin craze” following the introduction of highly potent distilled spirits. Likewise in the eighteenth century, legal restrictions and moral campaigns against alcohol spread widely through Europe and its colonies in the Americas, although these reforms fell short of the prohibition regimes implemented in the early twentieth century. Yet these examples do not necessarily

156 THE GLOBALIZATION OF ALCOHOL AND TEMPERANCE demonstrate a causal link between changing patterns of alcohol production and consumption, on the one hand, and legal restrictions, on the other, for many other societies went through similar changes without significant prohibitionist impulses. To understand the historical connections between consumption and temperance, it may be helpful to begin by reviewing contemporary global patterns. Data compiled by the World Health Organization in 2011 suggest four broad categories of countries in rising order of consumption: prohibitionists at the bottom, those where drinking appears to be limited by income, societies with wealthier and heavier drinkers, and at the top, for want of a better term, members of the former Soviet Bloc. Religion is the leading determinant of prohibitionist countries, with annual consumption ranging from 0.02 liters of pure alcohol per person in Afghanistan and Yemen to just under three liters per person in multi-ethnic Israel and Lebanon. In addition to Muslim countries, this group includes India and an odd grouping of Madagascar, Malawi, Myanmar, as well as a few others. The next rank of countries, consuming between three and seven liters per person, are found almost entirely in the Global South, including China and much of Latin America and non-Muslim Africa, except for Iceland. Countries consuming above seven liters per person are generally wealthier nations such as Argentina and Brazil, Nigeria and South Africa, North America, Australasia, and most of Europe, although Sierra Leone, Guyana, and several other poor countries also fell in this category. The top ranking is held by a group of Eastern European countries consuming more than 15 liters per person. Statisticians could parse these groupings further, but a list of the top five consuming nations outside of Eastern Europe—South Korea, Portugal, Ireland, France, and the United Kingdom—confounds the obvious dichotomies of Europe versus Asia, Protestant versus Catholic, or Northern Europe versus the Mediterranean. His- torically, the data suggest little beyond the obvious importance of religion and income.2 Comparative anthropological studies of alcohol provide another approach to understanding connections between consumption and temperance. The central finding of this literature is that although alcohol has common physiological effects on the human nervous system, behavior under the influence is culturally learned and varies widely across societies.3 Based on that research, Craig MacAndrew and Robert Edgerton have suggested that even societies that are seemingly prone to unrestrained drunkenness nevertheless have important restrictions embedded within their cultures of consumption.4 One important limitation on drinking in many societies, noted by Elizabeth Colson and Thayer Scudder, was simply the availability of alcohol; people drank until they ran dry, and then they sobered up. Drinking cultures in the Zambia, Africa, where Colson and Scudder did ethnographic research, became dysfunctional in the mid-twentieth century with the introduction of industrial beer and distilled spirits. Unlike domestic brewing, which was limited by subsistence production, industrial alcohol could be consumed without restraint, and so it was under the stresses of late colonialism.5 This chapter examines whether the global spread of temperance movements since the eighteenth century has represented an ongoing attempt to restore social equilibrium in the wake of new and more potent technologies for producing alcohol.6 Contemporary observers certainly believed that social disruptions were caused by the increasing availability of alcoholic beverages over this period of rapid modernization. Some attributed these changes to moral and religious failures, whereas others came to view the problem from the perspectives of medical and social sciences, but they shared a common goal of restricting the consumption of alcohol to prevent social dissolution. Nevertheless, the anthropological literature suggests that alcohol and temperance would gain acceptance based primarily on local drinking

157 J.M. PILCHER cultures and on government policies, particularly the taxation of alcohol. Indeed, eighteenth- and nineteenth-century moral reforms, medical theories, and temperance societies were globalized through networks that ran parallel to the migrations of alcohol makers, merchants, and drinkers, but the implementation (and repeal) of prohibitions were often conflated with wider social concerns, particularly the crisis surrounding the outbreak of World War I. Temperance efforts may well have had their greatest effect indirectly, through education and social reforms designed to limit the causes of excessive drinking.

The spirits of mercantile empires Europeans could claim no monopoly on either distilled spirits or heavy drinking, but their seaborne empires nevertheless drove a relentless expansion in the global production and trade of alcohol in the early modern era. In part, this expansion of drinking resulted from new technologies for the commercial production of distilled spirits, as well as improvements in the making of beer and wine. Higher alcohol levels also made these beverages more stable for long-distance trade, encouraging the global integration of markets. New World colonies meanwhile gave access to additional food sources that could be fermented or distilled, particularly sugar from tropical plantations. New production methods also encouraged social differentiation, as the elite consumed more refined beverages while the working classes drank mass-produced rotgut. Mercantile policies intended to preserve trade monopolies also helped to shape local tastes for alcohol. One final impetus to globalization came from the agents and subjects of maritime empires—merchants and soldiers, servants and slaves—who were often inclined to excessive drinking – like the proverbial sailor. The most transformative early modern advance in alcohol production was the development of large-scale distillation, a process of vaporizing and re-condensing alcohol, thereby separating out water and other substances that boil at higher temperatures. Alchemists discovered the principles of distilling in classical Alexandria but guarded their secrets closely. Moreover, their fragile earthenware stills could not be scaled up for mass production, and the small quantities of alcohol that could be produced were reserved for medicine or perfume. Another school of alchemy, at Salerno, Italy, introduced distilling to Europe in the early twelfth century, and in contrast to the Islamic world, demand for beverage alcohol encouraged efforts to expand production. Nevertheless, it was not until the late sixteenth century that technical improvements made commercial production viable. Wes- tern historians of technology once rejected claims of ancient distilling in China and India, but recent archaeological findings have confirmed its independent invention by East and South Asians. Although they also faced a considerable lag in raising production, large- capacity stills had become widespread in China by the Yuan Dynasty (1271–1368). The historical development of Indian arrack distilling is not well documented.7 Russians were also early adopters of the new technology, and the historian William Pokhlebkin has demonstrated the intimate connections between vodka production, tax revenue, and the growth of the Moscow state. In the mid-sixteenth century, Tsar Ivan IV (the Terrible) established official taverns for the sale of distilled spirits, which had been introduced by Orthodox monks a hundred years earlier. The “Tsar’staverns” had gained a monopoly on the sale of alcohol by the seventeenth century, and tavern revolts soon followed as peasants protested debts, adulteration, and widespread drunkenness. The great eighteenth-century tsars, Peter and Catherine, granted the privilege of distilling to the Russian aristocracy, who

158 THE GLOBALIZATION OF ALCOHOL AND TEMPERANCE competed to produce the finest vodkas. These beverages gained international prestige and were bestowed as gifts to heads of state and distinguished visitors.8 Brandy likewise became segmented into distinct markets for elite and popular classes. At first, French distillers purchased wines that had gone unsold from the previous harvest, but by the late seventeenth century, producers in Cognac and the Loire Valley had begun to specialize in the production of fine brandies. With refined distilling techniques and carefully selected raw materials, they developed high-value markets in Paris and the British Isles. By contrast, growers in the Languedoc region pioneered industrial mass production to supply less discriminating consumers.9 Winemakers in South America also shifted increasingly toward distilled aguardiente,orpisco as it became known in Peru and Chile. European Jesuits introduced investment capital, copper stills, and new grape varietals to South America. By the end of the eighteenth century, Spaniards quaffed brandy and scorned wine as a native drink, although it too had been introduced with the Columbian Exchange.10 British and French settlers sought to establish viticulture in North America, but ultimately came to rely instead on distilled apple cider. The late seventeenth century was a time of considerable innovation in cider presses, often inspired by the screw presses and mechanical rollers of New World sugar mills. Yet as the historian Sarah Meacham has shown of the Chesapeake colonies, distilling was limited primarily to wealthy planters who could afford the substantial investments required. In the mid-eighteenth century, however, the arrival of small, affordable stills, along with new varieties of apples and cider presses, allowed even modest families to become more self-reliant, making “every home a distillery.”11 The most important new source of alcohol in the early modern era was rum distilled from low-grade sugars from flourishing Caribbean and Brazil plantations. Known in English as rumbullion,meaning“tumult,” from its effects on drinkers, it remained limited to the sugar islands during the seventeenth century. Planters mixed it with tropical fruit juices to make punch or gave it to their slaves with molasses for a burst of energy during the labors of the harvest season. French and Spanish governments at first sought to ban the drink in order to protect domestic brandy makers but later relaxed these restrictions as merchants came to appreciate the value of distilled sugar cane for international markets, particularly the African slave trade and the American Indian fur trade. On the eve of independence, the British North American colonies had around 143 rum distilleries; although some of their output was exported, most was consumed domestically by growing ranks of workers.12 The Enlightenment spirit also encouraged innovation within traditional industries, including French winemaking. Growing urban demand from Paris and other Northern European markets encouraged widespread grape planting, often using more productive grape varietals and planting methods such as training the grapes in orderly rows instead of haphazard clumps. Vintners also introduced racking (drawing off the lees) and fining (filtering with fish bladders and other substances) to remove sediment. Less scrupulous producers added sugar as a preservative and even mixed Bordeaux wine with cheap Spanish imports. The commercialization of low-quality, bulk wine was particularly common in regions with easy access to Paris. Growers in less-accessible villages such as Chablis sought to parlay their traditional low-yielding grapes into higher-value wines. Yet even this approach required capital-intensive new methods, bottling and cellaring, as well as a more aggressive marketing, such as seeking out elite buyers in Germany and the Low Countries rather than waiting for Parisian wine merchants.13 The beginnings of industrial beer making in England date to about 1720, when darker malts were first blended to make porter, a sturdy beer capable of withstanding the rigors of

159 J.M. PILCHER mass production. Before that time, as the business historian Peter Mathias has shown, ale producers had a maximum capacity of about 20,000 barrels a year, whereas by the end of the eighteenth century, London’s largest porter manufacturers churned out ten times that volume. Steam engines, deep fermentation tanks, and casks and vats for maturing beer all contributed to the growing scale of production. Brew masters also adopted new technologies such as thermometers and hydrometers to brew more efficiently and reduce con- tamination or “foxing.” Another “innovation” was adding stale beer to the vats to make the porter taste older, allowing for quicker aging, thereby tying up less capital. While the porter industry slaked the thirst of the working classes, fine ale brewers sought out the best quality malts for upscale markets.14 Manufactured wines such as Madeira, which like porter could survive rough handling, became the preferred drink of Europe’s colonists overseas. In the fifteenth century, the Portuguese planted mainly sugar on the island of Madeira, off the coast of Africa, but competition from Brazil and the Caribbean later drove them to specialize in wine. By the mid-eighteenth century, Madeira wine merchants were adopting new production methods to meet the surging demand from British North America. Like many French commercial producers, they blended, racked, and fined, fortified with brandy, and added sugar, spices, and colorings with abandon, but still the colonists came back for more. Merchants learned to tailor their formulas to distinct market preferences, selling white wines to Charleston planters and amber to New York merchants. Other markets for Madeira included Brazil, Portugal’s Asian colonies, and after 1757, British traders in India. The long voyage around Africa actually stabilized these manufactured wines through heat, agitation, and aging, thereby improving their taste.15 The expansion of European empires and trade routes boosted supplies of alcohol throughout the world in the eighteenth century, but cross-cultural encounters over the bottle could generate considerable tension. The alcohol trade served multiple purposes, providing consumers with status goods while also helping to mobilize labor for diverse purposes. North American fur traders used alcohol to tap into vast networks of indigenous workers to supply pelts from as far west as the Rocky Mountains. For the Indians, alcohol acquired very different meanings, becoming incorporated into the spiritual economy as a way of inspiring mystical visions. The flood of alcohol, along with population decline and European expansion, undermined many native communities.16 The spread of European alcohol in Latin America inspired similar conflicts around labor, status, and spirituality. Unlike North American Indians, pre-Hispanic peoples in Mesoamerica already fermented agave juice to make pulque, while Andeans brewed a corn beer called chicha. Nevertheless, native drinking increased under the harsh circumstances of colonialism and the arrival of distilling technology, transforming pulque into tequila. By the eighteenth century, Peruvian and Chilean wines and brandies competed to supply the thirst of silver miners in Potosí, while the frontier settlement of Mendoza, on the eastern slopes of the Andes, shipped their products by oxcart to the growing markets of Buenos Aires. In New Spain, winemaking was limited to the northern provinces of Coahuila, New Mexico, and California, but these vintners supplied markets throughout the colony.17 Alcohol also helped incorporate Africa into early modern circuits of trade and empire, particularly the Atlantic slave trade. French brandy, Dutch gin, and rum from the Americas made up perhaps ten percent of African imports over the early modern era; Muslim territories consumed less alcohol but were not completely dry. Although fermented beverages were widespread before the arrival of European merchants, distilled spirits

160 THE GLOBALIZATION OF ALCOHOL AND TEMPERANCE acquired high status among local notables, who demanded gifts of alcohol before engaging in trade. Often it was used for spiritual purposes, and the first drink was poured on the ground as an offering to the ancestors.18 The Dutch introduced winemaking to South Africa in the seventeenth century, but despite the presence of skilled vintners among French Huguenot settlers in Stellenbosch and Franschhoek, Cape wines gained a poor reputation and were sold mainly in the Dutch East Indies.19 European mercantile empires imposed restrictions on trade in alcohol, like other goods, but widespread smuggling confounded these intentions. Whenever possible, officials sought to maintain trade within the empire, and to protect merchant monopolies, all shipping had to pass through designated imperial ports such as London, La Rochelle, and Seville. Mercantile circuits connected multiple commodities and destinations in the pursuit of favorable balances of trade; for example, the English developed cod fisheries in Newfoundland in the seventeenth century largely to finance wine purchases from Southern Europe.20 Imperial rivalries had an important role in shaping tastes and shifting production between regions, as can be seen with the English ban on French wine and brandy during the wars of Louis XIV. Domestic agriculture benefited when parliament passed an act to encourage the distilling of grain in 1690, a step that would culminate decades later in the gin craze. Portuguese winemakers also profited from the French exclusion, and to keep up with demand, Duoro merchants were soon blending and adulterating their wines. Con- sumer backlash prompted the Portuguese government to intervene in the industry, creating a supervisory body and marking off geographical boundaries that would ultimately form the basis for the first Protected Designation of Origin (known in French as AOC). British imperial policy also had consequences for consumers in Scotland after the Treaty of Union in 1707. Bordeaux wines, long a local favorite, became even more popular among patriotic Scots, who drank contraband claret as a way to defy English domination.21 Widespread smuggling and even piracy was an inevitable consequence of mercantilist attempts to monopolize trade, according to the historian Anne Pérotin-Dumon.22 For example, bootleggers passed large quantities of French wine through Iberian ports to supply British demand. The Dutch meanwhile sold alcohol into Spanish American colonies through Curaçao, satisfying throats left dry by limited Spanish supplies. Bordeaux merchants may have devised the most creative smuggling scheme when they sent shiploads of fine wines sailing openly past privateers in English waters. The cargoes were duly captured and auctioned off to British customers. After the Crown had taken its cut, the proceeds went to the privateers, who could share the revenues with French merchants. Although there are no documents of such collusion, the vast quantities of premium wines captured in this fashion defy alternative explanation.23 While the potential supply of alcohol clearly increased in the early modern era, demand is also essential for explaining the growth of consumption. Many scholars have pointed to the anxiety resulting from abrupt social transformation as a stimulant to increased drunkenness.24 Social changes of the early modern period certainly provided plenty of sources of anxiety between economic restructuring, urbanization, and colonialism. The English gin craze had its most damaging effects among poor residents of London, while in the colonies, American Indians and slaves were considered to be most prone to alcohol abuse.25 Maritime travelers were some of the heaviest drinkers of the early modern era, in part because of the healthful reputation of alcohol within Galenic medicine. The difficulty of keeping water fresh on extended ocean voyages made alcohol an almost obligatory beverage for sailors, although it was often mixed with brackish water. The physician

161 J.M. PILCHER

Franciscus Sylvius is credited with inventing gin in the mid seventeenth century to supply Dutch merchant crews; he considered the addition of juniper berry to be particularly beneficial. Rum meanwhile became the basic ration for British sailors and soldiers alike, mixed with lime juice to make grog in the eighteenth century to offset the effects of scurvy. Gin and quinine-laced tonic water was preferred in the nineteenth century for protection against malaria. Although the cocktails may have offered real benefits, colonists believed that the alcohol itself provided sovereign defense against tropical environments, for they feared that “a sober hour might give the Disease an Opportunity to attack.”26 British officials in the West Indies benefited personally from the sale of alcohol to troops, prompting the historian Roger Buckley to describe service in the islands as a form of “state-sponsored alcoholism.”27 Nevertheless, it is important to keep in mind that Europe’s seaborne empires of the eighteenth century had a limited presence in Asia and Africa, where alcohol was already quite widespread. The Indian Ocean, for example, although dominated by Muslim merchants, had a considerable alcohol trade before the arrival of Portuguese explorers. Shiraz wines from Persia were traded in wicker-wrapped bottles, and Tamil merchants from the west coast of India fortified themselves with “sweet-smelling toddy.”28 William Hawkins, an East India Company emissary in the early seventeenth-century court of the Mughal Sultan Jahangir, struggled to keep up with his patron’s heavy drinking, which consisted of some 20 cups daily, starting with wine then moving on to distilled arrack.29 In Japan, an early modern economic boom stimulated a growth in the sake trade. Commercial brewing took off not only in large cities and “castle towns” where samurai barons held court, but even in the countryside.30 Nevertheless, European merchants and colonists helped to spread alcohol in the early modern era. In the course of their trans-Pacific trade, for example, Spanish sailors introduced brewing to Micronesian islanders in the late seventeenth century.31 The North American fur trade also brought huge quantities of alcohol to American Indian societies, with serious effects. Moreover, the introduction of new and more potent forms of alcohol, particularly distilled spirits, certainly made it cheaper to drink for large numbers of people around the world. In a subsistence agricultural society, availability was an important consideration. Yet care should be taken not to exaggerate the growth of drinking; many Europeans consumed staggering amounts of alcohol in the late middle ages, albeit in the less-potent form of beer and wine rather than distilled spirits.32 But regardless of whether more alcohol was actually being drunk, many in Europe and its colonies feared that their societies were spinning drunkenly out of control.

Moral reform and the Enlightenment The ﬁrst global wave of anti-alcohol reform arose in the mid eighteenth century in response to a range of social forces only some of which were directly related to drinking. England passed a series of Gin Acts from the 1720s to the 1750s, inspired by the spectacle of widespread drunkenness in working-class neighborhoods of London. Moral reformers in British North America also began calling for limits to drinking, particularly among servants, slaves, and others on the margins of society. Meanwhile in Latin America, the recently installed Bourbon dynasty sought to restrict drinking by the indigenous population and by mixed-race castas. This transatlantic movement for moral reform united a diverse coalition of social elites, including bureaucrats and businessmen, clergy and physicians. But

162 THE GLOBALIZATION OF ALCOHOL AND TEMPERANCE despite their increasingly alarmed view of drunken plebeians as a threat to economic productivity and to the social order, important divisions remained over just what forms of alcohol should be restricted and how to reconcile restrictions on drinking with governments’ widespread dependence on taxes from alcohol. The rise of opposition to alcohol in traditional drinking societies depended in part on the creation of social alternatives to the consumption of alcohol. The German historian Wolfgang Schivelbusch has identified the importance of early modern stimulants—chocolate, coffee, and tea—in displacing alcohol as an acceptable beverage. Indeed, the European bourgeoisie developed its self-identity and claims to a role in government as a sober alternative to the heavy drinking and loose morals of both the traditional aristocracy and the laboring classes. Likewise in the Chesapeake, anti-alcohol sentiments took root in the late eighteenth century, just as the planter elite acquired a taste for coffee and tea.33 Of course, chocolate had been available in Spain and its colonies prior to the institution of Bourbon moral reforms. Moreover, the Prophet Muhammad denounced alcohol long before the arrival of coffee and tea as alternatives. Nevertheless, the fashion for new and stimulating beverages does seem to have coincided with rising fears about alcohol in Europe. A series of eighteenth-century religious revivals, known collectively as the Great Awaken- ing, also focused on the moral plague of alcohol among the lower classes. German pietist Moravians, the Methodist ministry of John Wesley, and the Baptists all sought to instill a religious life among formerly excluded groups, poor workers, slaves, and criminals. The Quakers were less interested in spreading their religious practices, but they also imposed growing restrictions on the use of alcohol over the course of the eighteenth century. Based on their work among slaves, these churches also shared an interest in the cause of abolition. But this does not mean that the congregations always agreed on doctrines, about alcohol or other matters; for example, “Primitive” or “original” Baptists living on the Appalachian frontier regarded alcohol as the work of God.34 Although much of the scholarly literature has focused on evangelical Protestantism in Western Europe and North America, Catholicism and Islam were just as important globally in the suppression of drunkenness. Catholic missionaries could not insist on complete prohibition, given their use of sacramental wine, but they did seek to extirpate indigenous ritual drinking. The church fathers were not completely successful in this campaign; still, they did achieve some changes. For example, the historian John Leddy Phelan suggests that missionaries in the Philippines largely ended pagan drinking practices at weddings and funerals. The continued advance of Islam through Africa and Southeast Asia may also have counterbalanced to some extent the spread of European alcohol.35 The growing prevalence of colonial alcohol also led to a quest for sobriety among many indigenous peoples. The historian Peter Mancall has pointed to evidence of an American Indian backlash against widespread alcohol abuse in the eighteenth century. Samson Occom, for example, a Mohegan convert to Christianity, composed a widely copied broadside against drinking in 1772. At times, communities sought to limit the sale of alcohol, as was the case of a group of Shawnees, who in 1738 informed Pennsylvania colonial authorities that European traders were not welcome. Alcohol was even the focus of millenarian movements, such as one led by the Delaware prophet Neolin, who wished to purge Indian society of the Europeans’“deadly medicine.”36 Fear of an impending social disintegration, as much as religious sentiment, inspired Enlightenment moral reform, as it did among American Indians. In practice, this meant that restrictions were aimed primarily at workers, who were seen as getting dangerously

163 J.M. PILCHER out of control. Already in 1692, officials in Barbados passed an act preventing the sale of alcohol to slaves after uncovering a conspiracy among slaves.37 Tracts in favor of the Gin Acts published by the Society for the Reformation of Manners and the Society for Pro- moting Christian Knowledge emphasized criminality and disorder. Likewise in British North America, drinking by indentured servants and slaves had become a serious concern by the mid eighteenth century. In New York, for example, tavern laws were enforced most vigorously against black customers, particularly after slave uprisings in 1712 and 1741. The colonies also adopted ordinances against the sale of alcohol to Indians.38 Bourbon officials in Latin America meanwhile imposed an alcohol monopoly, raising taxes and closing taverns, which sparked at least one riot in New Granada.39 Even in places where alcohol was not prohibited, plebeian taverns were seen as being a source of deep concern. The historian Thomas Brennan quotes police reports condemning Parisian taverns as “caverns of debauchery” and “altars of pagan lust.”40 Yet similar suspicions were directed at coffeehouses as centers of potential treasonous conspiracy, and often for good reason. Just as coffeehouse owners were licensed and charged with reporting criminal activities to the authorities, tavern keepers were carefully screened for suitable character and held liable for enforcing upright behavior.41 New medical theories viewing alcohol abuse as a disease also shifted Enlightenment debate. Although scholars once viewed the medicalization of alcohol as a late-eighteenth or nineteenth-century phenomenon, the historian James Nicholls points to a long history dating back to the gin craze. The English physician Stephen Hales viewed drunkenness as a progressive disease that affected not only individuals but all of society; his Friendly Admonition (1734) counseled total abstinence. Another prominent medical authority, George Cheyne, suggested that alcohol disturbed the nerves, which could potentially lead to madness. In the 1780s, the Philadelphia physician Benjamin Rush methodically refuted traditional humoral beliefs that alcohol protected the body against excessive heat or cold. The temporary warmth gave way to chills, vomiting, and sickness. Having served as surgeon general of the Continental Army, Rush was familiar with the effects of the traditional rum ration. Thomas Trotter, writing in Britain at the turn of the nineteenth century, connected alcohol with a variety of conditions, including dropsy, gout, and epilepsy. Trotter was unique in discussing these problems without moral judgments, expressing instead a concern for the social conditions that encouraged drinking.42 Yet even among physicians and clergy, there was far from complete agreement on the harmful nature of alcohol. During the gin craze of the 1730s, beer and wine makers were among the leading propagandists against distilled spirits. William Hogarth’s famous 1751 prints, Gin Lane (Figure 3.2, p. 50) and Beer Street (Figure 3.3, p. 51), contrasted the social dissolution caused by distilled spirits with the salubrious effects of fermented beverages. Nor were stimulating alternatives to alcohol universally accepted; John Welsey supported beer but opposed tea, while Benjamin Rush invested in a vineyard. Respected physicians continued to advocate the use of distilled spirits throughout the eighteenth century. Although medical and religious authorities provided diverse justifications, their views on the benefits or harms of particular drinks such as beer, wine, spirits, or stimulants may well have resulted from personal prejudice as much as scriptural or scientific evidence.43 Government dependence on alcohol tax revenues seriously limited efforts to restrict the consumption of alcohol. Prime Minister Robert Walpole crafted the Gin Act of 1729 primarily to raise revenue through heavy taxes on distillers; not surprisingly, it led to widespread bootlegging and failed to decrease consumption. The historian Jessica Warner

164 THE GLOBALIZATION OF ALCOHOL AND TEMPERANCE has suggested that only crop failures led to a decline in distilling in the 1750s. A similar attempt to raise revenue through an excise tax on distilled spirits in the newly formed United States led to the Whisky Rebellion of 1791 along the western frontier. The insur- rection was suppressed, but unrest continued until rising import tariffs allowed the tax to be repealed in 1802. Likewise in colonial Mexico City, crown officials raised taxes on pulque in the 1770s to decrease drinking, but the Mexican nobility dominated the pulque trade and so complete suppression was politically inexpedient. As a result, the government focused its efforts primarily on controlling the disorders of excessive drinking.44 The globalization of anti-alcohol sentiments in the age of Enlightenment moved through some of the same networks of colonial appointments, published sermons, and medical treatises as did the global spread of alcohol. Although consumption was surely rising in many of these societies, particularly in European colonies, elite fear of the lower classes seems to have been an even greater motivation for reform. The effects of this can be seen in comparison with those societies, particularly in Southern Europe, where anti-alcohol policies were not as prominent. Yet even in these areas, nineteenth-century industrialization would lead to growing consumption.

Alcohol and the Industrial Revolution Historians have recognized the emergence of a new era of globalization in the nineteenth century resulting both from new technologies of production, transportation, and communication, and from the reconfiguration of European empires following the Atlantic revolutions of 1776–1824. Steamships, railroads, telegraphs, and refrigeration allowed the creation of global markets in bulk foodstuffs such as wheat and beef. Together with new military technologies, Europeans extended their empires through large parts of Africa and Asia. Meanwhile, the abolition of African slavery and the spread of industrial production demanded new global circuits of migration; Europeans generally traveled freely to temperate settler colonies, while Asians were more often indentured to work in tropical plantations. All of these changes contributed to the further growth and integration of alcohol markets by opening new supplies of fermentable foodstuffs and by creating new demand. The latter was due largely to greater wealth made possible by industrialization. In France, for example, the consumption of pure alcohol per adult (rather than per capita) rose from 18 liters in 1840 to 30 liters by 1914.45 With more disposable income, working people the world over could satisfy their thirst for alcohol. A pioneering sector of early industrialization, alcohol remained at the forefront of innovation and expansion throughout the nineteenth century. In the case of distilling, new technology allowed for continuous production without having to empty and refill the stills. In 1801, Edward Adam found that by carefully regulating the temperature, it was possible to separate out the alcohol with a single distillation. A decade later, Jean Baptiste Cellier Blumenthal began using mash to cool the alcohol vapor in the condensing bulb, thereby using heat exchange more efficiently. Aeneas Coffey’s column still, introduced in the 1830s, used steam power to quickly heat the mash, yielding a purer, more potent spirit. Finally, a German named Henze devised a pressure cooker for producing usable mash from potatoes and other starches. These rapid improvements encouraged distillers to increase production, often in the form of crude and potentially dangerous spirits. Cheap potato and beet vodka poisoned countless Russians in the second half of the nineteenth century, even as high quality rye vodka found export markets in Germany. Absinthe, a beet-sugar distillate

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flavored with anise and the reputedly hallucinogenic wormwood, became popular among French industrial workers as well as Bohemian artists and intellectuals.46 Industrialization also transformed the wine industry in the nineteenth century. In France, as the historian Leo Loubère has observed, the vintners’ art became an adjunct of the chemical laboratory, while fertilizers, irrigation, and mechanization increased the production of grapes. New wine regions emerged through innovation and standardization; for example, the Italian agronomist, Baron Bettino Ricasoli, formulated the Chianti style of wine in the 1850s using local grape varietals, French vinification methods, and peasant initiative in the harvest. German growers in the Mosel region also experimented with new harvest schedules, and categorized the resulting wines according to their sugar concentration. The Champagne method for sparkling wine imposed industrial controls on the process of secondary fermentation, which had long been a problem for northern winemakers when spring weather reactivated dormant yeasts. Fizziness became a marketing feature, beginning in the 1820s, when the firm of Veuve Clicquot introduced riddling and dis- gorgement techniques to remove sediment as well as sturdier bottles to withstand the pressure, thereby yielding a consistently clear, refreshing wine.47 Clear, refreshing beverages were also prized among nineteenth-century beer drinkers as industrial lager and pale ale displaced the older porters. Continued improvements in industrial brewing enabled the mass production of lighter ales, which were actually more efficient since heavy toasting reduced the fermentable product of barley. As the British railroad network expanded, the industry shifted from London to Burton-on-Trent, where mineral-rich waters proved ideal for brewing ales. The resulting bright, fresh beers made the period from 1840 to 1900 a “golden age of British beer drinking,” in the words of R.G. Wilson, even as the Irish firm of Guinness came to dominate English markets for darker stout. With an added dose of hops to stabilize the beer for long-distance travel, Burton brewers sold “India Pale Ale” throughout the British Empire and even to Latin America and Japan.48 Yet British ale was soon displaced from global markets by the upstart Bavarian lager. Early modern Munich brewers had solved the problem of summer fermentation by cultivating a novel strain of yeast that worked slowly at low temperatures. They stored the beers in caverns and cellars (lagers),andservedthemchilledinthehotsummermonths. Lagers were not only light and refreshing but also clear because the yeast worked at the bottom of the cask and did not cloud the beer with sediment as much as top-fermenting ales. Lagers entered the industrial era in the 1830s when German brewers began copying British production techniques. Soon they were introducing their own innovations in bottling and mechanical refrigeration. Researchers at the Danish firm of Carlsberg meanwhile isolated pure strains of yeast and built machines for propagating them on an industrial scale. By the 1880s, North Sea lagers from Bremen, Hamburg, and Copen- hagen were outselling IPAs—even in British India. The Brewers’ Journal described the shift away from heavy ales with “too much alcohol, too much sediment, too much hops and too little gas.”49 Global migrations contributed as much as industrial technology to the nineteenth-century globalization of alcohol. In the United States, these movements began already in the first decades of the nineteenth century with internal migration across the Appalachian Mountains into the backcountry of the Ohio River valley. Settlers who could not afford- ably market their maize harvest distilled it into the more portable and valuable product, whisky. At midcentury, German immigrants introduced lager beers to a vast Midwestern

166 THE GLOBALIZATION OF ALCOHOL AND TEMPERANCE triangle demarcated by the brewing capitals of Milwaukee, St. Louis, and Cincinnati. Demand for beer soon outstripped barley supplies, prompting many brewers to extend their brews with adjuncts such as maize and rice. Winemaking also proliferated with the arrival of migrants, especially in California, where a Hungarian exile named Agoston Haraszthy introduced tens of thousands of vine cuttings from throughout Europe in the 1860s, thereby setting the basis for the modern wine industry as well as long-standing confusion over the origins of varietals such as zinfandel.50 Migrants encouraged the development of alcohol production in settler colonies and former colonies around the world. Central European brewers introduced lager beer to Latin America, Southern Africa, and Australasia in the late nineteenth century, displacing British ale, Native American pulque and chicha, and indigenous African sorghum beers. French winemaking technology and grape varietals modernized Spanish colonial vineyards in Chile and Argentina in the 1850s, while Spanish and Italian migrants created heavy demand for their products. Also in the 1850s, an Australian gold rush spurred the expansion of vineyards that had been founded a few decades earlier in Sydney and Adelaide. South African wines likewise improved rapidly following the discovery of gold and diamond mines at the end of the nineteenth century. One might almost speak of a nineteenth-century “golden age” of New World winemaking—Australian, Chilean, and California wines received gold medals when tasted blind at the worlds’ fairs of Vienna and Paris—except that European judges often refused to acknowledge their quality once informed of their provenance.51 European alcohol also spread to colonies that did not attract large numbers of settlers, although not always with the consent of the natives. Imported spirits and beer became status symbols within the African entrepreneurial middle class that emerged in the nineteenth century from the growing trade for industrial commodities such as palm oil. Migrant workers from the interior also reveled in the easy access to alcohol in coastal towns.52 The introduction of sugar plantations and rum distilling to Indian Ocean colonies of Madagascar, Reunion, and Mauritius was not so auspicious for the local populations. The Vietnamese came to detest the French colonial alcohol monopoly, with its enforced quotas for the purchase of industrial distilled spirits and household searches for illicit alcohol production.53 Even countries that escaped colonialism often fell under the sway of European alcohol. The Japanese became avid beer drinkers, believing that a European diet of beef and beer would help them to modernize and avoid the fate of colonized India and China. Although British ales were introduced soon after the opening of Japanese ports in 1854, German lager beers and brewing experts shaped the rise of an indigenous brewing industry around the turn of the twentieth century. Dai Nippon and Kirin soon dominated markets in China, Korea, and Taiwan, exerting a form of beer imperialism.54 Commercial advances were also important for the creation of mass markets in alcohol during the nineteenth-century age of industry and empire. Even as industrial methods swept the wine industry, advertising sought to evoke a nostalgic image of the past. French wine estates cultivated the image of medieval chateaux, although most were owned by Paris bankers rather than old noble families. Champagne merchants, mostly of German origin, shrewdly marketed their sparkling wines to the noble courts of Europe, thereby creating an enduring mystique as the essential drink of special occasions. Beer manufacturers were no less skillful in their marketing campaigns, not least the Miller Brewing Company, which claimed the “champagne of beers.” Pabst meanwhile parlayed its Columbian Exposition blue ribbon into an enduring brand, while Anheuser-Busch

167 J.M. PILCHER advertised its Budweiser beer with reproductions of a painting of Custer’s Last Fight. Bottled beers enabled these giant “shipping brewers” to enter markets where the saloons were controlled by local breweries. Refrigerated railroad cars and branch houses, developed by the Chicago packinghouses in their quest for national domination, also facilitated concentration in the brewing industry. In Britain, as the historian Alan Pryor has shown, the brewers of Burton-on-Trent achieved their greatest success in marketing India Pale Ale to London clerks and shopkeepers as a form of imperial nostalgia.55 Advertising campaigns were arguably just as important as migratory networks in the globalization of alcohol, as can be seen from the case of Italian winemakers in California. Prominent ﬁrms such as the Italian Swiss Colony, the Italian Vineyard Company, and Ernest and Julio Gallo all attributed their success to their background in the Piemonte wine region. In fact, as the historian Simone Cinotto has demonstrated, none of these merchants had experience making wine in Italy, the land they could aﬀord in California bore little resemblance to the rolling hills of Barolo or Barbaresco, and they did not even grow the signature varietals of Nebbiolo, Barbara, or Dolcetto. Nevertheless, their ability to craft tales of immigrant origins and traditional winemaking was indeed vital to their success in marketing wine to Italian customers in eastern cities.56 Transatlantic networks proved devastating to the global wine industry during the phylloxera epidemic. The pest in question, an aphid from the Mississippi River valley, was introduced to Europe with a shipment of vine cuttings in about 1860. It spread rapidly across European and New World wine regions, feeding on the sap of the vines, causing grapes to shrivel and die. Growers tried all manner of chemical insecticides, but the phylloxera promptly returned. The entire world wine industry seemed on the brink of collapse in the 1890s when a solution was discovered of grafting Old World grape varietals onto resistant rootstock from the Americas. Vineyards in the leading wine regions of Northern Europe and California quickly replanted, but peasant growers in areas of Southern Europe and elsewhere were unable to recover for years to come.57 Globalization thus created new inequalities in the production of alcohol as with so many other industrial commodities.

From temperance to prohibition Nineteenth-century temperance echoed in many ways the moral reforms of the Enlight- enment, even if the movement’s culmination in the “noble” experiment of prohibition may not have equaled the violent excesses of the French Revolution of 1789. Temperance societies emerged from New England evangelical circles in the 1820s and spread widely through international networks of lectures and publications. The medicalization of drunkenness, which also began in the eighteenth century, took shape with the diagnosis of alcoholism by the Swedish physician Magnus Huss in 1849. Efforts to treat alcohol abuse as a disease instead of a moral failing became a preoccupation of liberal states throughout Europe and its settler colonies. Many of the resulting policy prescriptions likewise owed inspiration to eighteenth-century efforts to restrict drinking by the lower classes, particularly in colonial situations. Nevertheless, political opposition stymied efforts by temperance campaigners to ban alcohol in Europe or North America until 1914. The crisis of World War I suddenly shifted the political balance, leading to a global wave of prohibition, but it was ultimately repealed in every instance. William Rorabaugh, the pioneering historian of alcohol in the United States, locates the origins of temperance in the context of early nineteenth-century religious reactions against

168 THE GLOBALIZATION OF ALCOHOL AND TEMPERANCE the social upheavals of the market revolution. Among the leaders of the Second Great Awakening were Calvinist ministers who founded the Massachusetts Society for the Sup- pression of Intemperance in 1812. These first temperance advocates did not condemn alcohol entirely—they served wine at organizational meetings—but rather sought to contain the social disruptions of drunkenness. The ideal of abstaining from alcohol had enormous appeal, and local temperance societies sprang up throughout the northern United States by the 1820s, even reaching the frontier back country by way of evangelical revival meetings. The American Temperance Society was formed in 1826 as a coordinating body for the movement to schedule lecture tours and to publish and disseminate anti-alcohol literature. These tracts sought to personalize the damage of alcohol with lurid descriptions of families brought to ruin by drunken fathers. Dry hotels were founded in cities as an alternative space of sociability to public houses, while civic celebrations such as dry parades and picnics on the Fourth of July lent the movement a patriotic appeal.58 The American Temperance Society also established international advocacy networks. Speakers and published sermons first crossed the border to British North America, inspiring the creation of hundreds of local societies, which in turn subscribed to the Montreal- based Canada Temperance Advocate and New Brunswick’s Temperance Telegram. By 1855, a “cold-water army” half a million strong—a substantial portion of the Canadian population at the time—had pledged abstinence, although backsliding was common. Meanwhile, the American Temperance Society’s most influential emissary, the Reverend Robert Baird, had been touring Europe in the 1830s and 1840s. He was received in royal courts, and his History of the American Temperance Society was soon translated into at least seven languages. Numerous intellectuals, including the Russian authors Leo Tolstoy and Fyodor Dostoyevsky, came to support the cause. In 1846, the first international temperance conventions were held in Stockholm and London, and they continued to meet for decades, often on the occasion of worlds’ fairs such as the New York exhibition of 1853 and in Philadelphia in 1876.59 Even as the idea of temperance spread, divisions opened up within the movement. In the United States, it was seen as a regional movement of New England, strongly associated with abolitionism, and therefore anathema in the South. Class distinctions also emerged, particularly with the foundation of the Washingtonian society in 1840 by Baltimore artisans, who saw themselves as sober workers fighting for social change. An affiliated women’s association, the Martha Washingtonians, emphasized the harms of male drinking to family life. Within a decade, the movement had disintegrated, with more respectable members moving into the Sons (and Daughters) of Temperance.60 The greatest doctrinal division among temperance advocates arose over the question of moderation or complete abstinence, as ideas bounced back and forth across the Atlantic with escalating levels of purity. The teetotal movement emerged in 1832 from a British working-class association, the Preston Temperance Society, when a cheese-maker named Joseph Livesey and his fellows swore off all forms of alcohol. Within a few years, the movement had spread to cities throughout the United Kingdom, becoming a Utopian socialist movement advocating the “sober millennium.” Many working-class movements such as the Chartists viewed the teetotalers with suspicion, but by 1836, the idea had crossed back over the Atlantic to be adopted by a reorganized American Temperance Union. Further divisions emerged within the teetotal movement over the question of volunteerism or enforced prohibition. By 1839, British teetotalers had to decide whether to take the “American pledge” to abstain not only from drinking personally but also from

169 J.M. PILCHER serving alcohol to guests. From there, it was a short step, first taken by John Dunlop of the Glasgow Temperance Society, to advocate complete prohibition for all.61 A decade later, state-level politicians in the United States brieflyrealizedDunlop’sdream. In 1851, a Quaker governor of Maine named Neal Dow introduced legislation banning the sale of alcohol, and within a few years, 12 other states had adopted prohibitionist “Maine laws.” The United Kingdom Alliance for the Suppression of the Trade in Alcohol, founded in Manchester in 1853, tried without success to implement similar laws. In the United States, courts struck down the search-and-seizure provisions, prompting vigilantes to enforce the laws on their own account. In this way, prohibition became tied to nativist opposition to the arrival of Irish and German immigrants following the Potato Famine and the European revolutions of 1848. When a Chicago mayor tried to enforce Sunday tavern closings in 1855, German residents demonstrated in a movement that became known as the Lager Beer Revolt and resulted in the death of at least one protestor. Such violence discredited the prohibition movement, and the Maine laws were quickly repealed, although blue laws and local ordinances continued to restrict drinking in many jurisdictions.62 With the failure of early prohibition laws, the temperance movement continued to evolve and diversify. In the United States, following the Civil War, new groups gained prominence such as the Independent Order of Good Templars, founded in Utica, New York, in 1861; within a few decades, the movement had lodges throughout North America and even in Norway and Sweden. Temperance also gained a new following among Southern evangelicals as the abolition of slavery led to a dramatic change in whites’ views of the black man. The antebellum image of a childlike figure in need of paternal guidance was transformed into a menacing drunken figure that had to be restrained by force if necessary.63 The United Kingdom also saw new variations on the theme of temperance. The Salvation Army, founded in the 1860s by Catherine and William Booth, imbued a new militancy in evangelical mission work among the poor, even as Catholic clergymen increasingly took up the cause.64 Perhaps the leading international temperance movement of the late nineteenth century was the Women’s Christian Temperance Union (WCTU), founded in the United States in 1874 with the mission of protecting the domestic sphere from male drunkenness. The organization achieved its broad reach largely from the world tour of temperance lecturer Mary Clement Leavitt. Working with local Protestant missionaries, who provided the local contacts and language skills, she helped establish local WCTU branches from Australia and Japan to Italy and Sweden, although these organizations often pursued local priorities; for example, Japanese reformers campaigned more forcefully against prostitution than drink.65 International socialism was also divided over temperance; some condemned alcohol as an “opiate of the masses,” while others argued for workers’ control over brewing and distilling. The British trade union leader Philip Snowden published an anti-alcohol tract called Socialism and the Drink Question (1908), and the French socialist lawyer Adolfo Zerbo- glio published a similar work, Alcoholism: A Sociological and Juridical Study (1892). Nevertheless, both the British Labour Party and French syndicalists had important links to the brewing trades and many supported nationalization of the alcohol industry.66 Italian socialists concluded that industrialization was driving workers to drink and argued for strict government regulation, while in Russia, grassroots temperance movements sprang up among workers and peasants. Some within the German Social Democratic Party opposed alcohol, yet when the government sought to control consumption by raising prices in 1909–10, workers mobilized for a schnappsboycott and a bierkrieg (beer war) of street demonstrations.67

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The medical profession came to view drunkenness as a disease, particularly after Magnus Huss published his influential treatise on alcoholism in 1849. Contrary to eighteenth- century moral reformers, who focused their efforts on the lower classes, Huss recognized alcoholism as a problem common to rich and poor alike. Already in 1813, Thomas Sutton had described delirium tremens, hallucinations caused by the withdrawal from alcohol after a heavy binge; he advocated a treatment based on opium and laudanum. At the same time, physicians began to discover the effects of excessive drinking on the liver, leaving it shrun- ken, hardened, and covered with nodules, a condition later called cirrhosis.68 Whereas Huss focused on the individual effects of alcohol abuse, others considered alcoholism to be a social disease and called for its control as an issue of public hygiene. The French physician Bénédict Morel included habitual drinking within his theory of degeneration, the belief that acquired disorders would be inherited by future generations, becoming progressively more severe. He and his followers warned of sexual dangers and ultimately racial suicide unless drinking could be contained. The French medical establishment embraced these theories based not on any firm evidence but rather on the deplorable social conditions of the working classes. Degeneration theory was popularized by the novelist Émile Zola, who described the descent into alcoholism and madness of a working family, the Rougon-Macquarts, in books such as L’Assommoir (‘The Drinking Den’, 1877) and La Bête humaine (‘The Human Beast’, 1890).69 Meanwhile, the pioneering crim- inologist Cesare Lombroso and other Italian positivists took a slightly different view from French degeneration theory. If some people were predisposed to criminal behavior, then there would also be individuals who were predisposed to becoming (criminal) alcoholics. In a public conference at Turin in 1880, prominent scientists lectured about the dangers of such criminal alcoholics.70 Even the medical establishment was divided over the causes of, and possible cures for, alcoholism. Distinguished physicians of the Société française de temperance, founded in the early 1870s, blamed the problems of alcoholism on bad booze—particularly industrial distilled spirits rather than more healthful wine—thereby ignoring the social conditions that led to drinking. Nor was there any consensus about how to cure alcoholism; one of the most popular treatments in the United States, Dr. Leslie Keeley’s “gold cure,” was an aversion therapy of strychnine injections.71 Europe’s overseas colonies became laboratories for prohibition experiments, reflecting social Darwinist beliefs about the degeneracy of indigenous races. New South Wales, Aus- tralia, enacted perhaps the first law restricting the sale of alcohol to aboriginal peoples in 1869. Canada followed suit at the national level with the Indian Act of 1876; Canadians of European ancestry who were denied access to alcohol by the courts were said to be on the “Indian list.” The British government in India imposed taxes on imported alcohol to discourage drinking among colonial subjects.72 Africa was seen as an area of particular concern, as the Cape Colony Liquor Laws Commission explained in 1893: while some Europeans may drink to excess, among Africans “the whole population, from the chiefs and headmen down to the lowest amongst the common people, succumb to the temptation of strong drink when it comes within their reach.”73 Missionaries established temperance societies throughout Africa, although a survey of colonial policy by Lynn Pan noted that much of the imported alcohol was actually consumed by Europeans—merchants, officials, and even clergymen.74 Fears of native drunkenness notwithstanding, the experience of alcohol control in colonial Africa was in many ways similar to that of Europe. The historian Charles van Onselen found that although European mining companies originally offered booze to lure native

171 J.M. PILCHER workers, by 1890 drunkenness came to be seen as a threat to labor productivity. Efforts to prohibit alcohol at the mines of Witwatersrand failed, however, because so many Boer farmers were eager to sell bootleg alcohol to thirsty black miners. Municipal beer monopolies, pioneered in Durban in 1909, eventually became the preferred method of regulating drink. The system allowed surveillance over workers’ leisure time, while also providing revenue that eventually came to support the administration of segregated black townships; beer thus helped to underwrite the creation of an Apartheid state in South Africa.75 Native Africans nevertheless used European temperance movements as a tool within their own intergenerational struggles, as the historian Emmanuel Akyeampong has shown in the case of Ghana. African chiefs and elders often encouraged European attempts to limit access of young men to alcohol. King Ghartey IV founded the first Western temperance society in the Gold Coast in 1862 after returning from a tour of England. Urban labor offered a means for youth to escape the control of patriarchal, agrarian societies. For their part, young men sometimes joined temperance societies and used Western influence to undermine the authority of traditional rulers. Lapsed Christians became prominent in the ranks of native agitators and revolutionaries in the 1900s. Yet British attempts to impose complete prohibition failed when African headmen insisted on their own access to alcohol. Missionaries ultimately learned it was better to preach moderation rather than abstinence if they wanted to gain converts, especially among chiefs.76 As political battles over alcohol came to a head in Europe and its settler colonies at the turn of the twentieth century, a range of policy options were available, including taxing sales and licenses, local option and limited hours, compulsory treatment of habitual drinkers, government dispensaries, and complete prohibition. Each was tried at various times and places, and all posed their own unique problems. The United States had experimented with high taxes and license fees in the 1880s, which only pushed independent saloon owners to sell out to large manufacturers, thereby increasing concentration within the industry. Local options tended to introduce limited hours, Sunday closings, and local prohibitions to rural regions in Scotland, Wales, and Ireland, but not England. The same restrictions applied to the Maritime Provinces of Canada, but not to the cities of Toronto and Montreal.77 British experiments with state-run asylums under the Inebriate Act of 1898 resulted in the confinement of more prostitutes and women charged with child neglect than of violent male drinkers, leading the historian Mariana Valverde to conclude that the Act served mostly to police the sexuality of working-class women.78 An alternative to prohibition was the municipal dispensary, also known as the Gothen- burg system for the Swedish town that pioneered it in the 1860s. The idea was to remove private profit from the sale of alcohol so that tavern keepers had no financial incentive to lure customers into debauchery. The problem was that governments quickly became dependent on alcohol sales. When South Carolina adopted the system in 1893, dispensaries became a source of patronage for corrupt local politics. In Russia, the return of a state liquor monopoly in 1894 brought a flood of cheap vodka. Even in temperate Sweden, the Gothenburg system was eventually replaced by the Stockholm system, under which drinkers received certified ration books to limit purchases.79 It is also important to keep in mind that prohibition campaigns failed politically in many countries. Swedes actually voted in favor of national prohibition in 1911, but government efforts to create a system foundered on objections from trade unions in the brewing, distilling, and hospitality industries, which warned that unemployment would result. The Stockholm system offered a compromise between prohibitionists and drinkers that lasted until the 1950s.

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In Italy, efforts by temperance campaigners were constantly frustrated. Public drunkenness was listed under the Zanardelli penal code of 1889, but only as a misdemeanor. Sweeping “Provisions to Fight Alcoholism,” introduced into parliament in 1913, emerged with nothing more than a token weekend closing for taverns that served distilled spirits. The government of Giovanni Giolitti simply refused to challenge the country’swineindustry.80 The outbreak of World War I crystallized fears of social dissolution around alcohol, triggering a global wave of prohibition. Tsar Nicholas II of Russia acted first, banning vodka already with the mobilization in August 1914, although his decree built on previous dry sentiment within the Duma. Prohibition proved to be a national disaster, depriving the government of revenue needed for the war effort, while also encouraging peasants to horde grain stocks for bootleg distilling. Nevertheless, the ban on alcohol remained in force under Bolshevik rule until 1925. Other prohibition experiments included Norway (1916–27), Finland (1919–32), and Hungary (1919). Canada declared prohibition for the war, while still allowing soldiers their rum allotment. Plebiscites continued prohibition after the war in all provinces save Quebec and British Columbia, although most were repealed within a decade. Iceland banned beer in 1915 but not distilled spirits, then reversed course, banning spirits and legalizing beer, before repealing entirely. France responded to the crisis by banning absinthe, long a bête noir of the medical establishment; the “green fairy” returned in the postwar era, minus the wormwood, as pastis.81 World War I was also the catalyst for prohibition in the United States. Dry politics had already mobilized a potent force under the Ohio-based Anti-Saloon League, which leveraged its weight by single-mindedly channeling campaign contributions on the issue of prohibition. Even the WCTU was radicalized by the hatchet-wielding rampages of Carry Nation, described by the historian Daniel Okrent as a woman “six feet tall, with the biceps of a stevedore, the face of a prison warden, and the persistence of toothache.”82 The war provided dry leaders with a unique opportunity by stigmatizing German brewing interests as a national enemy. Nevertheless, other political questions were equally salient, including the Seventeenth Amendment, which established a national income tax in 1913 and reduced the government’s reliance on alcohol taxes. Immigration was also crucial, and prohibitionists rushed to pass the amendment before the 1920 census, which threatened to tip the balance in Congress from dry, rural nativists to wet, urban immigrants. A final question revolved around women’ssuffrage, in the United States as elsewhere, and although many women supported it, prohibition was enacted before most of them could vote. In the end, the Eighteenth Amendment took only a year to achieve ratification, in January 1919, whereupon the evangelist Billy Sunday preached a funeral oration for John Barleycorn.83 The failures of prohibition in the United States, leading to repeal in 1933, were widely recognized from the outset based on previous experiments around the world. What is most notable about the modern history of alcohol restriction is the degree to which it was globalized, beginning already with the temperance networks of the nineteenth century. The political scientist Mark Schrad has argued that “the global prohibition ‘wave’ was in many ways a ‘perfect storm’—a combination of a number of factors, none of which could have alone resulted in the near-simultaneous adoption of a widely acknowledged bad policy idea.”84

Conclusion This chapter has surveyed the simultaneous rise of industrial alcohol production and temperance movements around the world in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

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Considering these twin processes from the perspective of world history is useful for discerning broad patterns and chronologies, which in turn can help to understand the causes for global changes associated with modernization. The first clear factor in the rising global consumption of alcohol over the past 300 years is the growth of incomes resulting from industrialization. With few exceptions, societies that have produced agricultural surpluses have fermented and distilled a significant portion of those foodstuffs. Not only were more raw materials available, but also industrial advances in fermentation and distillation enabled more efficient production of alcohol. Markets for alcohol became increasingly divided by status, with the poor drinking cheap hard liquor while the rich consumed refined beverages, but the period was marked by a fundamental democratization of alcohol, compared with pre-modern societies, as most anyone could afford to drink something intoxicating. Although there is a relatively clear correlation between rising incomes and alcohol consumption, there is a less clear but probably no less important role played by the anxieties of modern life in the modern growth of drinking. Alcohol markets not only became larger but also more globally integrated during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, largely as a consequence of European empire building. Mercantile expansion of the early modern era encouraged the growth of trade routes for alcohol, while also tapping into new sources of fermentable foodstuffs, particularly sugar from tropical plantations. The proletarian migrations of the nineteenth century included considerable numbers of Central European lager beer brewers and Southern and Central European winemakers, which also contributed to the geographical expansion of production and markets. These global migrations also fostered professional networks of producers, who traveled for education and employment, and exchanged ideas through trade journals and conferences. This growth of scientific research helped to disseminate knowledge and plants, but also spread new forms of pests such as the phylloxera, which nearly destroyed the global wine industry. Although the importance of empire is clear, scholars have given less attention to the role of nation-building in the expansion of alcohol markets, but taxes on consumption were also clearly important to the centralization of authority during this period. This survey also reveals a strong, although complicated, relationship between rising alcohol consumption and the spread of anti-alcohol campaigns. Enlightenment alarm about excessive drinking spread through imperial and intellectual networks to governors, physicians, and religious authorities throughout the Atlantic world. Temperance ideas achieved a global reach in the nineteenth century, setting the stage for widespread experiments in prohibition around World War I. Moreover, if nation-building was only peripherally linked to the growth of alcohol production, it clearly became a factor in the spread of temperance ideas, as fears of social unrest and diminished economic productivity became tied to fears about national decline. The democratic access to industrial ethanol made it all the more threatening to national elites. Scholars have questioned the relationship between the quantities of alcohol consumed and the rise of moral reform. Jessica Warner, for example, concludes: “In the case of the gin craze, concerns over drunkenness bore very little correspondence to actual consumption, begging the question of whether a reforming elite was reacting to gin per se or rather to larger and more intractable threats to their society and way of life.”85 Nineteenth-century temperance campaigners likewise blamed alcohol for a host of other perceived threats to society, including industrialization, immigration, and abolition. Nevertheless, the abuse of alcohol did and still does independently contribute to a range of social and health problems. Experiments with prohibition

174 THE GLOBALIZATION OF ALCOHOL AND TEMPERANCE failed, in part because enforcement tended to discriminate against the lower classes, whose drunkenness was perceived as problematic. Yet there was still a clear need for reformulat- ing traditional social mechanisms for restraining consumption to accommodate the omnipresent allure of drinking in the modern world.

Notes 1 Global Status Report on Alcohol and Health 2011, Geneva: World Health Organization, 2011, pp. 20– 53, available at: www.who.int/substance_abuse/publications/global_alcohol_report/en/index. html, accessed September 21, 2013. 2 Ibid., pp. 273–7. 3 For discussions of this literature, see Mary Douglas, ed., Constructive Drinking: Perspectives on Drink from Anthropology, New York: Cambridge University Press, 1987; Dwight B. Heath, Drinking Occa- sions: Comparative Perspectives on Alcohol and Culture, Philadelphia: Brunner/Mazel, 2000. 4 Craig MacAndrew and Robert B. Edgerton, Drunken Comportment: A Social Explanation, Chicago: Aldine Publishing Company, 1969. 5 Elizabeth Colson and Thayer Scudder, For Prayer and Proﬁt: The Ritual Economy and Social Importance of Beer in Gwembe District, Zambia, 1950–1982, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1988, pp. 6–7, 40–3. 6 For a similar argument, see Gina Hames, Alcohol in World History, New York: Routledge, 2012, p. 80. 7 Robert J. Forbes, A Short History of the Art of Distillation, Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1970, pp. 3, 57–8, 95; H.T. Huang, Science and Civilisation in China, vol. 6, Biology and Biological Technology, part V, Fermen- tations and Food Science, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000, pp. 226–31; K.T. Achaya, Indian Food: A Historical Companion, Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1998, pp. 108–10. 8 William Pokhlebkin, A History of Vodka, trans. Renfrey Clarke, London: Verso, 1992, pp. 41–99, 159, 163. 9 Louis M. Cullen, The Brandy Trade under the Ancien Régime: Regional Specialisation in the Charente, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998, pp. 11, 145. 10 Prudence M. Rice, Vintage Moquegua: History, Wine, and Archaeology on a Colonial Peruvian Periphery, Austin: Austin University Press, 2011, pp. 145–55; Carlos Buller, Vinos, aguardiente y mercado: Auge y declive de la economía del vino en los valles de Arequipa (1770–1853), Lima: Quellca, 2011, p. 257. 11 Sarah Hand Meacham, Every Home a Distillery: Alcohol, Gender, and Technology in the Colonial Chesa- peake, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2009, pp. 54–7, 103–8. 12 Frederick H. Smith, Caribbean Rum: A Social and Economic History, Gainsville: University Press of Florida, 2005, pp. 15–23, 66; John J. McCusker, “Distilling and its Implications for the Atlantic World of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries,” in Production, Marketing and Consumption of Alcoholic Beverages since the Late Middle Ages, ed. Erik Aerts, Louis M. Cullen, and Richard G. Wilson, Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1990, p. 17. 13 Thomas Brennan, Burgundy to Champagne: The Wine Trade in Early Modern France, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997, pp. 6–7, 133–4, 210, 237–8; Rod Phillips, A Short History of Wine, New York: HarperCollins, 2000, pp. 181–3, 194–5; Cullen, The Brandy Trade, p. 43. 14 Peter Mathias, The Brewing Industry in England, 1700–1830, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1959, pp. 14–23, 72–7, 94, 448–9. 15 David Hancock, Oceans of Wine: Madeira and the Emergence of American Trade and Taste, New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009, pp. 66–94, 126. 16 Peter C. Mancall, Deadly Medicine: Indians and Alcohol in Early America, Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1995. 17 William Taylor, Drinking, Homicide, and Rebellion in Colonial Mexican Villages, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1979, p. 72; Kendall W. Brown, Bourbons and Brandy: Imperial Reform in Eighteenth- Century Arequipa, Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1985, pp. 77–8; Buller, Vinos, aguardiente y mercado, pp. 143, 167; Rice, Vintage Moquegua, pp. 160–2, 183; Pablo Lacoste, “Vitivi- nicultura en Chile Transandino: Mendoza, 1561–1776,” Colonial Latin American Historical Review, 12, 2, 2003, 132, 141; Sergio Antonio Corona Páez, La vitivinicultura en el pueblo de Santa María

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de las Parras: Producción de vinos, vinagres y aguardientes bajo el paradigma andaluz (siglos XVII y XVIII), Torreón, Coahuila: Ayuntamiento de Torreón, 2004. 18 Smith, Caribbean Rum, pp. 96–9. 19 Phillips, A Short History of Wine, pp. 173–6. 20 Peter E. Pope, Fish into Wine: The Newfoundland Plantation in the Seventeenth Century, Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2004, pp. 91–6. 21 Patrick Dillon, Gin: The Much-Lamented Death of Madam Geneva, Boston: Justin, Charles, & Co., 2003, p. 9; Phillips, A Short History of Wine, pp. 188–9; Charles C. Ludington, “‘To the King o’er the Water’: Scotland and Claret, c. 1660–1763,” in Alcohol: A Social and Cultural History, ed. Mack P. Holt, Oxford: Berg, 2006, pp. 163–84. 22 Anne Pérotin-Dumon, “The Pirate and the Emperor: Power and the Law on the Seas, 1450–1850,” in Bandits at Sea: A Pirates Reader, ed. C.R. Pennell, New York: New York University Press, 2001, p. 48. 23 Smith, Caribbean Rum, p. 33; Phillips, A Short History of Wine, p. 179. 24 On the links between stress and drinking, see David McClelland, “Examining the Research Basis for Alternative Explanations of Alcoholism,” in The Drinking Man, ed. David McClelland and William N. Davis, New York: Free Press, 1972, pp. 276–315. 25 Dillon, Gin, pp. 24–37; Mancall, Deadly Medicine; Smith, Caribbean Rum. 26 David Patrick Geggus, Slavery, War, and Revolution: The British Occupation of Saint Domingue 1793– 1798, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982, p. 368. 27 Roger Norman Buckley, British Army in the West Indies: Society and the Military in the Revolutionary Age, Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1998, p. 286. 28 Quote from P.T. Srinivas Iyengar, History of the Tamils from the Earliest Times to 600 A.D., New Delhi: Asian Educational Services, 1982, p. 297; K.N. Chaudhuri, Trade and Civilisation in the Indian Ocean: An Economic History from the Rise of Islam to 1750, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985, p. 186; Fernand Braudel, The Structures of Everyday Life: The Limits of the Possible, vol. 1 of Civilization and Capitalism, 15th–18th Century, trans. Siân Reynolds, New York: Harper & Row, 1979, p. 232. 29 Lizzie Collingham, Curry: A Tale of Cooks and Conquerors, New York: Oxford University Press, 2006, pp. 36, 87. 30 Thomas C. Smith, “Pre-Modern Economic Growth: Japan and the West,” Past and Present, 60, 1973, 140–1. 31 Mac Marshall and Leslie B. Marshall, “Opening Pandora’s Bottle: Reconstructing Micronesians’ Early Contacts with Alcoholic Beverages,” Journal of the Polynesian Society, 84, 1975, 442–3. 32 A. Lynn Martin, Alcohol, Sex, and Gender in Late Medieval and Early Modern Europe, Hampshire: Palgrave, 2001. 33 Wolfgang Schivelbusch, Tastes of Paradise: A Social History of Spices, Stimulants, and Intoxicants, New York: Pantheon, 1992, p. 34; Meacham, Every Home a Distillery, pp. 125–7. 34 W.J. Rorabaugh, The Alcoholic Republic: An American Tradition, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979, pp. 37–8, 209; Smith, Caribbean Rum, p. 170. 35 John Leddy Phelan, The Hispanization of the Philippines: Spanish Aims and Filipino Responses, 1565– 1700, Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1959, p. 76. 36 Mancall, Deadly Medicine, pp. 112–16. 37 Smith, Caribbean Rum, pp. 78, 129. 38 Sharon V. Salinger, Taverns and Drinking in Early America, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002, pp. 130–5, 177. 39 Rebecca Earle Mond, “Indian Rebellion and Bourbon Reform in New Granada: Riots in Pasto, 1780–1800,” Hispanic American Historical Review, 73, 1, 1993, 99–124. 40 Thomas Brennan, Public Drinking and Popular Culture in Eighteenth-Century Paris, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988, p. 269. 41 Brian Cowan, “The Rise of the Coﬀeehouse Reconsidered,” Historical Journal, 41, 1, 2004, pp. 30–3; Salinger, Taverns and Drinking, pp. 159, 164. 42 James Nicholls, The Politics of Alcohol: A History of the Drink Question in England, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2009, pp. 60–5; Rorabaugh, The Alcoholic Republic, pp. 39–45; Smith, Caribbean Rum, p. 144. 43 Nicholls, The Politics of Alcohol, pp. 46–7; Cullen, The Brandy Trade, p. 22; Mathias, The Brewing Industry, p. xxv; Phillips, A Short History of Wine, p. 274.

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44 Jessica Warner, Craze: Gin and Debauchery in an Age of Reason, New York: Four Walls Eight Win- dows, 2002, pp. 4, 98–100; Rorabaugh, The Alcoholic Republic, pp. 51–5; Juan Pedro Viqueira Albán, Propriety and Permissiveness in Bourbon Mexico, trans. Sonya Lipsett-Rivera and Sergio Rivera Ayala, Wilmington, DE: SR Books,1999, pp. 134–56. 45 Patricia E. Prestwich, Drink and the Politics of Social Reform: Antialcoholism in France Since 1870, Palo Alto: Society for the Promotion of Science and Scholarship, 1988, p. 5. 46 Ibid., pp. 12, 130–2; Smith, Caribbean Rum,p.197;Forbes,A Short History of Distillation,pp.300–3, 348–9; Pokhlebkin, A History of Vodka, pp. 160, 169–70. 47 Leo A. Loubère, The Red and the White: A History of Wine in France and Italy in the Nineteenth Century, Albany: SUNY Press, 1978; Phillips, A Short History of Wine, pp. 227–9; Kolleen Guy, When Champagne Became French: Wine and the Making of National Identity, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Uni- versity Press, 2007, pp. 68–80. 48 R.G. Wilson, “The Changing Taste for Beer in Victorian Britain,” in The Dynamics of the Interna- tional Brewing Industry Since 1800, ed. R.G. Wilson and T.R. Gourvish, London: Routledge, 1998, pp. 96–9, quote from p. 99; Andy Bielenberg, “The Irish Brewing Industry and the Rise of Guinness, 1790–1914,” in ibid., pp. 105–22; Mathias, The Brewing Industry, pp. 17, 21, 190–3. 49 Quote from Wilson, “Changing Taste for Beer,” p. 100; Ian S. Hornsey, A History of Beer and Brewing, Cambridge: Royal Society of Chemistry, 2003, pp. 621–6; Per Boje and Hans Chr. Johansen, “The Danish Brewing Industry After 1880: Entrepreneurs, Market Structure, and Technology,” in The Dynamics of the International Brewing Industry Since 1800, ed. R.G. Wilson and T.R. Gourvish, London: Routledge, 1998, pp. 64–5; Mikuláš Teich, “The Mass Production of Draught and Bottled Beer in Germany, 1880–1914: A Note,” in ibid., pp. 75–9. 50 Rorabaugh, The Alcoholic Republic, pp. 76–87, 109; Thomas Pinney, A History of Wine in America: From the Beginnings to Prohibition, Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989. 51 Phillips, A Short History of Wine, pp. 263–70; Lacoste, “Vitivinicultura en Chile Transandino,” p. 133. 52 Emmanuel Kwaku Akyeampong, Drink, Power, and Cultural Change: A Social History of Alcohol in Ghana, c.1800 to Recent Times, Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann, 1996, pp. 47–62. 53 Alain Huetz de Lemps, Histoire du Rhum, Paris: Éditions Desjonquères, 1997, pp. 100–4. 54 Jeﬀrey W. Anderson, Brewed in Japan: The Evolution of the Japanese Beer Industry, Vancouver: Uni- versity of British Columbia Press, 2013; Harald Fuess, “Der Aufbau der Bierindustrie in Japan während der Meiji-Zeit (1868–1912): Konsum, Kapital und Kompetenz,” Bochumer Jahrbuch für Ostasienforschung, 27, 2003, pp. 231–67. 55 Alan Pryor, “Indian Pale Ale: An Icon of Empire,” Commodities of Empire Working Paper No. 13, Milton Keynes: Open University, Walton Hall, 2009, available at: www.open.ac.uk/Arts/ ferguson-centre/commodities-of-empire/working-papers/WP13.pdf, accessed October 20, 2013; Phillips, A Short History of Wine, p. 237; Guy, When Champagne Became French, pp. 10–39; K. Austin Kerr, “The American Brewing Industry, 1865–1920,” in The Dynamics of the International Brewing Industry Since 1800, ed. R.G. Wilson and T.R. Gourvish, London: Routledge, 1998, pp. 176–92. 56 Simone Cinotto, Soft Soil, Black Grapes: The Birth of Italian Winemaking in California, New York: New York University Press, 2012. 57 Phillips, A Short History of Wine, pp. 285–7. 58 Rorabaugh, The Alcoholic Republic, pp. 90, 190–8; see also Thomas R. Pegram, Battling Demon Rum: The Struggle for a Dry America, 1800–1933, Chicago: Ivan R. Dee, 1998, p. 9. 59 Jan Noel, Canada Dry: Temperance Crusades Before Confederation, Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1995, p. 3; Mark Lawrence Schrad, The Political Power of Bad Ideas: Networks, Institutions, and the Global Prohibition Wave, New York: Oxford University Press, 2010, pp. 38–44; Patricia Herlihy, The Alcoholic Empire: Vodka and Politics in Late Imperial Russia, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002, p. 11. 60 Pegram, Battling Demon Rum, pp. 28–30. 61 Ibid., p. 26; Nicholls, The Politics of Alcohol, pp. 100–4, 110. 62 Pegram, Battling Demon Rum, pp. 39–42; Nicholls, The Politics of Alcohol, p. 114. 63 Joe L. Coker, Liquor in the Land of the Lost Cause: Southern White Evangelicals and the Prohibition Move- ment, Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2007; Schrad, The Power of Bad Ideas, pp. 41–2. 64 Brian Howard Harrison, Drink and the Victorians: The Temperance Question in England, 1815–1872, Staﬀordshire: Keele University Press, 1994, p. 168. 65 Ian Tyrrell, Woman’s World/Woman’s Empire: The Woman’s Christian Temperance Union in International Perspective, 1880–1930, Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1991; Elizabeth Dorn

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Lublin, Reforming Japan: The Woman’s Christian Temperance Union in the Meiji Period, Vancouver: Uni- versity of British Columbia Press, 2010, p. 126. 66 Prestwich, Drink and Social Reform, p. 97; Nicholls, The Politics of Alcohol, p. 152. 67 Paul A. Garfinkel, “In Vino Veritas: The Construction of Alcoholic Disease in Liberal Italy, 1876– 1914,” in Alcohol: A Social and Cultural History, ed. Mack P. Holt, Oxford: Berg, 2006, pp. 65–6; Herlihy, The Alcoholic Empire, p. 12; Jean-Charles Sournia, A History of Alcoholism, trans. Nick Hindley and Gareth Stanton, Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1990, p. 141. 68 Sournia, A History of Alcoholism, pp. 23, 44–6. 69 Ibid., pp. 102–4, 140; Prestwich, Drink and Social Reform, pp. 40–4. 70 Garfinkel, “In Vino Veritas,” pp. 63–4. 71 Craig Heron, Booze: A Distilled History, Toronto: Between the Lines, 2003, p. 144; Prestwich, Drink and Social Reform, pp. 61–2, 67. 72 Diane Erica Kirkby, “Drinking ‘The Good Life’: Australia, c. 1880-1980,” in Alcohol: A Social and Cultural History, ed. Mack P. Holt, Oxford: Berg, 2006, pp. 212–13; Heron, Booze, p. 135; Courte- nay Ilbert, “British India,” Journal of the Society of Comparative Legislation, New Series, 10, 2, 1910, 307. 73 Quoted in Charles Ambler and Jonathan Crush, “Alcohol in Southern African Labor History,” in Liquor and Labor in Southern Africa, ed. Jonathan Crush and Charles Ambler, Athens: Ohio Uni- versity Press, 1992, p. 7. 74 Lynn Pan, Alcohol in Colonial Africa, Helsinki: Finnish Foundation for Alcohol Studies, 1975, pp. 12–13, 25–6. 75 Charles van Onselen, “Randlords and Rotgut, 1886–1903,” in Studies in the Social and Economic History of Witwatersrand, London: Longman, 1982, pp. 44–102; Julie Baker, “Prohibition and Illicit Liquor on the Witwatersrand, 1902–1932,” in Liquor and Labor in Southern Africa, ed. Jonathan Crush and Charles Ambler, Athens: Ohio University Press, 1992, pp. 139–61; Paul la Hausse, “Drink and Cultural Innovation in Durban: The Origins of the Beerhall in South Africa, 1902– 1916,” in ibid., pp. 78–114. 76 Akyeampong, Drink, Power, and Cultural Change, pp. 16, 67–79. 77 Pegram, Battling Demon Rum, p. 95; Heron, Booze, pp. 159–60; Diane Erica Kirkby, “Drinking ‘The Good Life’: Australia c. 1880–1980,” in Alcohol: A Social and Cultural History, ed. Mack P. Holt, Oxford: Berg, 2006, p. 211. 78 Mariana Valverde, Diseases of the Will: Alcohol and the Dilemmas of Freedom, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998, pp. 84–5. 79 Schrad, The Power of Bad Ideas, pp. 67, 96, 101; Patricia Herlihy, “Revenue and Revelry on Tap: The Russian Tavern,” in Alcohol: A Social and Cultural History, ed. Mack P. Holt, Oxford: Berg, 2006, pp. 191–2. 80 Schrad, The Power of Bad Ideas, pp. 101–2; Garfinkel, “In Vino Veritas,” pp. 71–3. 81 Herlihy, The Alcoholic Empire, pp. 13, 137–45; Sournia, A History of Alcoholism, p. 142; Heron, Booze, pp. 180–2; Prestwich, Drink and Social Reform, pp. 128–40. 82 Daniel Okrent, Last Call: The Rise and Fall of Prohibition, New York: Simon & Schuster, 2010, pp. 38–44, quote from p. 24. 83 Austin Kerr, Organized for Prohibition: A New History of the Anti-Saloon League, New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985; Catherine Gilbert Murdock, Domesticating Drink: Women, Men, and Alcohol in America, 1870–1940, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998, p. 39. 84 Schrad, The Power of Bad Ideas, p. 202. 85 Warner, Craze,p.4.

178 10 “PEACE ON EARTH AMONG THE ORDERS OF CREATION” Vegetarian ethics in the United States before World War I

Bernard Unti

In the 1904 article “Some Historical Aspects of Vegetarianism,” Yale biochemist Lafay- ette Mendel pointed out the neglect of moral arguments in contemporary discussions. Critics of vegetarianism were especially inclined to ignore its status as an ethical movement dating from ancient times, Mendel noted. But the longer view made it clear that “vegetarianism involves something more than a mere dietetic program” for personal health and physical purity.1 Mendel’s claim for the centrality of the ethical case against eating meat has implications for food studies and the history of social reform in the United States. Since the earliest days of the Republic, vegetarianism has been a moral movement that raised questions about the ethics of meat consumption. Ethical arguments were in evidence by the late eighteenth century, and cruelty to animals was a primary concern for reformers both within and outside of American vegetarian organizations before World War I. These advocates sought to move beyond eating meat as a matter of personal preference, taste, or health. They cast their abstention within broader cultural frameworks, calling for a reappraisal of man’s relationship to nature, and identifying dietary choice as a political, moral, and social act. A number of scholarly treatments have cast health-focused vegetarianism as the heart of the vegetarian “movement” in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. This approach has its shortcomings, in its tendency to divide people’s motivations too rigidly, when they are in fact not so easily parsed, and its neglect of evidence that the era’s vegetarians consistently expressed their moral convictions in “movement” publications. Taking into account vegetarianism’s complex genealogy and evolution, the sociologist Julia Twigg suggests that we do best to see it as a “united ideology,” one that has coherence and revolves around four basic elements – health, humanitarian/animal welfare, economic/ecological, and spiritual – all closely interconnected. These arguments, Twigg observes, do not ever really exist in isolation from one another, and are frequently associated with other beliefs.2 Vegetarianism has long been an unusually diﬀuse reform, and it is better to look at the broad sweep of its associated ideas and values rather than at institutions and groups to measure its tenor and potency. Institutions such as the American Vegetarian Society (1850–62) and the Vegetarian Society of America (1886–1921) lasted for only a decade or two, and failed after the deaths of key leaders. These organizations, along with the Battle Creek Sanitarium and like institutions, were important centers, but they did not comprise

179 B. UNTI the whole universe of American vegetarianism. Vegetarianism – and ethical vegetarianism in particular – was evident in many social locations, and vegetarians populated a host of nineteenth- and twentieth-century reform movements, including those devoted to animal protection, anti-vivisection, feminism, health reform, temperance, peace, Free Thought, radical politics, and esoteric religion. The apparent strength and intensity of the health argument for a few decades in the nineteenth century reflected the influence of hygienic extremism rooted in broad social anxieties concerning industrialization, sexuality, and the rising authority of science. Nine- teenth-century vegetarians, moreover, frequently found themselves on the defensive in the face of hostile medical opinion, and had to overcome the basic argument that meat was necessary for health. The need to establish its scientific legitimacy helped to shape modern vegetarianism but it did not alter the centrality of moral and metaphysical claims, which long pre-date the physiological argument.3 In the eighteenth century, vegetarian advocates made their case in the absence of any organizations devoted to the cause. America’s best-remembered vegetarian from that era was probably Benjamin Franklin, who avoided meat for a number of years under the influence of the English Pythagorean Thomas Tryon. However, vegetarian morality gained more consistent expression in the lives and teachings of a number of influential American Quakers, who adopted vegetarianism as part of a compassionate witness toward the non-human world. Their reliance on the “Inward light,” rather than theological speculation or Biblical reference, lent itself to thoughtful, independent reflection on the question of animal suffering.4 John Woolman (1720–72) was a vegetarian who combined his boycott of the products of slavery – cotton, sugar, and indigo dye – with a personal stand against the exploitation of animals. He lamented the overworking of draft animals, driven to exertion even as “their eyes and the motions of their bodies manifest that they are oppressed.” He avoided stage- coaches and the use of couriers, judging the horses and riders badly abused. “I was early convinced in my mind,” Woolman wrote, “that true religion consisted in an inward life, wherein the heart doth love and reverence God the Creator, and learns to exercise true justice and goodness not only toward all men, but also toward the brute creatures.”5 Anthony Benezet (1713–84) felt the same way, in “a kind of a league of Amity and Peace with the animal Creation,” and included lessons on kindness to animals in his readers for children. “The sympathies of Benezet’s nature,” one biographer wrote, “extended to everything that was susceptible of feeling.” So great was Benezet’s identification “with everything that was capable of feeling pain, that he resolved, toward the close of his life, to eat no animal food.” Once, at his brother’s house, “when his family were dining upon poultry, he was asked by his brother’s wife, to sit down and eat with them. ‘What,’ said he, ‘would you have me eat my neighbors?’”6 The teachers John Comly (1773–1850) and Joshua Evans (1731–97) were vegetarians as well. Comly remembered that at the age of four or five he had thrown a stone at a chicken. As the animal died, “Horror and sorrow seized my infant soul. My heart then learned to feel tenderness toward every living thing that could feel pain.” Comly included selections on “Tenderness to Animals” in the children’s primers he authored. One lamented the mistreatment of the dray horse: “What a pity that a beast so brave, should to the cruel be a slave,” while another featured humane excerpts from William Cowper’s “The Task.”7 Spiritual reflection also led Evans to vegetarianism. “I considered that life was sweet in all living creatures, and taking it away became a very tender point with me,” he recalled.

180 “ PEACE ON EARTH AMONG THE ORDERS OF CREATION”

“I believe my dear Master has been pleased to try my faith and obedience by teaching me that I ought no longer to partake of anything that had life.”8 Given the strength of the animal welfare ethic within the Society of Friends, it is in some respects surprising that Quakers did not form the first American societies devoted to vegetarianism or anti-cruelty concerns. Notwithstanding, whether founded in an ethic of universal love or derived from a holistic reverence for God-given creation, Quaker sensitivity to animals was not simply the product of sectarian doctrine. In laying emphasis on the faculty of suffering, as Jeremy Bentham had, Quakers were part of a developing international consensus in which the capacity for pain defined an animal’s moral interests. Those Quakers who were vegetarian, moreover, were extending the humane ethic to its furthest reaches.9 It was another nonconformist religious group that would institutionalize the vegetarian ethic in the United States. In 1817, forty-two members of the Bible-Christian Church, a Swedenborgian sect with vegetarianism and complete temperance as its cornerstones, left Salford, England, to promote their beliefs in the United States. They settled in Philadel- phia where their leader Reverend William Metcalfe worked as a schoolmaster, printer, and editor, while struggling to build up the church. Metcalfe carried his ministry into the press, publishing a number of letters on vegetarian diet. Sylvester Graham was likely one of his converts.10 The Bible-Christians believed that flesh eating violated God’s instruction in Genesis 1:29 (“Behold, I have given you every herb yielding seed which is upon the face of all the earth, and every tree, in which is the fruit of a tree yielding seed – to you it shall be for food”)and Swedenborg’s comment that “eating the flesh of animals, regarded in itself, is something profane.” In addition, they exemplified the strong affiliation between temperance and vegetarianism – which they sometimes called “the higher phase of temperance”–characteristic of the era.11 If religious conviction shaped the church members’ vegetarianism, there was also a strong humane component to it. The Bible-Christian hymnal included the verse from Goldsmith’s romantic ballad, “The Hermit”: “No flocks that range the valley free, To slaughter we condemn, Taught by that power that pities us, We learn to pity them.” In his 1840 sermon, “Bible Testimony on Abstinence from the Flesh of Animals as Food,” Metcalfe preached:

Our high object is to construct, to correct general sentiment … so as to cherish universal humanity; believing that in proportion as the minds of the moral and intellectual among our fellow-mortals are sufficiently awakened to the importance of the dietetics of the Bible, they will withdraw themselves from a system of cruel habits, which involves a portion of the animal creation in needless suffering and untimely death, and which has unquestionably a baneful effect upon the physical existence and the intellectual, moral, and religious powers of man.12

Elsewhere, Metcalfe discussed the Sixth Commandment:

Who has authority or presumption to limit this precept to the killing of men? Is it not recollected … that we are peremptorily enjoyed “not to add to the law, not yet diminish aught from it?” May we not reasonably believe that its application was benevolently intended to reach the animal creation? … Would not the

181 B. UNTI

principles of mercy and the sympathies of the human heart lead our judgments to such a conclusion?13

The term “vegetarian” emerged in the United Kingdom in the early 1840s, and in 1847, the Vegetarian Society formed as a collaboration between the Bible Christians and vegetarians associated with the Hydropathic Institute in Ramsgate and William Horsell’s Truth- Teller magazine. Their American counterparts followed suit in May 1850, the Bible- Christian leadership joining with William Alcott, Sylvester Graham, O.S. Fowler, Joel Shew, Lewis Hough, and R.T. Trall to launch the American Vegetarian Society (AVS). For a few years, the AVS met on a regular basis, and a vegetarian banquet during the Whole World’s Temperance Convention in 1853 drew over 300 diners, including feminists Lucy Stone, Amelia Bloomer, and Susan B. Anthony.14 From 1850 to 1854, the Society’s monthly publication, The American Vegetarian and Health Journal, edited by Metcalfe and his son Joseph, recorded positive references to vegetarianism, reproduced correspondence between leading advocates, and celebrated the longevity of vegetarians all over the world. Most discussions centered on the religious and physiological arguments in favor of abstinence. However, contributors also cited humane concerns.15 Such sensitivity was certainly evident in the works of fiction the Metcalfes chose to publish. One such story was contributed by Henry Clubb, an English immigrant who would become an influential member of the Bible-Christian Church in America. In 1854, the Journal published “Margaret Woodrow,” Clubb’s story of a young girl whose deep affections for domestic animals, especially a flock of hens, led her family into vegetarianism.16 Clubb attributed his own youthful conversion to the influence of William Gibson Ward, who “described the horrors and cruelties of the slaughterhouse and the dangers of eating the flesh of the animals killed there.” At sixteen, Clubb went to teach at the Alcott House Concordium, a school inspired by Robert Owen and Johann Pestalozzi. He found employment with James Simpson, the Vegetarian Society’s benefactor, and edited its journal, The Vegetarian Messenger. Clubb emigrated to the United States in 1853 and went to work for Horace Greeley at the New York Tribune. Through Greeley, he came to know many leading abolitionists.17 In 1855, swept up in the popular sovereignty debate set off by the Kansas–Nebraska Act, and hopeful about the role that a vegetarian, alcohol-free, and anti-slavery community could play in the struggle for freedom, Clubb launched the Vegetarian Kansas Emigration Society, which founded a settlement in Neosho County, Kansas. The colony failed and Clubb spent a few years in Michigan as a state legislator and newspaper publisher before serving in the Union Army. He wrote for the Union-owned Vicksburg Daily Herald while in Mississippi as a Captain and Assistant Quartermaster. After the war, Clubb settled in Michigan, where he edited the Grand Haven Herald. He was in frequent contact with the Bible-Christian Church in Philadelphia, and became its pastor in 1876. From that base, in 1886, he founded the Vegetarian Society of America, resurrecting the organizational framework that Metcalfe, William Alcott, and others had introduced thirty-five years earlier.18 The Bible-Christians were just one of the sources of ethical vegetarianism in nineteenth- century United States. A meatless diet was inextricably tied to a variety of social reform initiatives between 1830 and 1860, including the era’s utopian communities. There was a humane component in the vegetarianism of the Quaker communitarians of the Society for Universal Inquiry and Reform. More famously, Bronson Alcott, Charles Lane, and their fellow communards at Fruitlands in Harvard, Massachusetts, shunned not only animal

182 “ PEACE ON EARTH AMONG THE ORDERS OF CREATION” products but also the products of animal labor. Alcott, who became a vegetarian in 1835, described the conversion as one grounded in concern for the well-being of animals. The commune’s members attempted to do without animals to till the soil, considering this a form of enslavement. But they could not be entirely consistent. “In apparel, we cannot as yet dispense well with cotton and leather, the first a product of slaves and the last an invasion of the rights of animals.”19 Alcott’s brother, William, typically cast with Sylvester Graham as a champion of hygienic vegetarianism, was also a proponent of the ethical claim. In Vegetable Diet (1838), William Alcott wrote, “If I have a favorite, with the rest, it is the moral argument,” and included a section devoted to it. Elsewhere, he expressed dismay at the routine slaughter of animals in front of children, and looked to the day when kindness to animals would form the cornerstone of youthful education. “What a mighty change will be wrought in society,” Alcott noted, “when it shall be fully understood that our great duty as monarchs of men or other animals, is to promote to the utmost extent of our power, their happiness?”20 The eccentricity of Graham and other advocates has obscured appreciation of the humanitarian strain of vegetarianism, leading some to see it as a peculiar reform produced by Jacksonian-era anxieties over industrialization, urbanization, and sexuality. It is true that Graham offered no ethical arguments concerning meat eating, and not even at the sanitaria of the nineteenth century, hotbeds of ethical and social debate where vegetarianism flourished, did moral arguments emerge prominently. Yet the articulation of ethical perspectives by Alcott and others associated with the AVS underscored the point that cruelty to animals was a motivating concern even for those advocates of diet reform on physiological grounds. Their vegetarianism, rooted in personal health, hygiene, and opposition to sensuality or animality, was also an expression of Christian mercy and moral opposition to cruelty to animals. In their minds, it all went together, just as vegetarianism, with its full “visionary promise,” went together with temperance, criminal reform, peace, abolition, and the rights of women.21 Even after the demise of the AVS in 1862, vegetarianism thrived. “There are many persons who eschew meat,” M.L. Holbrook wrote to the Dietetic Reformer in 1874, “but … there is no unity of action between them. Each works in his own way, doing little or much as the case may be.” A year later, William Taylor reported that notwithstanding the absence of organized activity, “A deep, strong undercurrent is forming in favor of our system. This current is found in the rapid and extraordinary growth of the humanitarian element and feeling in society at large.” In Taylor’s view, the humane societies and other philanthropic institutions had put public sentiment “directly in favor,” and “ere many years,” he predicted, “from this Humanitarian sentiment alone, Vegetarianism will have obtained a heart hold upon the better classes in society which it will never lose, but which will go on increasing.”22 In the last quarter of the nineteenth century, vegetarianism retained its close associations with temperance, then gaining influence via the Women’s Christian Temperance Union and other organizations. Clubb and others reinforced other long established connections, too, with religious bodies, humane societies, and peace groups. The wider vegetarian community included such activists as Annie Force English, a Theosophist; Helen Augusta Howard, founder of the Georgia Woman Suffrage Association; Ellen Snow, anti-vivisectionist author and vegetarian advocate; Juliet Severance, the abolitionist, temperance and women’srights advocate dubbed “radical of the radicals” by Victoria Woodhull; and Bolton Hall, labor advocate, birth control campaigner, single tax disciple, and back-to-the-land pioneer.23

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Like other reformers, vegetarians held a conference at the 1893 Columbian Exposition at Chicago, and while many presenters focused on its health aspects, several referenced the ethical component of vegetarianism. Clubb told the assembly:

Vegetarianism as it comes to us declares peace on earth among the orders of creation, that we propose to stop this perpetual war on the animals, and regard them as our friends rather than our victims, believing that we have dominion over them for the purpose of kindness and protection rather than for their destruction and their suﬀering. We claim, therefore, that we are an animal friend society.24

Like Clubb, John Harvey Kellogg was also supportive of the kindness-to-animals ethic. Kellogg, typically viewed as an advocate on health grounds, emphasized the humane qualities of the vegetarian diet in Shall We Slay to Eat? (1899):

The basis for the ethical argument against ﬂesh eating is to be found in the fact that lower animals are, in common with man, sentient creatures. We have somehow become accustomed to think of our inferior brethren, the members of the lower orders of the animal kingdom, as things; we treat them as sticks or stones, as trees and other non-sentient things that are not possessed of organs of sense and feeling. We are wrong in this; they are not things but beings.25

There were many others laying emphasis on humane considerations, as a variety of ideologies made this one of the strongest periods of progressive ethical vegetarianism in the United States. Animals’ rights, anti-vivisection, socialism, anarchism, atheism, Free Thought, transcendentalism, Buddhism, Theosophy, mysticism, asceticism, and the New Thought all inspired late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century vegetarian activists to their dietary commitments. Together, the numerous vegetarians who populated these movements constituted a de facto moral community that thrived largely outside of the two acknowledged centers of vegetarianism in that era, Kellogg’s Battle Creek Sanitarium and the Vegetarian Society of America, led by Clubb. Subordinating dietary arguments to ethical ones, Progressive-era vegetarian activists questioned the traditional cultural assumptions that had guided and defined the human–animal relationship for centuries.26 The animal protection movement provided a significant context for the expression of such views. Vegetarianism was not an objective of any American humane organization during the first half-century of organized work. However, concern for the suffering and cruelty inherent in the raising, transportation, and slaughter of animals for food was a priority for all major Societies for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (SPCAs). Nine- teenth-century humane ideology held that it was permissible to use animals so long as they did not suffer wanton abuse or prolonged pain to satisfy human wants. The transportation of animals over long distances, without adequate rest, water, space, or handling, offended this standard. The American, Massachusetts, and Pennsylvania SPCAs all campaigned against cruelty to animals raised for food. In 1877, they joined with other groups to form the American Humane Association to confront the problem of animal suffering in transit.27 Animal protectionists held their own conference at Chicago in 1893, and one prominent participant, Caroline Earle White, noted that, perhaps due to the presence of Hindus at the event, “the idea that it might be wrong to kill animals even for the purpose of fur- nishing us with food” enjoyed considerable prominence. By the 1890s, a few humane

184 “ PEACE ON EARTH AMONG THE ORDERS OF CREATION” advocates began to promote vegetarianism as a way to eliminate animal suffering. White adopted the diet, as did her Women’s Pennsylvania SPCA collaborator, Mary F. Lovell (1843–1932), Cynthia Fairchild-Allen (1839–1901), a Chicago-based author and anti- vivisectionist, and Anna Harris Smith (1843–1929), founder of Boston’sAnimalRescue League.28 Another advocate, Albert Leffingwell, M.D. (1845–1916), entered the humane movement after working with his uncle James C. Jackson at the Dansville Water Cure Estab- lishment. While his main reform concern was the use of animals in physiology experiments and education, Leffingwell entered the pure food debate with American Meat, a survey of developments following the 1906 Pure Food Act. Leffingwell charged that government inspection notwithstanding, vast quantities of diseased meat continued to pass into the food supply, with negative implications for human health. His dispassionate analysis gave way to a conclusion in which he compared the Meat Trust to the Slave Power, and explicitly invoked the great suffering of animals. Leffingwell challenged his readers:

No imagination can even faintly conceive the sum of torment which pertains to the sacriﬁce of animals for food, in America alone, not only at the shambles, but by starvation on the Western plains or in the journeyings from pasture to slaughterhouse. With all its evils, butchery exists today solely because we demand its victims.29

Other vegetarians among prominent humane activists included Edward Buffett, Frances Clarke, William H. Galvani, Calla Harcourt, Joseph M. Greene, Cecilia Ritter, and Caroline Spencer. Vegetarians dominated several animal organizations, including the Women’s Pennsylvania SPCA and the New England Anti-Vivisection Society, and in 1918, having embraced humane reform and ethical vegetarianism with their mother, Milton and Edith Latham established the Latham Foundation for the Promotion of Humane Education.30 In 1900, The Vegetarian, itself the product of a merger between Food, Home, and Garden and The Chicago Vegetarian, merged with a third publication, the animal welfare-focused Our Fellow Creatures. It was another sign of close alignment between vegetarians and the humane movement, and the ethical argument’s strength. Characterizing reader response, an editor noted that “Many express themselves as being proud of enrollment under the vegetarian and anti-cruelty banner.”31 Vegetarianism also flourished within esoteric philosophical traditions and religions like Theosophy, Buddhism, and New Thought. These popular spiritual movements extended the long history of exchange between East and West on the subject of animals as food and the relationship of man to nature. Their openness to non-conventional thought and practice, and the strong common denominator of a belief in the unity of all life, made them receptive to vegetarianism.32 Theosophists were sympathetic to vegetarianism not least because their interest in the doctrine of metempsychosis, or transmigration of the soul, led them to take the question of animal suffering seriously. Anna Kingsford, an ethical vegetarian and anti-vivisectionist, was the one-time head of the Theosophical Society. Helena Blavatsky, one of Theosophy’s three founders, made a powerful contribution with her essay, “Have Animals Souls?” in 1886.33 In the 1890s, the British socialist Annie Besant abandoned secularism in favor of Theosophy, and became an active bridge figure with humane work and vegetarianism.

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Puriﬁcation of the body as part of removing obstacles to spiritual growth was one reason to become a vegetarian. But, Besant advised:

still deeper and more attractive than such an object is our principle, our recognition of the unity of life, in all that is around us, and that we are but parts of that one universal life. When we recognize that unity of all living things, then at once arises the question – How can we support this life of ours with least injury to the lives around us? How can we prevent our own life adding to the suﬀering of the world in which we live?34

Other late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Theosophists wrote about their commitment to ethical vegetarianism in Food, Home, and Garden, The Vegetarian, and other publications. Robert Logan, president of the American Anti-Vivisection Society, served as Head Brother for the USA of the Animal Welfare Department of the International Theosophical Order of Service. Helen Nearing, a pioneer in the “Back to the Land” movement of the post-World War II era, was a birthright vegetarian deeply involved with Theosophy in the 1920s.35 The popularity of Buddhism in late-Victorian America provided still more impetus to the adoption of the vegetarian diet on moral grounds, and another source of challenge to conventional attitudes toward the non-human world. Many vegetarians cited the influence of Buddhism in their thinking, and Buddhist magazines published articles and letters promoting vegetarianism, anti-vivisection, and concern for animals.36 New Thought, a popular mind-healing and self-improvement philosophy in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, attracted vegetarians. Ralph Waldo Trine (1866–1958), one of New Thought’s best-selling authors, was a vegetarian on ethical grounds. So were Charles Fillmore (1854–1948), founder of the Unity Church, a New Thought institution formed in 1889 with meatless diet as a doctrine, and Uriel Buchanan (1872–1967), another prominent exponent. In Every Living Creature, a primer of humane thought, Trine devoted almost twenty pages to vegetarianism. “The only really consistent humanitarian,” he wrote, “is the one who is not a flesh-eater; and great, I am satisfied, will be the results, both to the human family and to the animal race, as children are wisely taught and judiciously directed along this line.”37 The international socialist movement was another prominent channel in which the ethical argument for vegetarianism flourished. The formation of the Humanitarian League by the English socialist Henry Salt and others in 1891 was the signal event. The League had roots in pre-Marxian radicalism, and many of its founders were members of the Shelley Society. Salt and others associated with the League, notably Howard Williams, had been writing about vegetarianism since the 1880s. They now joined it to other interests in an effort to promote a comprehensive philosophy of humaneness and justice for animals. When it came to arguing for vegetarianism, they did not invest much time in discussing its physiological benefits; they laid emphasis on the moral case.38 Salt and other League members found inspiration in Henry David Thoreau and celebrated his endorsement of vegetarianism as well as his practice of humane natural history. Thoreau’sreflections in Chapter 11 of Walden, “Higher Laws,” marked the emergence of a new and ultimately influential perspective on vegetarianism, one that signaled the broader connections between diet, ethics, and demeanor toward the non-human world. Thoreau knew the Alcotts and Graham, and while not consistently vegetarian, he made his

186 “ PEACE ON EARTH AMONG THE ORDERS OF CREATION” convictions clear: “Whatever my own practice may be, I have no doubt that it is a part of the destiny of the human race, in its gradual improvement, to leave off eating animals.” For Thoreau, as for the socialist vegetarians on both sides of the Atlantic who admired him, the case for vegetarianism was ultimately a moral one.39 In 1892, Salt published Animals’ Rights Considered in Relation to Progress. His chapter, “The Slaughter of Animals for Food,” sought to place the cruelty of slaughter at the center of the debate over the treatment of animals. Salt underscored what American humanitarians had themselves observed in twenty years of campaigning, that in a rapidly modernizing world “the cruelties inseparable from the slaughtering system have been aggravated rather than diminished.” In 1894 an American edition appeared, financed by Sarah J. Eddy, a Rhode Island advocate. Mary F. Lovell, an accomplished humane worker, gave up flesh foods after reading it.40 The Humanitarian League’s network also included Count Leo Tolstoy, one of the most important influences on the growth of vegetarianism in the late nineteenth century. Tol- stoy’s vegetarianism was not simply that of the ascetic but contained a strong humanitarian component, and it was an American, the philosopher William Frey (1839–88), who inspired his adoption of the diet. In 1895, Tolstoy translated The Ethics of Diet, Howard Williams’ history of vegetarianism, into Russian, with an essay, “The First Step,” about his visit to a slaughterhouse. Tolstoy described vegetarianism as integral to the achievement of moral perfection. American vegetarians were well aware of his sympathies, republishing “The First Step” and noting his commitment in their publications.41 A devoted group of followers in North America celebrated and attempted to live by Tolstoy’s principles. Tolstoy catalyzed a North American vegetarian diaspora, when the Dukhobors, members of a persecuted vegetarian pacifist religious sect, emigrated from Russia to Canada during the 1890s in an enterprise partially financed by the profits from his novel Resurrection. Some years later, Henry Clubb reported that a group of Russian Jews in Philadelphia were practicing vegetarians who frequented “The Tolstoy Restaurant” opened by one of their fellows.42 Thanks to radical thinkers, vegetarianism was an important theme in American utopian literature. Edward Bellamy’s Equality (1897) presented a case for vegetarianism and wild- erness conservation unmatched in American literature. In Bellamy’s novel (a sequel to his runaway best-seller, Looking Backward), it was not health reform but “the great wave of humane feeling, the passion of pity and compunction for all suffering – in a word the impulse of tenderheartedness – which was really the great moral power behind the Revo- lution.” Two decades later, the one-time Bellamyite Charlotte Perkins Gilman affirmed the characteristic linkages between early twentieth-century vegetarianism, pacifism, and feminism. In Gilman’s Herland (1915), the elimination of meat consumption and animal exploitation signified the displacement of male dominance in a maternalist, non-violent, and ecological society. Gilman condemned zoos, performing animal spectacles, and the wearing of fur apparel in her publication The Forerunner, and her poem “The Cattle Train” circulated widely.43 Ethical vegetarianism was common among the political radicals associated with humane work, like Sarah Cleghorn, Alice Park, Ernest Howard Crosby, Benjamin Fay Mills, and John Howard Moore. Cleghorn (1876–1959) supported animal rights, anti-vivisection, suffrage, pacifism, anti-lynching, prison reform, and socialism. Park (1861–1961), an active suffragette, represented the American Humane Education Society in outreach to schools and conferences, and ran a humane press bureau. Crosby (1856–1907), a social critic and

187 B. UNTI philosophical anarchist, wrote for the Humanitarian League, led the New York Vegetarian Society, expressed his preference for the ethical argument, and asserted vegetarianism’s links to a broader panoply of reforms. Discussing his vegetarianism, the evangelist and Christian socialist Benjamin Fay Mills (1857–1916) cited his concern for the suffering of animals on cattle trains.44 The most active of the socialist vegetarians was John Howard Moore (1862–1916), who emerged in the mid-1890s as an advocate of temperance, ethical vegetarianism, and sympathy with non-human animals. In 1898, at age thirty-six, he received an A.B. degree in zoology from the University of Chicago, at about the same time that he began to teach at Crane Technical High School. Moore wrote for the Humanitarian League, the Millennium Guild, the Massachusetts SPCA, the American-Anti-Vivisection Society, the American Humane Association, and the Chicago Vegetarian Society. Henry Salt regarded Moore’s The Universal Kinship (published by the Unitarian socialist and vegetarian Charles H. Kerr) as one of the most important humanitarian titles ever written. Mark Twain and Jack London publicly endorsed the book.45 Like Salt, Moore was absorbed with the implications of Darwinism for the treatment of non-human animals. Moore’s work began from the premise that “while the biology of evolution is scarcely any longer questioned, the psychology and ethics of the Darwinian revelation, though following from the same premises, and almost as inevitably, are yet to be generally realized.” Animals were our mental and physical cousins, and this relationship necessitated a broad revision of our behavior toward them. Vegetarianism, in solidarity with the sentient world, was “the ethical corollary of evolution.”46 Moore, Park, Crosby, Trine, and Clarence Darrow (Moore’s brother-in-law) were members of the Humanitarian League, and the latter three were speakers at the League’s weekly tea. Under Moore’sinfluence, the Chicago Vegetarian Society was essentially an American redoubt of the Humanitarian League, and visibly focused on making the ethical argument for vegetarianism. Among other writings of Moore’s, it published his three-part essay, “Why I am a Vegetarian.”47 The writing of Progressive-era vegetarians like Moore and Trine advanced the case for vegetarianism on ethical grounds, first and foremost. Whenever they emphasized its health benefits, such individuals were seeking to augment their argument, and responding to typical and widespread objections to vegetarianism. In their minds, there was no real answer to the moral argument they made. For these advocates, the scientific vindication of the vegetarian diet made it all that much easier to assert its morality.48 It was natural that Moore would support the first American animal protection society to incorporate vegetarianism as a core principle, the Millennium Guild, which formed in Boston in 1911. The Guild was America’s first animal rights group, condemning all forms of animal exploitation, including the consumption of flesh. Its founder M.R.L. “Emmarel” Freshel (1867–1948) came to vegetarianism and animal protection after encountering faith leaders from the Eastern traditions at the World’s Parliament of Religions in 1893, reading Ralph Waldo Trine’s Every Living Creature, and meeting Tolstoy.49 The Guild’s manifesto could have been written by Henry Salt. “All sentient creatures have a right to life, and, except in cases of self-defense, to protection in that life by human beings,” read its credo.

Consistent humaneness cannot be practiced by persons who feed upon the products of the slaughter house, who kill other creatures for food, or whose habits

188 “ PEACE ON EARTH AMONG THE ORDERS OF CREATION”

necessitate the doing of this degrading work by others … Universal peace is a possibility only when man evolves a true sense of the right of all races, human and sub-human.

A cynical reporter who attended one meeting was derisive in characterizing the Guild’s work as the latest fancy of idle wealthy women. However, Agnes Ryan drew a different impression of the group and its founder. Describing her feelings after listening to Freshel’s talk on war and meat eating, Ryan noted, “Here was a new type of woman; here was a new spiritual force at work in the universe … She clearly stressed the idea that wars will never be overcome until the belief that it is justifiable to take life, to kill – when expe- dient – is eradicated from human consciousness.” Ryan (1878–1954), a feminist pacifist, met her husband Henry Bailey Stevens (1891–1976) while both worked for a woman’s suffrage publication in Boston. They married in 1915, committing themselves to the principles of the Guild, and published books and articles that reflected their commitment to the rights of animals.50 The political, social, and cultural affinities of Freshel, Ryan, and Stevens reflected the close nexus between vegetarianism, pacifism, feminism, and universal justice on the eve of World War I. These individuals were not alone. Alice Park, another feminist pacifist, traveled on Henry Ford’s peace ship with four other vegetarians, including the suffragette May Wright Sewall. Feminists often underscored the liberating effects of vegetarianism, and in a 1903 article one writer observed that it was a part “of the great movement through the centuries toward the recognition of the rights of every living creature.”51 Under Freshel’s leadership, the Guild promoted vegetarianism and other positions consistent with a belief that animal exploitation was immoral. The Guild pioneered such forms of activism as the promotion of alternatives to fur coats and the distribution of anti-veal cards in restaurants. Its literature bore the imprint, “The object of this Association is to promote by precept and example, a just consideration of the rights of all races, human and subhuman, and to teach that foremost among the unnecessary evils of the world and one which underlies most of the other evils, is the mutilation and slaughter of our fellow creatures for food and other selfish ends.”52 Freshel made her convictions evident throughout The Golden Rule Cookbook,publishedin 1907 and reprinted at about the time she founded the Guild. In the introduction, she wrote:

It is well to write, and legislate, and pray for better and kinder treatment of these frightened, thirst maddened, tortured creatures on their way to our tables, but the surest, quickest, way to help (and this can be done even while continuing to work for the alleviation of their suﬀerings) is to stop feeding upon them.53

The Golden Rule Cookbook explicitly shifted the balance from health-based arguments to the ethical claim that humans had a moral duty to stop eating animals. Freshel distinguished the two rationales, noting that “the Vegetarian who is one because his conscience for one reason or another condemns the eating of flesh, occupies a very different place in the world of ethics from one who is simply refraining from meat eating in an effort to cure bodily ills.” In support of this position, she filled her preface not with anecdotes and evidence about the nutritional superiority of the meatless diet, the typical formula, but with information on the cruelty involved in raising and slaughtering animals for food. Freshel’s vegetarian politics influenced her decision to avoid giving any of her dishes such names as

189 B. UNTI

“Vegetarian Hamburg Steak” or “Pigeon Pie.” Her recipes laid positive emphasis on vegetable food and did not include the presentation of “meat substitutes,” a designation she abhorred.54 Freshel and her husband Curtis were friendly with George Bernard Shaw, the western world’s most famous vegetarian, and were occasional guests at his home during their travels in England. Curtis Freshel founded the Millennium Food Company to produce non-animal foods and to let vegetarians express their identity and their moral presence through their consumer purchases. Its most successful item was Bakon Yeast, a seasoning whose hickory smoked flavor made it an appealing addition to foods. “Millennium Extract” and “Millen- nium Meat” made their way into markets, and the company sold its products mail-order through notices in humane publications. Instead of conventional testimonials, the advertisements featured quotations from Tolstoy and other notables endorsing vegetarianism.55 A small but influential group of advocates clustered around the Guild. Freshel was in contact with the Vegetarian Society of America and the Chicago Vegetarian Society and a correspondent and advertiser in The Vegetarian. She brought J. Howard Moore to Boston to lecture, and in 1912 the Guild published Moore’s essay on fur, “The Cost of a Skin.” Just a few years later, another colleague, Mary S. Brown, published Reasons for a Vegetarian Diet, which stated the case as Freshel would have done, and carried a dedication to her.56 The Guild’s highest profile supporter was Minnie Maddern Fiske (1865–1932), a leading stage actress and perhaps the most visible and influential American animal protectionist of her time. Fiske participated in public debates over cattle transportation and slaughter, plumage and fur, vivisection, rodeo, hunting, and animal shelter work, and offered a benefit performance for the Millennium Guild in November 1916.57 Although Freshel enjoyed cordial relations with many humane society workers, she questioned their dietary choices:

One marvels to see hundreds of consecrated workers in session, putting forth every eﬀort for the enacting of laws for the amelioration of the suﬀerings of cattle travelling to slaughter by car and ship, who are still content to patronize the butcher shop to buy food supplied by the dead bodies of these tortured victims of a false appetite.58

Ten years earlier, Henry S. Clubb and J. Howard Moore had leveled the same indictment. “Humane societies,” Moore wrote,

which protect an animal from a blow and the next moment without compunction massacre and swallow it, are stupendous illustrations of inconsistency and of how men ﬂounder when they attempt to go somewhere in the night. To overload or overdrive a horse or to abbreviate its continuation is impious, but to put a riﬂe ball through the brain of an ox is a perfect propriety.59

Writers in The Vegetarian sounded such notes, too, chiding the publications Our Dumb Animals and the Humane Journal, and the organizations they represented, for turning a blind eye to the cruelties of meat-eating and the stockyard.60 Such arguments drew engaged response from the champions of mainstream animal protection reform. In defense of the campaign for humane slaughter, the Massachusetts SPCA’s Francis Rowley challenged vegetarians’ claims to moral superiority. Their charges,

190 “ PEACE ON EARTH AMONG THE ORDERS OF CREATION” he argued, did nothing to alter the fact that the cruelties attending meat production required the attention and action of every concerned party:

No one can escape his responsibility in this matter by saying “Since I eat no meat, my hands are free from blood.” Just so long as these lowlier children of life are being slaughtered for food, you and I and every other man and woman, whether vegetarian or not, are under the sacredest obligation to do our part toward lessening by every possible means the unnecessary suﬀerings involved in their destruction.61

At the same time, Rowley freely admitted “that the less meat eaten the less the demand that creates the whole traffic in food animals fraught with its many cruelties.” Jefferson Seligman, the champion of a competition for humane slaughtering devices, conceded the same point. “The thing to be advocated,” Seligman observed, “is for people to eat less meat.”62 It did not have to be an either/or proposition, as many understood. Mary F. Lovell and Caroline Earle White of the Women’s SPCA issued thoughtful challenges concerning vegetarianism to their humane and anti-vivisectionist colleagues while campaigning pragmatically for the relief of food animals suffering in transit. Lovell understood the complexity of promoting vegetarianism within the humane movement. Among the obstacles, she observed, “The greatest hindrance to humanitarian consistency is appetite. A lesser one is the supposed difficulty of providing tempting menus; another is the fear of losing strength, and still another is the dread of being thought singular.” The pressures of conformity, the relative inconvenience of the diet, the strength of long-standing food preferences and habits, and the heavy promotion of meat and other animal products as essential elements in the human diet, also played their part.63 Vegetarianism did not take hold within the humane movement more broadly because animal protection operated within a framework that accepted the use of animals in a variety of contexts while seeking to improve their treatment. The more radical notion that humans should not use animals for food was not widespread, but it was influential. Humane publications often carried positive references to vegetarian diet, and the experiments in which Lafayette Mendel took part drew favorable comment.64 World War I, with its appalling loss of life, diminished or derailed many humanitarian causes worldwide, including the vegetarian movement. Coincidently, in 1917, American entry into the war provoked the first attempt at recognition for vegetarian conscientious objectors in the United States, when a group called the “Federation of Humano-Vegetarians” appealed to President Wilson. American law then required membership in a recognized religious sect before a military exemption was granted. S.D. Mott and his fellows, who cited their faith in “the Universal Kinship of the ‘Animal Kingdom’ and the ‘Brotherhood of Man’,” and underscored their “allegiance to the elementary commandment ‘Thou Shalt Not Kill’” in pleading for objector status, were unsuccessful.65 While these conscientious objectors were ahead of their time, their little known appeal underscores the limitations of the view that a health-focused vegetarianism was the whole of the vegetarian movement at any point. To identify and understand the roots of today’s ethical debate over meat consumption, we must look for its continuities with eighteenth-, nineteenth-, and early twentieth-century vegetarianism. The advocates of the 1960s and 1970s did not invent a vegetarian movement; they discovered and revitalized an existing one. In an age concerned about world hunger, environmental collapse, overpopulation,

191 B. UNTI and the threats posed by large-scale industrial agriculture, writers like Frances Moore Lappé and Peter Singer found no inspiration in Graham or Kellogg. They attempted to situate vegetarianism within larger political, environmental, and ethical frames, which, as they and other modern advocates would discover, had been established decades earlier.66 Whether late twentieth-century thinkers sought to ground their claims for vegetarianism in transformed views of human–animal relations, Romantic values, Eastern thought, feminism, an emerging environmental ethic, or Darwinian theory, they could find strong precedent and insights in the legacy of the many individuals who spoke up for the vegetarian diet on moral grounds. Ethical vegetarians of the eighteenth, nineteenth, and early twentieth centuries did more than personally distance themselves from the cruelty and suffering occasioned by the slaughter of animals for food. They brought the subject into public focus, even as their lifestyles affirmed humane ideology through its most radical extension. Collective biography reveals them as champions of an ethical vegetarianism that sought to provoke a dynamic and novel understanding about the relationship of humans to the natural world. In their core values they challenged the status quo of human–animal relations, and sustained a vision of vegetarianism that sought to revise those relations. In that sense, they are the architects of the vegetarianism that flourishes all around us. A modern vegetarianism tied to the exclusion of meat on ethical grounds emerged in the eighteenth century, gathered strength in the nineteenth, and on the eve of the twentieth century, instated itself within a broader progressive milieu. Grahamism and Kelloggism shaped American vegetarianism, introducing trends in individual consumption and consumerism as a path to individual self-improvement.67 But the purchase of meat substitutes, cookbooks, food mills, and other products were deeply embedded within broader phenomena and values, above all the vegetarian moral critique, which, while slowed by the collapse of humanitarian feeling in the World War I era, assumed ever-greater importance in the ensuing century. As an identity movement in which individuals define themselves through ethical food choices and consumption, vegetarianism has consistently fused personal and social change, and maintained its place within a wider universe of reforms aimed at social improvement. As an ethical protest against the killing of animals for food, it has been an enduring force.

Notes 1 Lafayette B. Mendel, “Some Historical Aspects of Vegetarianism,” Popular Science 64 (March 1904), 457. As he wrote, Mendel was a subject in a study of low protein diet and vegetarianism, focused on the minimal optimal requirements for protein in the human diet; see K. Carpenter, Protein and Energy: A Study of Changing Ideas in Nutrition, New York, 1994, pp. 100–18. 2 The most recent work to emphasize the centrality and dominance of health-focused vegetarianism is A. Shprintzen, The Vegetarian Crusade: The Rise of An American Reform Movement, 1817–1921,Chapel Hill, 2013. For Twigg’s view, see Julia Twigg, The Vegetarian Movement in England, 1847–1981: A Study in the Structure of Its Ideology, Ph.D dissertation, University of London, 1981; and “Vegetarianism and the Meaning of Meat,” in A. Murcott, ed., The Sociology of Food and Eating, Aldershot, 1984, p. 20. On the strength and prevalence of ethical convictions among vegetarians writing in the principal movement publications of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, see Emelyn A.J. Richards, “Is Barbarism Necessary to National Existence?”, and Robert T. Newhall, “AYoung Student’s Experience,” Food, Home, and Garden 1, 1 (May 1896), 8; Frederick Fairies Heath, “Vege- tarianism as a Socialist Views It,” The Chicago Vegetarian 3, 4 (December 1898), 5; Arthur J. Benson, “Couldn’t Help Being Vegetarian,” The Chicago Vegetarian 3, 6 (February 1899), 11; “Sara Thacker,” Food, Home, and Garden 3, 29 (June 1899), 83–4; J.M. Peebles, “An Octogenarian Physician’sRea- sons for Abstinence from Meat,” The Vegetarian Magazine 8, 1 (November 1903), 3; Harriet B. Loud,

192 “ PEACE ON EARTH AMONG THE ORDERS OF CREATION”

“Why I am a Vegetarian,” The Vegetarian Magazine 4, 1 (October 1899), 3; “Live and Let Live,” The Vegetarian Magazine 4, 2 (November 1899), 12; “The World’s Vegetarian Congress,” The Vegetarian Magazine 4, 7 (April 1900), 5; Atherton Curtis, “The Moral Basis of Vegetarianism,” The Vegetarian Magazine 5, 1 (October 1900), 4–6; Myra E. Withee, “Why I Became a Vegetarian,” The Vegetarian Magazine 5, 2 (November 1900), 14; “A Vegetarian Appeal for the Animals,” The Vegetarian and Our Fellow Creatures 5, 5 (February 1901), 137; and Harriet C. Garner, “Why I Became a Vegetarian,” The Vegetarian Magazine 15, 10 (June 1912), 103–4. 3 J. Whorton, “‘Tempest in a Flesh-Pot’: The Formulation of a Physiological Rationale for Vege- tarianism,” Journal of the History of Medicine 32, 2 (April 1977), 120–1; and J. Whorton, “Historical Development of Vegetarianism,” American Journal of Clinical Nutrition 994, 59 (Suppl), 1103S– 1109S. In The Bloodless Revolution: A Cultural History of Vegetarianism from 1600 to Modern Times, New York, 2006, Tristram Stuart argues that vegetarianism has provoked intense, critical reaction throughout its history. 4 The Autobiography of Ben Franklin, New York, 1965, pp. 40–1; R. Bushman, “On the Uses of Psy- chology: Conflict and Conciliation in Benjamin Franklin,” History and Theory 5 (1966), 225–40; American Philosophical Society, Benjamin Franklin on the Art of Eating together with the Rules of Health and Long Life and the Rules to find out a fit Measure of Meat and Drink, Princeton, 1958, pp. 6–11; and H. Brinton, “Quakers and Animals,” in A. Brinton, ed., Then and Now: Quaker Essays, Historical and Contemporary, Philadelphia, 1960, p. 190. Tryon specifically chided American Quakers for the violence of their diet; see “The Planter’s Speech to His Neighbours and Country-men in Penn- sylvania, East and West-Jersey, etc., And to all such as have Transported themselves into New- Colonies for the sake of a quiet Life; to which is added the complaints of our supra-inferior inhabitants,” in T. Tryon, The Country-man’s Companion: or, A New Method of Ordering Horses and Sheep So As to Preserve Them Both from Diseases and Casualties, London, 1684, pp. 118–20. 5 J. Woolman, “A Word of Remembrance and Caution to the Rich,” in The Journal of John Woolman, Boston, 1879, p. 290; J. Woolman, A Journal of the Life, Gospel, Labours, and Christian Experiences of That Faithful Minister of Jesus Christ, John Woolman, Late of Mount Holly, Philadelphia, 1837, pp. 8–9, 171, 175–6; and The Journal and Major Essays of John Woolman, ed. P. Moulton, New York, 1971, p. 28. 6 Anthony Benezet to John Smith, 9th Day, 12th Month, 1757, Roberts Vaux Papers, Box 1, His- torical Society of Pennsylvania, quoted in D. Kelley, “‘A Tender Regard to the Whole Creation’: Anthony Benezet and the Emergence of an Eighteenth-Century Quaker Ecology,” Pennsylvania Magazine of History and Biography 106 (January 1982), 76; Anthony Benezet, A First Book for Children, Philadelphia, 1778, p. 18; Anthony Benezet, The Pennsylvania Spelling-Book, Providence, 1782, p. 27; Wilson Armistead, Anthony Benezet: From the Original Memoir, Philadelphia, 1859, p. 132; and Benja- min Rush, Essays: Literary, Moral, and Philosophical, 2nd edn, Philadelphia, 1798, p. 313. 7 Journal of the Life and Religious Labors of John Comly, Philadelphia, 1853, pp. 5, 8; John Comly, Comly’s Primer, or the First Book for Children, Philadelphia, 1841, p. 35; and John Comly, Comly’s Reader and Book of Knowledge, Philadelphia, 1845, pp. 158–9. 8 J. Evans, Journal of the Life, Travels, Religious Exercises, and Labours in the Work of the Ministry, Byberry, 1837, pp. 27–8; and Donald Brooks Kelley, “Joshua Evans 1731–1798: A Study in Eighteenth- Century Quaker Singularity,” Quaker History 75 (Fall 1986), 71. 9 Donald Kelley argues that Benezet and other American Quakers evinced an ecological consciousness rooted in universal benevolence and love toward animals and non-human nature. Kerry Walters asserts that Quaker concern for animals was theocentric: to display and practice compassion and respect for all life was to honor God, whose presence was reflected in all parts of the organic order. See Kelley, “‘A Tender Regard to the Whole Creation,’” 69–88; Donald Kelley, “The Evolution of Quaker Theology and the Unfolding of a Distinctive Quaker Eco- logical Perspective in Eighteenth-Century America,” Pennsylvania History 52 (October 1985), 242–53; Donald Kelley, “Friends and Nature in America: Toward an Eighteenth-Century Quaker Ecology,” Pennsylvania History 53 (October 1986), 257–73; and K. Walters, “The ‘Peaceable Disposition’ of Animals: William Bartram on the Moral Sensibility of Brute Crea- tion,” Pennsylvania History 56 (July 1989), 157–76. On early Quaker thought, see Brinton, “Quakers and Animals,” 188–99. On Bentham and the developing transatlantic consensus on animal suffering, see A. Maehle, “Cruelty and Kindness to the ‘Brute Creation’: Stability and Change in the Ethics of the Man–Animal Relationship, 1600–1850,” in A. Manning and J. Serpell, eds, Animals and Human Society: Changing Perspectives,NewYork,1994,pp.81–105.

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10 Maintenance Committee, History of the Philadelphia Bible-Christian Church, Philadelphia, 1922, pp. 39–40. Stephen Nissenbaum rejects the claim that Graham was one of the Bible-Chris- tians’ converts. Graham encountered them during an 1829 visit to Philadelphia, where he lectured on temperance, and soon after, he began recommending vegetarianism to audiences. There is no proof to support the conversion claim apart from the fact that the Bible-Christians and others commonly made it; see H. Williams, The Ethics of Diet: A Catena of Authorities Depre- catory of the Practice of Flesh-Eating,London,1883,p.262;C.Forward,Fifty Years of Food Reform: A History of the Vegetarian Movement in England, London, 1898, p. 15; Food, Home, and Garden 4, 1 (April 1889), 26; and Henry S. Clubb, “A Century of Vegetarianism,” The Vegetarian 13, 2 (October 1909), 11. However, Nissenbaum produces no evidence save his conviction that Graham’s vegetarianism was more physiological and less religious than that of Metcalfe and his followers. See S. Nissenbaum, Sex, Diet, and Debility in Jacksonian America: Sylvester Graham and Health Reform, Westport, 1980, p. 39. Robert Abzug believes that Nissenbaum underestimates the religious inﬂuence behind Graham’s vegetarianism; see R. Abzug, Cosmos Crumbling: Amer- ican Reform and the Religious Imagination, New York, 1994, pp. 260–1, n2. 11 E. Swedenborg, Arcana Coelestia; or Heavenly Mysteries Contained in The Sacred Scriptures, or Word of the Lord, Manifested and Laid Open. Arcana Coelestia #1002, 1003, West Chester, Pennsylvania, 1956; and James Gregory, Of Victorians and Vegetarians, London, 2007, pp. 75–6. 12 W. Metcalfe, “Bible Testimony on Abstinence from the Flesh of Animals as Food,” in W. Metcalfe, Out of the Clouds, Into the Light, Philadelphia, 1872, pp. 182–3. 13 Metcalfe, Out of the Clouds, p. 165. 14 “Vegetarian Festival,” New York Daily Times, September 5, 1853, 1; and “Vegetarian Banquet in New York,” American Vegetarian and Health Journal [AVHJ] 3, 9 (September 1853), 185–6. 15 C.H. de Wolfe, “The Anticipated Results of Vegetarianism,” AVHJ 2, 1 (January 1851), 9–10, and “Dumb Animals,” AVHJ 2, 1 (January 1951), 15; Charles Lane, “Health, Economy, Humanity,” AVHJ 2, 2 (February 1852), 21–2; “The Logic of Field Sports,” AVHJ 2, 2 (February 1852), 32; “The Slaughter of Animals,” AVHJ 1, 8 (August 1851), 139; “The Brahmin’s Appeal,” AVHJ 2, 3 (March 1852), 44–5; “Sunday School Teaching,” AVHJ 2, 3 (March 1852), 48; “Sir Richard Phillips,” AVHJ 2, 7 (July 1852), 122–3; William A. Alcott, “Kindness to Animals,” AVHJ 2, 12 (December 1852), 185–6; N.P. Rodgers, “Sympathy for Wild Birds,” AVHJ 3, 1 (January 1853), 20; “Vegetarians,” AVHJ 3, 4 (April 1853), 79; J.H. Hanaford, “UnityofReforms,” AVHJ 3, 5 (May 1853), 81; Mrs J.H. Hanaford, “Vegetarian Gleanings,” AVHJ 3, 8 (August 1853), 148–9; Lewis S. Hough, “Speaking Vegetarianism,” AVHJ 4, 4 (April 1854), 77–8; “Brutal Tendencies of Slaughtering Animals for Food,” AVHJ 4, 7 (July 1854), 144; and “The Slaughter Houses of Buenos Aires,” AVHJ 4, 8 (August 1854), 157–61. 16 Henry S. Clubb, “Margaret Woodrow,” AVHJ 4, 1 (January 1854), 1–4; and AVHJ 4, 2 (February 1854), 17–23. Other ﬁctional stories laying emphasis on humanitarian vegetarianism include those by Anne Denton, “Meat Eating,” AVHJ 4, 4 (April 1854), 80–1, and Amelia M. Hough, “Fanny’s Lamb,” AVHJ 4, 5 (May 1854), 89–93. 17 Henry S. Clubb, “Origin of the Word ‘Vegetarian,’” Vegetarian Messenger (November 1901), accessed at http://christianvegetarianarchive.blogspot.com/2011/02/origin-of-word-vegetarian- by-rev-henry.html; Henry S. Clubb, “The Vegetarians,” Good Housekeeping (January 1903), 113; J.A. Fowler, “Henry S. Clubb,” Phrenological Journal and Science of Health 118, 12 (December 1905), 379–82; Maintenance Committee, History of the Philadelphia Bible-Christian Church,68–9; and Gregory, Of Victorians and Vegetarians, pp. 33–4, 44. 18 H. Clubb, Life of the Honorable Neal Dow, Including the Origin of the Maine Liquor Law, New York, 1856; H. Clubb, ed., The Philosophy of Sacred History by Sylvester Graham, New York, 1855; H. Clubb, The Vegetarian Settlement Company, Kansas, Containing Full Information for Inquirers, New York, 1855; M. Colt, Went to Kansas: Being a Thrilling Account of an Ill-Fated Expedition To That Fairy Land, and its Sad Results, Watertown, 1862; History of the Bible-Christian Church, pp. 67–82; Russell Hickman, “The Vegetarian and Octagon Settlement Companies,” Kansas Historical Quarterly (November 1933), 377–85; R. Fogarty, All Things New: American Communes and Utopian Movements, 1860–1914, Chi- cago, 1990, pp. 32–4; Shprintzen, Vegetarian Crusade, pp. 148–9; and G. Cotton and J. Giam- brone, Vicksburg and the War, Gretna, 2004, pp. 125–6.

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19 T. Hamm, God’s Government Begun: The Society for Universal Inquiry and Reform, 1842–1846, Bloomington, 1995, p. 182; C. Sears, comp., Bronson Alcott’s Fruitlands, Boston, 1915, pp. 49–51, 82–3, 88–9; and B. Alcott, The Journals of Bronson Alcott, Boston, 1938, p. 180. 20 W. Alcott, Vegetable Diet: As Sanctioned by Medical Men, and by Experience in All Ages, Boston, 1838, pp. 223, 264–5; William A. Alcott, “What Are Animals Made For, If Not To Be Eaten?” AVHJ 1, 3 (March 1851), 53; and “Remarks of Dr. Alcott,” AVHJ 1, 10 (October 1851), 177. On the collaboration of Alcott and Graham in forming the American Physiological Society in 1837, see Hebbel Hoff and John Fulton, “The Centenary of the First American Physiological Society,” Bulletin of the Institute of the History of Medicine 5, 8 (October 1937), 687–734. 21 James Whorton has interpreted the era’s emphasis on scientific arguments favoring vegetarianism as the natural result of conviction that “the most moral diet had to be thoroughly demonstrated to be the most healthful.” J. Whorton, Crusaders for Fitness: The History of American Health Reformers, Princeton, 1982, pp. 63–8. Among abolitionists, vegetarianism and other body reforms involved a purification of private life deemed necessary to social regeneration. See T. LeDuc, “Grahamites and Garrisonites,” New York History 20 (April 1939), 189–91; and Abzug, Cosmos Crumbling, passim. On vegetarianism’s “visionary promise,” see K. Gleadle, “‘The Age of Physiological Reformers’: Rethinking Gender and Domesticity in the Age of Reform,” in A. Burns and J. Innes, eds, Rethinking the Age of Reform: Britain 1780–1850, Cambridge, 2003, p. 203. 22 M.L. Holbrook, “Vegetarianism in the United States,” The Dietetic Reformer and Vegetarian Messenger 32 (1 August 1874), 94–5; and William Taylor, “From the Reverend Dr. Taylor, Philadelphia,” The Dietetic Reformer and Vegetarian Messenger 46 (1 November 1875), 284–6. 23 H.S.C., “Returning Good for Evil,” The Voice of Peace 8, 6 (September 1881), 95; J.H. Neff, “Dominion,” Food, Home, and Garden 1, 2 (June 1896), 20; Henry S. Clubb, “God’s Covenant with Beasts,” Food, Home, and Garden 1, 9 (July 1897), 134–6; Henry S. Clubb, “The Churches Coming In,” The Vegetarian and Our Fellow Creatures 7, 6 (March 1903), 164; and Henry S. Clubb, “History of Vegetarianism, Chapter 13,” The Vegetarian 13, 4 (December 1909), 30. On the individual advocates discussed, see “Annie Force English,” Food, Home, and Garden 1, 5 (March 1897), 67–8; H. Augusta Howard, “The Audubon Society,” Food, Home, and Garden 1, 5 (March 1897), 68–9; “The Treachery of Satan,” Food, Home, and Garden 3, 25 (February 1899), 33; “Ellen Snow,” Food, Home, and Garden 3, 27 (April 1899), 55; “Champion of Animals’ Rights,” The Vegetarian Magazine 4, 1 (October 1899), 15; “Juliet Severance,” Chicago Vegetarian 1, 2 (1907), 6–7; W. Hayden, Evo- lutionary Rhetoric: Sex, Science, and Free Love in Nineteenth-Century Feminism, Carbondale, 2013, pp. 32–4; and Bolton Hall, “Vegetarianism,” The Vegetarian Magazine 13, 12 (August 1910), 25. 24 The 1893 World Vegetarian was folded into the Temperance Conference at Chicago; Shprint- zen, Vegetarian Crusade, p. 156. Some of the conference speeches are in C. Forward, ed., The Hygienic Review: World Vegetarian Conference Number, London, 1893; Clubb is quoted in Forward, The Hygienic Review, pp. 240–1. On the full roster of speakers, see Gary K. Jarvis, “The Road Not Taken: Humanitarian Reform and the Origins of Animal Rights in Britain and the United States, 1839–1919,” Ph.D. diss., University of Iowa, 2009, 68–9. 25 J. Kellogg, Shall We Slay to Eat?, Battle Creek, 1899, p. 126. Kellogg advanced the ethical argument in The Living Temple, Battle Creek, 1903, pp. 184–5, and The Natural Diet of Man, Battle Creek, 1923, pp. 72–5, and his comments on hunting are in Journal of Zoophily 24, 9 (September 1915), 132. Clubb’s writings for children included an account of how young Louisa May Alcott and two friends watered suffering cattle at a train spur; Henry S. Clubb, “The Beauty of Com- passion,” Voice of Peace 3, 7 (October 1881), 111–12. 26 Jarvis, “The Road Not Taken,” 2, 25–6. 27 Bernard Unti, “The Quality of Mercy: Organized Animal Protection in the United States before World War II,” Ph.D dissertation, American University, 2002. 28 Caroline Earle White, “Editorial,” Journal of Zoophily 2, 11 (November 1893), 168–9; C. Fairchild- Allen, The Pleadings of Mercy for the Animal World, and All Other Defenseless Creatures,Chicago,1883; Cynthia Fairchild-Allen, “Abhorrence at Meat Eating,” Chicago Vegetarian 1 (June 1896), 44; and Cynthia Fairchild-Allen, “The Sister Charities,” repr. in Chicago Vegetarian 1 (December 1896), 5–7, cited in Jarvis, “The Road Not Taken,” 184; “Mrs. Fairchild-Allen,” Food, Home, and Garden 2, 22 (November 1898), 147; “Mrs. Fairchild-Allen, ” The Vegetarian Magazine 4, 12 (September 1900), 12– 13; and “Meat Fallacy,” Our Fourfooted Friends 7, 6 (September 1908), 9–10. 29 A. Leffingwell, American Meat, New York, 1910, p. 190.

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30 William H. Galvani, “Meat and Murder,” Good Health 28, 12 (December 1893), 359–60; Caroline Spencer, “Flesh-eating in the Light of Humane Thought,” Journal of Zoophily 7 (June 1898), 70–1; Mary F. Lovell, “The Commonest Form of Cruelty,” Journal of Zoophily 7 (September 1898), 103– 4; Joseph M. Greene, “Why We Eat Meat – a Reply,” The Vegetarian and Our Fellow Creatures 6, 11 (August 1902), 248–50; Joseph M. Greene, “Eating Meat: An Argument Against That Common Custom,” Journal of Zoophily 14 (August 1905), 88; W.P. Price-Heywood, “Should Anti-Vivisec- tionists be Vegetarians?” Journal of Zoophily 15 (January 1906), 10; Mary F. Lovell, “The Union Stock-yards of Chicago,” Journal of Zoophily 16 (January 1907), 6–7; “Meat Not Essential,” National Humane Journal 40 (July 1910), 109; AHA, Annual Report 1911, 35; “Calla Harcourt, Noted Humanitarian,” Humane Journal 9, 10 (August 1914), 560–4; and B. Gronlund, Annual Review, Department of Ethical and Humane Education, Oakland, 1917. 31 The Vegetarian Magazine 5, 3 (December 1900), 80; and “The Outlook for The Vegetarian and Our Fellow Creatures,” The Vegetarian and Our Fellow Creatures 5, 4 (January 1901), 112. 32 “Brotherhood,” The Path (November 1889), 247; and Stuart, The Bloodless Revolution, passim. 33 A. Kingsford, The Perfect Way in Diet, London, 1881; A. Kingsford, “The Uselessness of Vivisec- tion,” Nineteenth Century (February 1882), 171–83; and H. Blavatsky, “Have Animals Souls?” The Theosophist (January, February, and March 1886). 34 A. Besant, speech at Manchester on October 18, 1897, in Ralph Waldo Trine, Every Living Crea- ture, Or, Heart-Training Through the Animal World, New York, 1899, p. 40. In “Vegetarianism in the Light of Theosophy,” Besant pondered the astral impact of Chicago’s slaughtering industries; see A. Besant, “Vegetarianism in the Light of Theosophy,” in C. Forward, ed., Cameos of Vegetarian Literature, London, 1898, pp. 94–110. 35 “About Killing Animals,” The Path (March 1892), 397; Harriet C. Stein, “Why Theosophists Do Not Kill,” Food, Home, and Garden 2, 13 (1898), 6; and Ransom H. Randall, “Vegetarianism from the Theosophical Standpoint,” The Vegetarian 6, 2 (November 1901), 27–9. Both Nearing and Logan had ties to Jiddu Krishnamurti, celebrated as the World Teacher by the Theosophical Society. In 1929, Logan rented the Academy of Music in Philadelphia for Krishnamurti’s public lecture. 36 L. Longford, Buddhist Diet Book, New York, 1886; Paul Carus, “Vegetarianism,” Open Court 12 (1898), 565–70; Thomas C. Laws, “The Rights of Animals,” Open Court 7 (September 7, 1893), 3791; Amos Waters, “The Ethics of Anti-Vivisection: A Reply to Dr. Carus,” Open Court 11 (1897), 686–9; Nora E. Hulings-Siegel, “How Three Omnivora Were Converted,” The Vegetarian and Our Fellow Creatures 6, 6 (March 1902), 123–4; and T. Tweed, The American Encounter with Buddhism 1844–1912: Victorian Culture and the Limits of Dissent, Bloomington, 1992, pp. 81–2. 37 Trine, Every Living Creature, 30; J. Rapport, “Eating for Unity: Vegetarianism in the Early Chris- tian School of Unity,” Gastronomica: The Journal of Food and Culture 9, 2 (Spring 2009), 35–44; and Uriel Buchanan, “The Savagery of Civilization,” The Vegetarian Magazine 5, 2 (November 1900), 46–7. 38 Apart from its opposition to animal exploitation in various forms, the League advanced a range of human-centered concerns, including prison reform, anti-imperialism, and the abolition of corporal and capital punishment; see H. Salt, A Plea for Vegetarianism, Manchester, 1886; H. Salt, Seventy Years Among Savages, London, 1921; H. Salt, Company I Have Kept, London, 1930; G. Hen- drick, Henry Salt: Humanitarian, Reformer and Man of Letters, Urbana-Champaign, 1977; G. Hendrick and W. Hendrick, eds, A Savour of Salt, Fontwell, 1989; and S. Hay, “The Making of a Late- Victorian Hindu: M.K. Gandhi in London, 1888–1891,” Victorian Studies 33, 1 (Autumn 1989), 74–98. A wealthy American, Atherton Curtis, was a principal benefactor of the League; see Atherton Curtis, “Animal Protection in France,” Humane Review 1, 1 (April 1900), 49–56; and Salt, Seventy Years Among Savages, pp. 211–12. 39 Henry David Thoreau, “Higher Laws,” Walden, New York, 1910, pp. 278–95, quote on p. 286; H. Salt, Henry David Thoreau, London, 1890, pp. 93, 102, 178, 246–9; “Thoreau’s Experience,” The Vegetarian Magazine 4, 5 (February 1900), 13; Henry S. Salt, “Henry David Thoreau and the Humane Study of Natural History,” Humane Review 4 (October 1903), 220–9; Henry S. Salt, “Thoreau and the Simple Life,” Humane Review 7 (January 1907), 202–8; D. Dombrowski, “Thor- eau, Sainthood, and Vegetarianism,” American Transcendental Quarterly 60 (1986), 25–36; R. Epstein, “A Benefactor of His Race: Thoreau’s ‘Higher Laws’ and the Heroics of Vegetarianism,” Between the Species 1, 3 (Summer 1985), 23–38; and Jarvis, “The Road Not Taken,” 59–78. Thoreau’s

196 “ PEACE ON EARTH AMONG THE ORDERS OF CREATION”

approach to the study of animals signaled the advent of a humane natural history, one that contrasted strikingly with common practice. He discarded use of the gun and trap in favor of the notebook and sketchpad early in life, insisting that observation of animals in their natural setting should replace the study of slain creatures. 40 H. Salt, Animals’ Rights Considered in Relation to Social Progress, London, 1892, p. 60; and Mary F. Lovell, “The Terrors of Vegetarianism,” The Starry Cross 29, 12 (December 1920), 181. 41 L. Tolstoy, “The First Step,” in Recollections and Essays,trans.withanintroductionbyA.Maude, 4th edn, London, 1961, pp. 123–35. On Tolstoy, see “Leo Tolstoi,” Food, Home, and Garden 1, 2 (June 1896), 19–20; The Gospel of Humaneness: Selections from the Writings of Count Leo Tolstoy,ed.C. Forward, London, 1897; L. Tolstoy, “Vegetarianism an Ethical Movement,” The Vegetarian Magazine 4, 3 (December 1899), 9; Trine, Every Living Creature, pp. 76–7; “Leo Tolstoy,” The Vegetarian and Our Fellow Creatures 7, 5 (February 1903), 136–7; “Leo Tolstoy,” The Vegetarian and Our Fellow Creatures 7, 5 (February 1903), 136–7; and E. Crosby, Tolstoy and His Message,New York, 1904. Frey’s writings include The Religion of Humanity, London, 1894, and Vegetarianism in Connection with the Religion of Humanity, London, 1887. On Frey’s visit with Tolstoy, see A. Maude, TheLifeofTolstoy,LaterYears, 7th edn, New York, 1917, vol. 2, pp. 215–16. The Vegetarian and Our Fellow Creatures reprinted “The First Step” in three parts, in its February, March, and April 1903 issues; the crucial excerpt appears in The Vegetarian and Our Fellow Crea- tures 7, 7 (April 1903), 187–93. 42 “The Dukhobors,” Food, Home, and Garden 3, 28 (May 1899), 70–1; Henry S. Clubb, “Pastor’s Report,” May 24, 1915, in Bible Christian Church Papers, Historical Society of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia; and C. Spencer, The Heretic’s Feast, Hanover, 1995, pp. 288–90. Several other late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century religious and secular utopian communities, such as the Shakers at Mt Lebanon, New York, practiced vegetarianism on ethical grounds; Forward, Fifty Years of Food Reform, pp. 52–6; B. Berry, America’s Utopian Experiments: Communal Havens from Long- Wave Crises, Hanover, 1992, p. 154; and E. Kolmer, “A New Heaven and a New Earth: The Progressive Shakers and Social Reform,” Hungarian Journal of English and American Studies (HJEAS) 4, ½, Theory and Criticism [Part 2] (1998), 269–70. 43 E. Bellamy, Equality, New York, 1897; Henry Q. Mack, “The Prophecy of Bellamy,” Food, Home, and Garden (August–September 1897), 160; Frederick Heath, “Bellamy on Vegetarianism,” The Chicago Vegetarian 3, 4 (December 1898), 6; and C. Gilman, Herland, with an introduction by A. Lane, New York, 1979. “The Cattle Train” appeared in The Forerunner 2 (March 1911), 67, and was reproduced in humane publications. 44 C. Buettinger, “Sarah Cleghorn, Antivivisection, and Victorian Sensitivity About Pain and Cruelty,” Vermont History 62, 2 (Spring 1994), 88–100; S. Cleghorn, Threescore: The Autobiography of Sarah N. Cleghorn, New York, 1936; U. Winter, ed., Alice Park of California: Worker for Woman Suffrage and for Children’s Rights, Upland, California, 1948; “Ernest Howard Crosby,” Food, Home, and Garden 3, 35 (December 1899), 163–4; Ernest Harold Crosby, “Vegetarianism and Other Reforms,” The Vegetarian and Our Fellow Creatures 5, 10 (July 1901), 267–8; Ernest Harold Crosby and Elisée Reclus, The Meat Fetish (London, 1905); Benjamin Fay Mills, “Why I am a Vegetar- ian,” reprinted from Fellowship,inJournal of Zoophily 16, 11 (November 1907), 127–8; Salt, Com- pany I Have Kept, pp. 114–15; K. Iacobbo and M. Iacobbo, Vegetarian America: A History, Westport, 2004, pp. 143–7; and Jarvis, “The Road Not Taken,” 24, 31–2. The influence of such advocates notwithstanding, vegetarianism did not flourish as a tenet of left-wing activism in the United States. Franklin Rosemont suggests that the rise of Marxism as the dominant mode of socialism pushed the question of animal treatment to the margins as a concern for the American left. Marx and Engels made this easier by dismissing animal protection as a petty-bourgeois concern. See F. Rosemont, “Animal Rights,” in M. Buhle, P. Buhle, and D. Georgakas, eds, Encyclopedia of the American Left, New York, 1990, pp. 40–3; and K. Marx and F. Engels, The Communist Manifesto, ed. G. Stedman-Jones, London, 2002, p. 252. 45 J. Howard Moore, “The Cost of Rum,” Union Signal 22, 24 (June 11, 1896), 6; Moore, “Why I am a Vegetarian,” Chicago Vegetarian 2, 1 (September 1897), 6; and Salt, Company I Have Kept, pp. 110–11. Moore’swritingsincludedBetter World Philosophy: A Sociological Synthesis, Chicago, 1899; The Universal Kinship,Chicago,1906;The New Ethics, Chicago, 1909; Fermented Beverages: Their Effects on Mankind, London, 1910; The Law of Biogenesis: Two Lessons on the Origin of Human Nature, Chicago, 1914; Savage Survivals,Chicago,1916;Why I Am a Vegetarian, Chicago, 1895; and “Evolution and

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Humanitarianism,” National Humane Review (January 1913), 4. In 1992, Charles Magel and Centaur Press re-issued The Universal Kinship with appendices including letters from Moore to Salt, a biographical essay, and the eulogy Clarence Darrow delivered at Moore’sfuneral. 46 Moore, The Universal Kinship,p.320;andMoore,“Why I am a Vegetarian,” Chicago Vegetarian 2, 4 (December 1897), 8. Moore shot himself at age fifty-three, worn out by an unspecified illness and despondency over the suffering of animals. An obituary cast him as a misanthrope, but Clarence Darrow stressed his gentle nature and his commitment to universal justice. See “Scorning Man, He Ends Life to Thrushes’ Call,” Chicago Sunday Tribune, June 18, 1916, A11; and Clarence Darrow, “Eulogy,” inCharlesR.Magel,ed.,The Universal Kinship, Fontwell, 1992, pp. 341–7. 47 Salt, Seventy Years Among Savages; Salt, Company I Have Kept; Magel, “Introduction,” The Universal Kinship, p. xiii, and Jarvis, “The Road Not Taken,” 118–19. 48 Trine, Every Living Creature, pp. 25–46; and J. Howard Moore, The New Ethics, London, 1907, pp. 77–146. At eighty-one, Benjamin Smith Lyman, a geologist and mining engineer who spent years in Japan, published a scholarly treatise and cookbook, Vegetarian Dishes and Diet, Philadelphia, 1917, which made the scientific case in thoroughly Progressive mode. The era also saw its ethical screeds, like M. Coville, An Appeal Against Slaughter, Syracuse, 1914. 49 C. Lancaster, “Emmarel, A Biographical Sketch,” n.d., in author’s possession. 50 “Boston Society Women Strive for ‘Perfect Lives,’ Form Millenium Guild – Give Up Meat Diet, Cast Off Furs, Feathers and Kid Gloves,” Philadelphia Ledger, December 11, 1918, in Benjamin Smith Lyman Collection, Box D-15-7, Historical Society of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, Pennsyl- vania; and A. Ryan, “The Heart to Sing,” unpublished autobiography, pp. 314–15, quoted in C. Adams, The Sexual Politics of Meat, New York, 1990, p. 123. On Ryan and Stevens, see M. Roll- ison, “Priestess of Reform: The Life of Agnes Ryan,” M.A. thesis, University of New Hampshire, 1985; “Henry Bailey Stevens,” National Cyclopedia of American Biography 59 (1980), 132; and Adams, The Sexual Politics of Meat, pp. 123, 176–7. 51 Adams, The Sexual Politics of Meat, pp. 189–90; “Suffragists’ Vegetarian Banquet,” The Vegetarian 8, 1 (November 1903); and “Women’sServitude,” The Vegetarian Magazine 16, 5 (January 1913), 84. 52 Millennium Guild pamphlets, undated, in author’s possession. 53 M. Freshel, The Golden Rule Cookbook, Cambridge, 1907, 13. 54 Freshel, The Golden Rule Cookbook, p. 12. 55 “Millennium Extract,” Journal of Zoophily 21, 6 (June 1912), 340; and “Curtis Freshel,” New York Times, July 5, 1968, 25. Curtis Freshel continued the Guild’s work through the mid 1960s, at which time radio personality Pegeen Fitzgerald took it over, supporting Henry Spira and other advocates of the era. After Fitzgerald’s death, the Guild’s assets went to a cat shelter in Connecticut. 56 Letter, Maud R.L. Sharpe, The Vegetarian Magazine 14, 3 (1910), 104–5; and M. Brown, Reasons for a Vegetarian Diet, Boston, 1918. The speech Moore gave at Freshel’s invitation was likely “Ethics and the School,” published in Our Dumb Animals 44, 11 (April 1912), 161, 165. 57 “Famous Actress Pleads for Dumb Animals,” The Vegetarian 11, 5 (September 1907), 16; and Lancaster, “Emmarel.” 58 Freshel, The Golden Rule Cookbook, pp. 12–13. Several of Freshel’s speeches are in Proceedings of the International Anti-Vivisection and Animal Protection Congress, Philadelphia, 1926, pp. 104–10, 149–54. 59 Henry S. Clubb, “Cruelties of Flesh-Eating,” Food, Home, and Garden 1, 2 (June 1896), 22; and J. Howard Moore, “Why I am a Vegetarian,” Chicago Vegetarian 2, 4 (December 1897), 7. 60 “Do Animals Have Rights?,” The Chicago Vegetarian 3, 10 (June 1899), 10; “As to Humane Socie- ties,” The Chicago Vegetarian 3, 11 (July 1899), 10; Jarvis, “The Road Not Taken,” 262–3. 61 F. Rowley, “Slaughter House Reform,” in Proceedings of the International Anti-Vivisection and Animal Protection Congress Held at Washington, DC, December 8th to 11th, 1913, New York, 1914, 50. 62 Rowley, “Slaughter House Reform,” 50; “Transportation Cruelty,” Our Dumb Animals 50 (March 1918), 147; and “Painless Death Foils Yankee Wit,” undated clipping, Scrapbook 12: 176, American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals Archive, New York. 63 Mary F. Lovell, “The New Ethics,” Journal of Zoophily 8, 8 (August 1909), 84; Mary F. Lovell, “The Inconsistency of Humane People,” Journal of Zoophily 17, 7 (July 1908), 71–2; and Mary F. Lovell, “The Terrors of Vegetarianism,” The Starry Cross 29, 12 (December 1920), 181. 64 “Yale Soldiers on Meatless Diet,” The Vegetarian 8, 1 (November 1903), 7–8; George T. Angell, “Important to all our Readers,” Our Dumb Animals 38, 6 (November 1905), 80; George T. Angell,

198 “ PEACE ON EARTH AMONG THE ORDERS OF CREATION”

“Some Facts About Japanese Soldiers,” Our Dumb Animals 38, 7 (December 1905), 102; and Irving Fisher, “What the Recent Tests at Yale University Have Proved,” The Vegetarian 11, 1 (May 1907), 6–7. 65 M. Davis, The Case for the Vegetarian Conscientious Objector, Brooklyn, 1944, pp. 12–13. Ammon Hennacy and other members of the Tolstoy Peace Group would renew the case for the vegetarian conscientious objector during World War II. See Thou Shalt Not Kill, Brooklyn, n.d. 66 C. Helstosky, “Food Studies and Animal Rights,” in K. Albala, ed., Routledge International Handbook of Food Studies, Abingdon, 2013, p. 308. 67 Shprintzen, Vegetarian Crusade, pp. 143–5.

199 11 FOOD, MEDICINE AND INSTITUTIONAL LIFE IN THE BRITISH ISLES, c.1790–1900

Ian Miller

This chapter explores two discrete, but inter-related, dimensions of modern food history: the medicalization of diet from the late eighteenth century onward and the development of new strategies of large-scale institutional feeding. From the late eighteenth century, medical scientists began to analyse and comprehend food in new ways. Con- temporaneously, state bodies in many western countries began using institutions to tackle problems such as insanity and crime. Food played a powerful role in structuring institutional experiences as this chapter demonstrates by exploring historical case studies in the British Isles. This chapter presents institutions as spaces where medico-scientiﬁcknowl- edge of food was produced, applied, tested and debated, particularly in the nineteenth century. Notably, throughout the period in question, medical communities across the British Isles lamented the inadequate dietary customs of the working-class population whom they routinely depicted as under-fed, under-nourished and unhealthy.1 However, it was only in the twentieth century when health care professionals proved relatively more successful in regulating what the population ate; an outcome that John Coveney encapsulates with the term ‘nutritional policing’.2 Coveney depicts the nineteenth- century emergence of nutritional science as having been characterized by the ever- increasing governance of bodily behaviour through dietary guidance and advice. Other historians – most notably James Vernon – frame food as a more intricate historical artefact; as something that an array of actors including consumers, journalists, scientists and policy-makers debated, regulated and sought to govern.3 Although historiographical debates on the extent to which medical authority successfully intervened in day-to-day dietary activities are ongoing, what is certain is that diet was increasingly subject to expert interventions in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Adding to these debates, this chapter demonstrates that prior to the twentieth century, institutions oﬀered enclosed, strictly regimented spaces where medical authority in diet could expand to an extent not then possible in the general community. Although physicians had traditionally advocated the consumption of certain foods for medicinal purposes, the conceptual frameworks in which they understood diet, nutrition and food intake altered considerably from the late eighteenth century. Earlier, physicians had assessed food intake primarily with reference to constitutional and humoral imperatives. As Andrew Wear persuasively demonstrates, early modern physicians viewed the consumption of too much food, or unsuitable food, as the origin of many diseases and humoral disorders.4 Ideas such as these seemed credible in a period when physicians

200 FOOD AND MEDICINE IN THE BRITISH ISLES typically understood illness as caused by an array of interconnected factors such as the patient’s humoral temperament and environmental factors. Empirical forms of medicine were developed in Paris in the 1790s – subsequently popularized across Western society – that proved more intent on empirically understanding medical conditions and developing cures through the physical observation of organs, tissues and cells rather than theoretical speculation.5 From the 1790s onward, food became scientifically known, lending medical communities the authority of experimental proof which they subsequently used to form the basis of a persuasive rationale for expanding their interventions in day-to-day matters relating to eating. In the nineteenth century, they penned an innumerable amount of textbooks that instructed medical and lay readers on how the digestive system worked, how humans should masticate and swallow, how stomachs needed time to digest and even the times of day when excreting seemed healthiest for the body.6 In the 1830s, nutritional science emerged in a recognizably modern form. It was in that decade that internationally celebrated German chemist Justus von Liebig deciphered new techniques of breaking foodstuffs down into their chemical constituents (e.g. starch, fat and protein); a step that placed him and his colleagues in an authoritative position to advise on which combinations of foods promoted health.7 Combined, these investigations into digestion and nutrition emblematized a new scientific impulse in western medicine, which, in itself, allowed orthodox medical communities to professionalize and distance themselves from older forms of what became derogatively known as ‘quack medicine’.8 The medicalization of diet occurred in tandem with the implementation of significant structural adjustments to institutional life. As England industrialized, institutions came to serve as suitable spaces where those who failed to socially conform could be deposited and their behavioural and moral shortcomings corrected. Michael Foucault famously described the eighteenth century as ‘the great confinement’; as a period when the insane became institutionalized rather than being allowed to continue wandering through towns and the countryside.9 In contrast, Roy Porter refutes the basis of this idea by asserting that it was actually in the early nineteenth century that large numbers of mentally ill individuals were incarcerated en masse.10 In his later work, Foucault also detailed the aforementioned shift in the organization of medical knowledge evident in the late eighteenth century and, soon after, the expansion of the prison system into a new technological power.11 Although historians continue to debate the shifting power relations created by the ever- advancing encroachment of the institution, what is clear is that institutionalization undeniably came to provide an important means of tackling social problems including insanity and criminality. Moreover, medical practitioners took on an increasingly prominent role in managing institutional health, regulating bodily behaviour and making use of the institutionalized to generate dietary knowledge. Diet offers a suitable lens for assessing one way in which physicians began to exert an influence in the institution. Accordingly, this chapter explores the points at which dietary knowledge and the need to feed large numbers of institutionalized individuals converged. Britain and Ireland serve as useful comparative regions due to the profound difference in dietary customs evident in those neighbouring countries despite both being politically overseen as combined parts of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland following the 1801 Act of Union. They offer intriguing com- plementary case studies as Britain witnessed high levels of industrialization in comparison to Ireland, a country that did not industrialize to a comparable extent.12 Prior to the

201 I. MILLER

Famine (c.1845–52), the Irish diet was characterized by high levels of potato consumption. Although the potato was replaced with a more varied diet from the 1850s, much of Ireland’s population retained what can be considered as traditional food customs for some decades.13 In Britain, rapid industrialization during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries led to the replacement of traditional consumption patterns with the commercia- lized production of bread, meat and agricultural produce, as well as imports of luxuries including tea and coﬀee.14

Feeding asylum patients The asylum was a key site in which medical understandings of food and dietary intake were actualized, displayed and modified. As such, analysis of the functions of asylum feeding renders visible one way in which expert knowledge of food was historically used to structure, regulate and give meaning to institutional life. In his seminal text of 1963, Madness and Civilisation, Foucault famously argued that insanity was once considered part of everyday life. Prior to the eighteenth century, he maintains, ‘madmen’ were allowed to roam the streets as they were relatively accepted by society. Shifting public perceptions of insanity resulted in a palpable diminishment of these previously high levels of social acceptance. According to Foucault, insanity became subject to public stigmatization in the early modern period. The insane could now be likened to animals as ideas gained standing that they lacked reason and rationality; faculties which, to many, defined human existence and distinguished human life from the non-human. This intellectual shift, Foucault insists, was mirrored in the practical management of the insane who, due to their perceived irrationality, now found themselves vulnerable to being herded into institutions and subjected to punishments including whipping and chaining.15 Other historians have noted that restricted feeding formed part of these coercive processes.16 Prior to the late eighteenth century, insanity tended not to be perceived as a problem requiring medical attention in the way that it tends to be today. Instead, it was treated as akin to a crime; as an offence demanding segregation from society through punitive institutional means. This was often the norm in the period leading up to what Edward Shorter terms ‘the birth of psychiatry’, a transformative period that commenced in the 1790s when communities of medical men began contemplating the possibility of therapeutically managing, even curing, insanity.17 The significance of this conceptual shift cannot be under- stated for it paved the way for the emergence of a new medical figure – the psychiatrist – as well as the introduction of a new type of curative institution – the therapeutic asylum. From the late eighteenth century onwards, asylum physicians re-envisaged the insane as deserving of medical care instead of punishment. What became known as ‘moral management’ gradually displaced disciplinary regimes of institutional management. In Britain, the ideology of moral management was embodied in the York Retreat, a Quaker-managed institution established by philanthropist Samuel Tuke in 1796. Although not strictly designed as a medical establishment, the Retreat pur- ported an ethos that emphasized the importance of rest and manual work as opposed to restraint and punishment.18 Soon after, in Ireland, William Saunders Hallaran began to promote humane management of the insane at Cork Lunatic Asylum.19 In 1817, Ireland became the first country in the western world to host an extensive public asylum system.20 In 1845, a broadly similar state-supported asylum system was established nationwide in Britain, underpinned, in theory, by corresponding principles of moral management.

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Andrew Scull evocatively depicts that system as a ‘dumping ground’ for members of society who were not economically productive (although his ideas have since been subject to intense contestation).21 Of particular relevance to this chapter, Scull also maintains that this state-funded system offered crucial opportunities for the medical profession to expand and cement its influence in the realm of insanity; a condition recast by its members throughout the century as mental illness.22 These developments occurred in tandem with the gradual transformation of diet into an object of medico-scientific inquiry. Dietary arrangements were central not only to the experience of nineteenth-century asylum life but also to the therapeutic regimes on offer and the institutional production of ideas about mental illness. From the late eighteenth century, asylums were gradually re-orientated as sites of therapy. Dietary provision proved increasingly central to the day-to-day care of patients. This was because many psychiatrists conceptualized mental illness as a condition with physical, rather than mental, origins. Accordingly, cases of insanity tended to be treated by bodily, as opposed to psychological, means. The growing sway of these physically-orientated interpretations encouraged asylum physicians to allocate substantial portions of food to their patients. In the therapeutic asylum, diet was inscribed with curative properties, if used appropriately. In this context, food could be framed as a mechanism that might restore the personality and social usefulness of insane individuals as, according to mainstream psychiatric thought, a healthy body meant a healthy mind. Perspectives such as these were partly informed by contemporary perspectives on digestion and the stomach. Nineteenth-century medical thought prioritized the stomach as an organ replete with nerves. Key figures including Edinburgh physician and neurologist Robert Whytt (1714–66) argued that different parts of the body interacted with one another via the nervous system. Whytt applied the concept of ‘nervous sympathy’ to explain why pain or discomfort in one organ could be felt in areas of the body far away from the initial seat of disease, including the mind.23 In his popular model, Whytt construed dyspepsia (or indigestion) as a potential causative factor of psychiatric problems as he understood the human body as a complex web of nervous interactions. In 1861, the Blackwood’s Edinburgh Review suggested not only that the English were particularly susceptible to gastric illness, but also that ‘nothing but family considerations prevented him [the Englishman] from blowing out his brains with a pistol, or effectually ridding himself of his woes by plunging into the muddy torrent of the Thames’.24 In Ireland, asylum physicians blamed rising asylum admissions in the 1880s and 1890s on customs of excessive tea drinking among working-class and impoverished women who, upon seemingly becoming addicted to the substance, had then developed chronic dyspepsia that later manifested itself in epilepsy, mania and other psychiatric complaints. Physicians regularly denounced tea, as consumed in working-class communities, as an addictive nervous stimulant as opposed to a nutritious product.25 Notably, these concerns were raised in an official inquiry into rising levels of Irish insanity published in 1894 and undertaken by the Irish Inspectors of Lunatic Asylums. The Inspectors blamed dramatically rising asylum admissions throughout the country primarily on the widespread custom among the poor of subsisting of diets consisting mainly of tea and white bread.26 These compelling examples illustrate some of the ways in which nineteenth-century contemporaries perceived the connections between dietary intake and mental disorder on an individual and national level and also how psychiatric complaints were typically portrayed as rooted in physical malfunction. Faith in this interconnectedness between mind

203 I. MILLER and body was visibly apparent in an 1864 Medical Times and Gazette editorial which announced that:

The insane are really the subjects of disease, whose most general character is depression of vital energy, weakness or imperfect nutrition. Hence it is that the inmates of an asylum must be supplied with food not only nutritious in quality, but abundant in quantity. Not only must there be found thereat all that is needful for the maintenance of life and health of the healthy, but for the restoration of force in the debilitated.27

This powerful statement clearly demonstrates that diet was simultaneously considered as the cause and cure of many expressions of mental disorder. If insanity could manifest in consequence of physical debility and under-nutrition, then the next logical step was to create therapeutic mechanisms that would, through food intake, strengthen the body and, in turn, the mind. This conceptual emphasis on the physicality of mental illness was reflected in nineteenth- century regimes of psychiatric therapy. Above all other contemporary psychiatrists, it was John Connolly who sought most strenuously to establish diet as a vital component of therapeutic care. Connolly was a prominent psychiatrist who co-founded and co-edited the widely-read British and Foreign Medical Review between 1836 and 1839. Through this publication, he sought to promote what he considered to be the most modern therapeutic methods. In 1839, he was appointed as resident physician to the Middlesex County Asylum at Hanwell where, in the face of considerable opposition, he introduced principles of non-restraint. This step was the first attempt at banishing mechanical restraint in a large British metropolitan asylum. Ultimately, the example set at Hanwell helped to establish non-restraint as standard practice across Britain.28 Diet was central to Connolly’s humane vision of institutional psychiatric care. He promoted healthy food provision as a pivotal element of asylum life; as something that ought to be carefully considered by managers, officers and attendants. Importantly, Connolly asserted his views in the 1840s; a decade when psychiatrists strove to infuse the nationwide, state-funded asylum system then under construction with the principles of moral treatment. ‘The mere nutrition of the helpless who cannot express their wants, or represent the most flagrant injustice and privation’, wrote Connolly in 1847, ‘demands all the care that humanity can suggest’.29 Connolly intended the state-supported asylum system to provide a positive environment in which eating was to be enjoyed by patients. His vision was in line with medico-psychiatric rationales which stipulated that pleasurable eating experiences had a satisfying effect on the mind. On this matter, Connolly wrote:

Where the object is the restoration of mental tranquillity, attention to the diet, and its preparation and serving, rank among remedial measures, acting on the mind as well as the body. All habitual physical discomfort is opposed to mental recovery, and a scanty, ill-cooked, unwholesome diet, creates a chronic uneasiness and dissatisfaction, impairs the health, and increases the mortality of an asylum.30

Like many of his contemporaries, Connolly conceived insanity as a disease of physical debility that, in many instances, had been caused by years of half-starvation prior to asylum admission. In his view, food was swallowed without pleasure in many working-class homes;

204 FOOD AND MEDICINE IN THE BRITISH ISLES a scenario that caused indigestion, disordered conditions of the bowels and subsequent chronic physical and mental ills.31 Connolly did not understand diet as an exclusive cure for psychiatric problems but he did uphold it as an integral element of a broader therapeutic environment also characterized by improved lodging, better clothing, ventilated wards, systematic medical attention and the abolition of fetters and restraints.32 Accordingly, at Hanwell, he provided patients with breakfasts of porridge and 6 oz. of bread (5 oz. for women) and dinners consisting of steamed cooked meat, yeast dumpling, vegetables, soup and bread, Irish stew, and meat and potato pie. Men were allocated an additional supper consisting of cheese and bread. All of this, Connolly insisted, could be supplied at a modest cost of eight pence a day per patient. In addition, he paid close attention to the quality of food – particularly meat. Dinner tables were laid out with tablecloths, mealtime over- crowding was disallowed and food was evenly distributed. Prayers were said, and knives and forks were given to all patients except the suicidal. This idyllic dietetic existence was also thought to help prevent disease. Connolly stressed that patients could be cured more rapidly when fed on a nutritious, rather than a starvation, diet and also asserted that the replacement of what he termed ‘water gruel slop’ with nutritious food would stem outbreaks of dysentery and diarrhoea.33 Although firmly anchored in a move towards the humane treatment of the insane, Connolly’s vision also emblematized an important shift towards understanding insanity as an object of medical concern that could be cured, or at least ameliorated, by the techniques of an empirically-driven medical science. Many asylum physicians also believed that providing food in these ways bore significant psychological benefits. It was not simply the case that asylum patients were fed more generously than paupers and prisoners, but also that they were more likely to be given foodstuffs that they had been accustomed to in their everyday life prior to admission; an outcome that contrasted sharply with other institutions. In post-Famine Ireland, the Inspector-Generals of Asylums recommended feeding patients with bulky supplies of porridge, bread, milk and potatoes as they appreciated that the country’s predominantly rural population was accustomed to, and therefore more content with, a diet consisting of large quantities of home-grown agricultural produce. Unlike in England, cocoa tended not to be supplied as, in the view of Inspector-General E. Maziere Courtenay, it was ‘utterly unknown in the Irish cottage, and though undoubtedly more nutritious, is disliked from the first’.34 Tellingly, earlier that century, prominent English physician Charles Turner Thackrah, in his Lectures on Digestion and Diet (1824), had recalled that when Hallaran had attempted to introduce meat at Cork Lunatic Asylum, the strictest precautions were ‘invariably adopted to provide against the scene of uproar which is sure to follow’. ‘The maniacal excitement’, Thackrah speculated, ‘may be attributed to the sudden transition from a poor to a richer diet, than to the simple effect of animal food’.35 In contrast, meat was more likely to be supplied in English asylums, according to one 1864 Medical Times and Gazette editorial, ‘not only because it contains a large amount of nitrogenous and fatty matter in a small bulk, but because custom has associated one meal of animal food with the diet of the majority of the English people. And in an asylum for the insane such habits must be regarded’.36 Managers regularly allocated cheese, eggs, vegetables and bread in England, as well as beer. Beer was understood as a drink that patients, particularly those from working-class backgrounds, were accustomed to consuming on a daily basis. It was only in the 1880s that beer was disallowed in many asylum dietaries, in a period when the temperance movement had made successful inroads in publicly castigating alcohol and when physicians were more actively criticizing alcohol for

205 I. MILLER its adverse physical and psychological effects and its socially disruptive consequences. In that decade, many medical superintendents of large asylums began viewing the dis- continuance of beer supplies as a moral and financial advantage. Beer, they now pronounced, had little nutritional value. Nor did it form part of the daily diet of the poor to the same extent that it had once done. According to one 1883 Journal of Mental Science editorial, it was ‘a luxury that can be done without’ and ‘the rock on which so many have been wrecked prior to their admission into the asylum’. In its place, patients were awarded more nutritious liquid substances such as milk, arrowroot and beef-tea.37 In 1881, Dr Davies of the Barming Heath Lunatic Asylum, Kent, experimented with decreasing the amounts of beer given to patients and soon noticed a significant reduction in suicide attempts. Beer, Davies concluded, prolonged patients’ maladies and encouraged speedy relapses.38 His stance quickly acquired considerable influence. However, despite a visible expert faith in food’s curative value, psychiatric ideals were often restrained by the financial concerns of institutions. This was particularly evident in Ireland. There, the need to satisfy rate-payers regularly overruled health considerations, especially if asylum doctors felt pressured by their superiors to undertake their work frug- ally. In 1857, for instance, Joseph Lalor, manager and resident physician at Kilkenny District Asylum, informed the Commissioners of Inquiry into Irish Lunatic Asylums that if dietary scales were raised too high, then a disinclination to admit patients would result due to the additional expenses incurred. When asked whether or not food purchasing was best considered in relation to cure rather than expense, Lalor maintained he felt obliged to purchase the least expensive curative food items regardless of his medical inclinations.39 Clearly, Lalor held an ambiguous position as both manager and physician, and had to carefully choose between his medical impulses and bureaucratic needs. Similarly, in 1857 John Jacob, visiting physician at Maryborough District Asylum, Co. Cork, recalled that his efforts to provide extra rations during outbreaks of scrofula and consumption had been firmly resisted. When Jacob had recommended the replacement of sweet milk with but- termilk to the Board of Governors, Hugh Morgan Tuite, MP for Westmeath, had travelled from his residence at Mullingar, Co. Westmeath, to angrily complain about this substitu- tion and to inform Jacob that the patients already looked over-fed. Jacob also regretted that the Board of Governors persistently obstructed his intentions to supply extra food to those patients with the poorest health.40 When asked if it was not his duty to place patients on extra rations without reference to the views of particular Governors, Jacob replied that ‘I am afraid I have not sufficient moral courage to do that. I would not feel exactly justified in taking a course that might bear the character of extravagance’.41 In the 1850s, Jacob made frequent efforts at Maryborough to direct the attention of the Governors to dietary questions by arguing that a liberal food supply was necessary to effect cure, one preferably comparable to the higher standards provided in England. Jacob asserted that ‘the practice of economy appears to be too much expected in food and fuel’ and that ‘the physician is under the daily necessity of ordering generous food to repair impaired constitutions when the deterioration has taken place’. He hoped that the Board would adopt an improved standard of diet with the best results ‘to those unhappy classes for whose relief, comfort and general welfare the institution was established’.42 Jacob’s views implied that the lunatic sick held a higher degree of social rights in the institution, yet these were not being fulfilled due to the ascendency of frugal policies. His statements also contained suggestions that the mentally ill had a social right to a superior food supply than that offered to paupers and prisoners as asylum incarceration was no longer meant to

206 FOOD AND MEDICINE IN THE BRITISH ISLES be tantamount to punishment. Unsurprisingly, he was critical of the practice at Marybor- ough of ‘tossing out their food before the inmates, as if they were cattle or pigs’.43 Even despite these practical limitations, the sometimes elusive principle of feeding all patients heartily proved less sustainable as psychiatric diagnoses became more nuanced and as asylum workers came to recognize that distinct patient groups had different dietary needs. Importantly, asylums served as sites where scientific knowledge on diet and appetite could be produced. In the early nineteenth century, patients at large asylums including Bethlem, London, had been awarded the same diet, with the exception of those deemed physically sick.44 Later in that century, asylum-based psychiatrists frequently encountered unusual dietary behaviour among their patients and came to recognize, but not always fully comprehend, the existence of an intricate relationship between appetite and mental disorder. For instance, in 1886, prominent Scottish asylum medical superintendent John A. Campbell delivered a lecture to the Medico-Psychological Association entitled ‘On the Appetite in Insanity’ in which he recounted his personal observations of eating habits among inmates. Campbell explained that he had been forced to place syphilitics on a restricted diet of mince meat, potatoes, broth and milk as they ate voraciously. Epileptics, he lamented, tended to have hearty appetites. One epileptic patient, Campbell divulged, had succumbed to a succession of fits due to having over-indulged in plum pudding on Christmas Day. Since then, he had been careful to place the epileptics under his care on a more restrained Christmas diet. In contrast, Campbell observed that the appetite of mel- ancholics tended to be relatively lacking, meaning that they needed encouragement to eat. Some extreme sufferers of mania, he revealed, believed that they had no stomach and did not therefore require food. Others thought that God had directed them to fast for forty days. Curiously, Campbell identified chronic masturbators as having a mixed appetite that veered continuously from voracious to emaciated. To address that problem, he routinely placed them on a farinaceous or milk diet. Above all, Campbell lamented his constant observations of patients consuming their own bodily fluids, hair, string and other foreign objects.45 Evidently, insanity was a social problem that was successfully reconfigured as a medical concern during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. In response, asylums, in theory, were transformed from punitive, coercive sites into places of therapeutic intervention. In that period, psychiatrists, for the most part, reflected on mental illness as a condition with physical roots. Accordingly, they chose to highlight the potentially curative dimensions of food. This shift ran parallel with the medical capturing of food, digestion and nutritional intake as objects of empirical inquiry. The therapeutic asylum therefore provided a space in which ideas on the relationship between mind and body could be formulated, tested and refined through the lens of dietary intake. Importantly, asylums were unique in that they were spaces whose ethos was informed, for the most part, by a medical ethos that allowed for scientific observation and management. In contrast, as I will demonstrate, while the prison served as a further arena where dietary knowledge was formulated, the authority of medical figures to manage dietary arrangements there was ultimately restricted by a range of factors.

Feeding prisoners Adjustments were made to the structure of prison life in parallel with the transformation of asylums into therapeutically orientated sites. Foucault identiﬁed this outcome as a further manifestation of the rise of an increasingly disciplinary society that resulted in prisons being

207 I. MILLER redesigned to enable increased prisoner observation and behavioural normalization.46 Adopting Foucauldian methodologies, Michael Ignatieff maintains that, in Britain, imprisonment was less frequently used as a punishment for crime before 1775. However, shifting sen- sitivities to the infliction of bodily pain encouraged alternative responses to criminality to be devised. These were typically less intent on imposing physical harm (through whipping and other punitive actions) and more concerned with reforming mental and moral life.47 To a large extent, this development mirrored changes made in the management of the insane in the sense that it promoted ostensibly more humane and personally reformative techniques, rather than predominantly punitive ones. Martin Weiner considerably expands upon these lines of inquiry by highlighting how early nineteenth-century responses to criminality, contrasting with those of earlier centuries, sought to correct perceived defaults in moral behaviour as crime was now popularly understood as stemming from moral and personality defects.48 Importantly, Weiner also identifies a contemporaneous desire to standardize prison life to ensure that prisoners were awarded the same levels of punishment for particular criminal acts. This rationalized system was intended to replace a pre-existing prison network that had allowed for significant variation in punishments, even for the same crime, as its management had been left to the discretion of individual managers.49 It is also worth noting that prisons mainly catered to different class groupings than asylums. Asylum patients tended to be more diverse economically, whereas prisoners were more likely to be drawn from the lower classes.50 The middle-class contemporaries who judged how much food prisoners deserved viewed the issue through a different class lens than those commenting on asylum feeding. Although crime could be viewed as an outcome of psychological deficiencies which, in some instances, had stemmed from physical or nutritional weakening, criminality was never captured as a medical problem to the same extent that insanity was transformed into a psychiatric, rather than predominantly social, concern.51 Nonetheless, throughout the nineteenth century, prisoners were subject to ever-increasing levels of medical interventions, particularly in the realm of feeding.52 Diet was then seen as a particularly important element of prison life. This encouraged prison managers to uphold the provision of sparse, unappealing meals as a morally corrective technique. Recurrent efforts were made to standardize prison food allowances in both Britain and Ireland.53 However, the question of how to sustain prisoner health while still serving meals of a punitive nature provoked intense public and expert debate. One telling example of the commentary invoked by this dilemma can be found in British surgeon J.G. Malcolmson’s comments, published in The Lancet in 1837, in which he asserted that the replacement of punishments such as flogging with overly severe dietary restrictions was ‘incomparably more cruel and destructive’.54 Malcolmson was particularly concerned with the permanent physical and psychological debility which he saw as likely to stem from sustained periods of feeding on diets with low nutritional value. He viewed enforced prolonged physical deterioration as infinitely worse than physical regimes of bodily punishment and, even, the death sentence.55 An urge to lower prison dietaries was routinely expressed throughout the early nineteenth century. For example, in 1821, prominent English writer and Anglican cleric Sydney Smith recognized that the treatment of prisoners had greatly improved since the eighteenth century, but regretted that the subject of diet was still greatly neglected in prisons.56 However, Smith called for greater restriction in dietary allowances, arguing that:

Misdemeanants, who have money in their pocket, may be seen in many of our prisons with ﬁsh, buttered veal, rump steaks and every kind of luxury; and as the

208 FOOD AND MEDICINE IN THE BRITISH ISLES

practice prevails of allowing them to purchase a pint of ale each, in the name of his poorer brethren, and drinks them himself. A jail should be a place of punishment, from which men recoil with horror – a place of real suﬀering, painful to the memory, terrible to the imagination: But if men can live idly, and live luxuriously, is it any wonder that they set the law at deﬁance?57

Smith added that ‘restriction to diet in prisons is still more necessary, when it is remembered, that it is impossible to avoid making a prison, in some respects, more eligible than the home of a culprit’.58 Nonetheless, the practice of simply cutting food portions, where it did manifest, could impact detrimentally on health. This problem attracted considerable public attention in 1823 following a series of controversial deaths at the Millbank Peni- tentiary, London. The Millbank mortalities ultimately forced the Home Office to appoint a Select Committee to inquire into conditions at the institution. The Committee established that in spring 1822, Millbank’s medical officer, Dr Hutchison, had decided that the diets allocated were more than ample to sustain prisoner health. Accordingly, he had recommended reductions in provisions. Previously, the daily dietary allowances for male prisoners had consisted of one and a half pounds of bread, two pints of hot gruel or porridge and either beef with broth and boiled potatoes or soup with rice, potatoes and vegetables. In contrast, the replacement daily dietary for men consisted of only one and a half pounds of bread and two pints of soup, with a bread and water diet temporarily allocated to those being punished for disruptive behaviour.59 When an outbreak of scurvy occurred in Jan- uary 1823, Scottish physician and founder of the Royal Army Medical Corps, Sir James McGrigor, inspected and observed that many of the prisoners, particularly female ones, were chronically unhealthy. McGrigor denied that the poor health that he had witnessed was in any way connected to the recently introduced dietary reductions.60 However, Dr Roget and Dr P. Mere Latham, who performed a subsequent investigation, vociferously refuted McGrigor’s suggestions. Latham later recorded his findings in his An Account of the Diseases lately Prevalent at the General Penitentiary (1825) in which he re-asserted his views on the dietetic origins of prison outbreaks of diarrhoea, dysentery and scurvy and stressed the need to feed long-term prisoners with meat to safeguard their health.61 Intriguingly, Roget and Latham’s report commented that:

With regard to the diet of prisoners undergoing punishment for crimes, we pre- sume the object to be that they should have enough for nourishment and health, and nothing more. How much, and what quality of food will actually suﬃce for this purpose, can be deduced only from numerous and careful experiments. But no such experiments, as far as we know, have ever been made.62

In forwarding this claim, Roget and Latham sought to make a persuasive case for institutional dietary arrangements to be re-arranged around an empirically-driven physiological rationale that retained punitive elements but which would not risk creating permanent constitutional damage. This aim was not easily achievable in the 1820s when medico-scientific understandings of digestion and nutrition were still very much in a formative stage. Nonetheless, much changed in the decades that followed. In the 1820s, Canadian surgeon William Beaumont elucidated, for the first time, some of the workings of the digestive system after performing experiments on wounded soldier Alexis St. Martin.63 Pathological anatomy professionalized across western society, paving the way for scientific investigations

209 I. MILLER to be made into the stomachs and digestive processes of corpses.64 From the 1830s, Liebig successfully promoted his principles of nutrition, a step that popularized new means of understanding food intake in terms of nutritional consistency and the effects of different foodstuffs in the human system.65 Evidently, by the mid-nineteenth century, food and diet were appreciated in more empirically comprehensive terms than when Roget and Latham had voiced their concerns. These nascent food sciences increasingly helped to divide public and expert opinion on prison diets. As Kenneth Carpenter details, mid-nineteenth century humanitarian impulses viewed as inhumane the weakening of prisoner bodies, given that this condition would not allow them to regain work upon release. In contrast, influential prison administrators maintained a steady determination to ensure that crime should not pay. Accordingly, they insisted that unfavourable diets ought to be provided to deter individuals from criminal life.66 Attitudes to prisoner diets could certainly be unsympathetic. For instance, in 1840, English writer and Anglican cleric Sydney Smith asserted that ‘there is nobody so glut- tonous and sensual as a thief and he will much more bitterly feel fetters on his mouth than his heels’.67 Similarly, the Law Magazine indifferently reported in 1841 that:

Prisoners in solitary conﬁnement for a fortnight, on a pound and a half of bread a day, with a surgeon continually putting them on extra diet, are not the same men afterwards that they were before. We dare say they look thinner, but it is contrary to all medical experience to assert that their constitutions could be permanently aﬀected by such a regimen for so short a period. Besides, the surgeon is there to mark the exceptional cases, and is evidently not wanting in humanity.68

However, as Carpenter also observes, these severe regimes ultimately led to a palpable failure to keep prisoners healthy. This was particularly the case as long-term sentences became more common.69 This problematic scenario helped to transform the issue of prison diet into one with medical dimensions as it opened up avenues for dietetic and nutritional scientists to carve out a further avenue of inﬂuence in institutional life. In 1843, prison dietaries across England and Wales were considerably lowered. This is perhaps unsurprising given the existence of a somewhat indiﬀerent approach to feeding prisoners. Although the inspectors who initiated this change exhibited an ostensible interest in maintaining health, their priorities undeniably involved avoiding dietary extravagance and ensuring standardization in punishment. In 1843, they produced a report on prison discipline that prioritized prison feeding as a key concern. This contained a series of tables detailing the minimum amounts of food that they believed could be given to patients according to their length of imprisonment, the types of punishments that they were being subjected to (such as hard labour) and their sex. The tables were intended to be adopted in both countries to ensure greater standardization in prison life. In their report, the inspectors asserted that the:

Quantity of food should be given in all cases which is suﬃcient, and not more than suﬃcient, to maintain health and strength at the least possible cost; and that, whilst due care should be exercised to prevent extravagance or luxury in a prison, the diet ought not to be made an instrument of punishment.70

Notably, the inspectors, in this instance, relied upon the experience of the prison medical oﬃcers whom they encountered as their principal guide and, based on the advice given,

210 FOOD AND MEDICINE IN THE BRITISH ISLES stressed the importance of providing three healthy and varied meals per day.71 Their dietary scales were gradated, meaning that prisoners confined for less than a fortnight were to be fed with gruel (made of oatmeal) and bread; those imprisoned for between two and six weeks with gruel, bread, meat and potatoes; and those employed at hard labour for over three months with a fuller combination of gruel, bread, meat, potatoes, cocoa and soup.72 A key purpose of this standardization was to ensure that individuals knew what punitive treatment to expect should they commit a crime and find themselves subsequently imprisoned. There was one dissenting voice among the inspectors: the radical Unitarian Frederic Hill, known more generally for his view that the ability and judgement of prison managers should outweigh the imposition of prison rules.73 In this instance, Hill objected to the burden of adhering to dietary scales as he believed that there was still a distinct lack of empirical information on the subject of diet, the quantities of nutriment contained in food, and the amount of food required for health under various circumstances.74 Instead of resolving the thorny question of what to feed prisoners, as Hill had shrewdly predicted, the standardization of prison diets in fact heightened concern over the bodily welfare of prisoners across the British Isles. In 1846, Scottish physician, toxicologist and President of the Royal College of Physicians of Edinburgh, Robert Christison, investigated a series of outbreaks of scurvy in Perth Prison, Scotland. Drawing from Liebig’s recently published investigations into the importance of protein, he determined that providing potatoes in prisons stemmed outbreaks of scurvy. Notably, scurvy had broken out in the prison in the same year that the potato blight decreased potato supplies across the British Isles.75 In the following decade, numerous critics – increasingly cognisant of the connection between nutritional insufficiency and the onset of particular diseases – entered into the debate. English historian and traveller Hepworth Dixon, in his popular The London Prisons of 1850, angrily declared: ‘one might as reasonably lower the diet of the poor and heap up filth in their dwellings by way of security against disease’.76 Prison dietary reductions also prompted intense debate in Ireland. Until 1849, the offi- cially recommended diet in Irish prisons had consisted of a breakfast of 8 oz. of meal made into stirabout with a pint of milk, followed by a pound of bread and a pint of new milk for dinner.77 The Famine sparked a sudden rethinking of this arrangement once the Inspec- tors-General of Prisons in Ireland became convinced that paupers were purposefully committing crimes to secure prison food.78 In response, they sanctioned a lower dietary scale in 1849 that reduced the amount of food allocated to male prisoners to 6 oz. of stirabout, 1.5 pints of milk and 14 oz. of bread per day.79 Throughout the following decade, critics in Ireland openly questioned the social value and moral logic of this drastic reduction which, in their view, only returned physically incapacitated prisoners to society. These included barrister Edward Gibson who, in 1863, warned that reducing food provision below the bodily limits of good health was uneconomical as prisoners would only end up hospitalized and, in consequence, further dependent on public expenditure.80 Charles Bernard Gibson, chaplain in the convict system, also vociferously objected to scanty prison feeding arrangements in his Life among Convicts (1863). Gibson’s primary concern rested with the permanent undermining of prisoner constitutions. Like Edward Gibson, he warned that restricted feeding produced only degraded and demoralized individuals destined to continue acting as social burdens needing care in workhouses and hospitals. ‘To make prison dietary penal’, he argued, ‘is a great mistake, and bad economy’.81 In the decades that followed, these underfed prisoners became ever more central to the activities of medical scientists interested in advancing their knowledge of food. Prisoners,

211 I. MILLER after all, offered confined, controlled, almost laboratory-like institutionalized population groups whose dietary intake could be carefully regulated and health subsequently monitored for investigative purposes. For a brief period in the late 1850s and early 1860s, prisoners became remarkably important to British experiments into food, digestion and nutrition. The ongoing question of what to feed prisoners in a way that supported health was now being addressed with reference to the techniques of medical investigation. Whereas the official investigations of 1843 had drawn directly from the practical experiences and accumulated observations of prison medical officers, medico-scientific experts (who were often not directly employed in prisons) now sought to claim authority over the pervasive questions that surrounded prison feeding by asserting the value of empirically calculating the minimum amounts of food that could be provided without compromising prisoner health. In doing so, they not only strove to carve out a new area of social intervention but also to demonstrate the practical value of ever more sophisticated expressions of nutritional and dietetic science. Prominent British physician and medical writer Edward Smith spearheaded this drive and ultimately acquired an impressive reputation for his prison-based research into human nutrition.82 In 1862, Smith reported the results of his investigations made at Coldbath Fields (London) and Wakefield Gaol to the British Association for the Advancement of Science, an organization that had appointed him as the head of a committee to inquire into the effect of prison diet and discipline on the health of prisoners. His key task was ‘the elimination of important physiological facts, for which the discipline enforced in gaols offer good opportunities’.83 His inquiries coincided with a peak in the drive to standardize prison experiences. Smith observed that although the gradations in prison diets made in 1843 had been structured according to length of imprisonment and types of labour undertaken, there had been no ‘attempt to estimate in a scientific manner the amount of increase of nutriment which is proportioned to the increased labour’ and, in relation to measurement of prisoner weight, that ‘in none [prisons] is it effected with such rigorous exactitude as to fit the results for the use of the physiologist’.84 Smith’s rallying call for prison diets to be arranged with scientific precision was made possible in this period as physiologists began to undertake laboratory investigations and find ways to publicly demonstrate the practical value of their experimental work.85 These decisive changes in investigative practice brought with them new ways of understanding food intake, nutrition and digestion in a manner that exalted experimental proof over individual clinical experience.86 Smith’s particular approach was informed by consideration of energy (rather than vitamins which were discovered in the following century) as, following Liebig’s lead, he believed that the energy required for muscular contraction was obtained from the breakdown of protein and that the extent of this breakdown could be measured by the resulting excretion of urea.87 Accordingly, he sought to understand the effect of prison discipline over the bodily functions of prisoners by measuring their weight, excretion of nitrogen and carbon, quantity of air inspired, and pulsation and respiration rates.88 Smith concluded that prisoners on treadmill labour typically lost over seven pounds in the first four weeks. This led him to conclude that extra food needed to be allocated in those instances.89 He also placed different groups of prisoners on diets rich in milk, tea, alcohol, fat or gruel to determine the impact of those substances on prison weight gain and loss.90 Overall, Smith concluded that strict regimes of physical punishment that created high levels of exertion were wasteful, both in terms of their effect on the vital powers of prisoners and the additional expenditure incurred in having to feed prisoners. Conversely, he also viewed the

212 FOOD AND MEDICINE IN THE BRITISH ISLES placing of prisoners on bread and water diets as dangerous as it increased tendencies towards ill health.91 Similar efforts were also made to reorganize Irish prison diets along scientific lines in the 1860s. The issue gained prominence in Ireland because, as detailed above, dietary allowances for prisoners had been considerably cut during the Famine. Despite a relatively rapid uptake of foodstuffs other than the potato throughout Ireland in the immediate pre-Famine years, corresponding adjustments were not made to prison dietary arrangements. This concern captured the attention of English surgeon and naturalist Edwin Lankester who asserted in the British Medical Journal in 1867 that Irish prison dietary tables needed to be rewritten with specific reference to contemporary nutritional science. Citing the nitrogenous contents of vegetables and meats, the digestibility of various substances, the manner by which the stomach disposes of vegetables, the role of heat in the body, the physiological function of salt, and so on, he called for a restructuring of the principles underlying prison feeding; advocating the importance of health above discipline. Dismissing published dietary tables on the basis that descriptions of gruels, Irish stews and stirabouts gave little indication of their actual content, he personally visited gaols in Co. Fermanagh and Co. Cork. In the former, where he discovered that food provisions amounted to two-and-a-half pence per day, Lankester observed a deficiency in flesh-forming constituents including meat, a foodstuff which he thought encouraged appetite and encouraged stomachs to healthily digest. He continued by castigating the Cork County Prison dietary as ‘an eminently starvation dietary’ that rendered prisoners vulnerable to physical and mental illness. Lankester concluded that ‘it is forgotten that an underfed body is often the worst possible machine to operate upon morally and that one of the first conditions of a sound mind is a sound body’.92 Both Lankester and Smith sought to demonstrate that the investigative work being undertaken by physiologists had high social value. For instance, Smith made use of the opportunity afforded by his experiments to urge the Committee to make:

Better use than heretofore of the unparalleled opportunities which prisons afford of working out the most important and difficult questions in nutrition, with a view to supplying information for the more just and economical management of gaols, and for the advance of a science which is so essentially connected with the daily life of the community. Such questions are, the true value of white bread over brown bread in prison and other dietary; the exact influence of various kind of food, and especially of such as tea, coffee, milk and alcohol, which act chieflyby modifying the action of other food; the exact relation of a given quantity of food to a given amount of labour; the cause of the defective power of assimilation of food in prisons, and the relation of the elements of the food taken to those which are fixed in and thrown out of the body.93

This powerful statement reveals much about the aspirations of mid-century nutritional and dietetic scientists and the manner by which some of them – especially Smith – sought to make experimental use of institutionalized populations as control groups not only to address pressing questions about prisoner health but also to formulate knowledge with broader social utility. His key aim was to design a gradated list of the diﬀering dietary needs of prisoners based upon their levels of work and energy exertion. In doing so, he aspired to producing knowledge of food that might eventually be transferred to bolster communal dietetic well-being.

213 I. MILLER

Ultimately, however, both Smith and Lankester failed to convince the Home Office and contemporary prison authorities of the practical value of nutritional theory. This letdown in fact illustrates an important point about nineteenth-century scientific food discourses: the practical usefulness of mid-century food experimentation was in fact highly contested.94 This lack of certainty about empirical understandings of food was particularly evident in the visible tensions then in play between scientific theory and institutional prison practice. In contrast to their colleagues’ experiences in the asylum, physicians and medical scientists seeking to structure the physical experience of prison life around their own ideals found themselves competing against various forces, including an overriding moralism bent on ensuring that dietary arrangements remained punitive and a profound scepticism towards the analytical techniques being employed by individuals including Smith. Revealingly, Irish prison diets were adjusted in 1868 following a series of official investigations. In a set of distributed questionnaires accompanying these, thirty-two out of thirty-nine prison governors, and thirty-seven out of thirty-nine prison surgeons, agreed that food provisions for those serving sentences of hard labour were insufficient and impeded prisoners from regaining employment upon release.95 Thirty-six governors recommended the addition of a supper meal.96 Overall, the report supported the provision of soups containing meat and vegetables, and also tea. Substituting gruel for milk was disallowed and the small portions previously allocated were now replaced with bulkier meals. Importantly, however, the Irish prison authorities who instigated these changes obstinately refused to entertain notions that the results of contemporary scientific investigations, which they dismissed as overly experimental, had in any way guided the changes made to Irish prison dietary arrangements.97 Smith, meanwhile, found an adversary in British physician William Guy who, in the 1860s, served as a semi-official government advisor on prison health and Medical Super- intendent at Millbank Prison. Anne Hardy identifies Guy as a figure with unyielding views on the discipline required to achieve social justice.98 This was particularly visible in his perspectives on prison feeding. Refuting the experimental findings of Smith, Guy insisted that the prison diseases typically attributed to insufficient food – including diarrhoea, dysentery, scurvy, boils and carbuncles – presented relatively rarely.99 He also insisted that the weight loss among prisoners observed by Smith was likely to have been caused by factors including the length of imprisonment, age, occupation, stature and time of year.100 In particular, he lambasted the idea that the diets recommended in 1843 could in fact be adequately tested through analysis of excess quantities of carbon and nitrogen assumed to be necessary to support bodily health. In Guy’s view, practical experience, coupled with observations made after Smith’s experimental diet had been implemented at Millbank between September 1862 and March 1863, had produced evidence on weight loss and weight gain that ran contrary to Smith’s theories. In fact, Guy observed that the health and strength of prisoners placed on Smith’s diet had in fact tended to sharply decline.101 On this, he asserted that ‘the figures, therefore, which have been so confidently assumed as the standards to which all our dietaries ought to conform themselves, will not bear the test of experience’ and that ‘the standard is inapplicable and the whole chain of reasoning irrelevant’.102 Guy maintained that human bodies were too variable in nature, even in similar groupings, for dietary standards to be established.103 Accordingly, he deemed it as inevitable that some prisoners would receive food provisions in excess of their needs while others would receive deficient supplies. Adopting a hard-line stance, he insisted that ‘their [the prisoners’] diet should minister to their correction by being unattractive and monotonous; and

214 FOOD AND MEDICINE IN THE BRITISH ISLES inasmuch as they are maintained at the cost of the community which they have injured and impoverished, it ought to be as economical as possible’.104 In addition, he rallied against suggestions that dietary provisions should increase in accordance with the length of sentence as that arrangement ultimately meant that prisoners received a superior and more nutritious diet than the rest of the community. ‘The able-bodied pauper in the workhouse’, explained Guy, ‘and the honest working man, unless very favourably circumstanced, have less food to eat than the worst criminals’.105 Guy also challenged suggestions that the depressing inﬂuence of prison life meant that higher quantities of food ought to be provided on the basis that ‘no sensible physician would attempt to cure ennui with diet’. He added that:

The prisoner spends more time in bed than the working man does; he is warmly clad, lives and sleeps in a warm atmosphere, and is protected from the weather; he is not worked beyond his strength, he has time for his meals, he has no pressing anxieties, or urgent claims. His wear and tear of body and mind are reduced to the lowest point. These, then, are reasons for a moderate dietary scale.106

Overall, Guy concluded that prison dietaries were ‘framed under a timid feeling, originating in misconceptions as to the true cause of the epidemic at Millbank Prison, and belief that it was due to a reduction in the quantity of food’.107

Conclusion Contrasting the illustrative examples of asylums and prisons reveals the multifaceted ways in which medical imperatives interacted with institutional management in complex ways across the British Isles in a period when empirical knowledge of diet was in a formative state. The institutional care of the insane can be understood as having been ever more dominated by medical considerations across the timeframe under analysis. Groups of individuals who came to be known as the ‘mentally ill’ were subject, once institutionalized, to rigorous programmes of medical and moral treatment. Prisoners, in contrast, increasingly fell under the gaze of medical superintendence as medical men found new arenas in which to exert their expert influence. However, their influence proved less pervasive in the context of the prison as prisoners were simultaneously subjected to overriding factors including, particularly during the early to mid-nineteenth century, punitive forms of moralism. For these reasons, this chapter has argued that scientific conceptions of diet played a formative role in the past experiences of the institutionalized, as well as public discussion of them, while having simultaneously provided a forum in which expert ideas on food could be formulated and tested. From the late 1790s, food and the manner by which it is ingested and digested by the human system became empirically known, as did the nutritional content of an array of foodstuffs. Institutional food provision, at certain historical moments, proved important to the formation of dietetic knowledge while institutional managers increasingly drew from medico-scientific knowledge when seeking to determine the most efficient means of using the institution to tackle insanity and crime. Both sites also transformed into places where knowledge of food was formed. Understandings of the relationship between appetite and mental incapacity were significantly advanced in asylums because of the ability of medical superintendents employed there to meticulously observe

215 I. MILLER patient behaviour. Prisoners, too, were subject to medical experimentation, particularly during the 1850s and 1860s, as they were confined groups whose dietary arrangements and health could be closely regulated, monitored and investigated. The relationships between insufficient food provisions and the onset of specific illnesses also became particularly clear in institutional settings, especially during periods of disease outbreaks. This helped medical investigators to draw links between nutritional deficiency and chronic disease. However, a sharp division between theoretical knowledge and its practical implementation was also evident, as evidenced by William Guy’s practical refutation of Edward Smith’s theoretically-driven investigations. Furthermore, the case for sufficient feeding in both asylums and prisons across Britain and Ireland was restricted by other institutional demands such as the need for financial frugality or for punitive measures to be upheld. Nonetheless, despite the complexity of the issue of institutional feeding, its significance to food history rests in the manner by which the agendas of medical scientists and institutional managers converged during the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries due to a shared interest in negotiating the dietary arrangements of the institutionalized.

Notes 1 See, among others, A. Davin, ‘Imperialism and motherhood’, History Workshop, 1978, vol. 5, 9–65; V. Heggie, ‘Lies, damn lies, and Manchester’s recruiting statistics: degeneration as an “urban legend” in Victorian and Edwardian Britain’, Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences, 2008, vol. 63, 178–216 on pp. 199–207. For Irish potato consumption, see L.A. Clarkson and E.M. Crawford, Feast and Famine: A History of Food in Ireland, 1500–1920, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001, pp. 59–87. 2 J. Coveney, Food, Morals and Meaning: The Pleasures and Anxiety of Eating, 2nd edn, London: Rout- ledge, 2006, pp. 76–91. A considerable amount of literature on twentieth-century dietary guidance is available including, among others, R. Apple, Vitamania: Vitamins in American Culture, New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1996; J. Phillips and D.F. Smith (eds), Food, Science, Policy and Regulation in the Twentieth Century: International and Comparative Perspectives, London and New York: Routledge, 2000. 3 J. Vernon, Hunger: A History, Cambridge, MA and London: Belknap Press, 2007, p. 8. 4 A. Wear, Knowledge and Practice in English Medicine, 1550–1680, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000, pp. 169–84. 5 See, for instance, E. Ackerknecht, Medicine at the Paris Hospital, 1794–1848, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1967; J.H. Warner, Against the Spirit of System: The French Impulse in Nineteenth-Century American Medicine, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998. 6 A particularly noteworthy instructional text, written from the perspective of a stomach, is S. Whiting, Memoirs of A Stomach: Written by Himself that All Who Eat May Read, London: W.E. Painter, 1853. For historical analysis see I. Miller, A Modern History of the Stomach: Gastric Illness, Medicine and British Society, 1800–1950, London: Pickering and Chatto, 2011, pp. 11–38; J.C. Whorton, Inner Hygiene: Constipation and Modern Health Culture, Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2000, pp. 29–54. 7 See W.H. Brock, Justus von Liebig: The Chemical Gatekeeper, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997, pp. 183–214; M.R. Finlay, ‘Early marketing and the theory of nutrition: the science and culture of Liebig’s extract of meat’, in H. Kamminga and A. Cunningham (eds), The Science and Culture of Nutrition, 1840–1940, Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1995, pp. 48–74. 8 For medical reform, see I.A. Burney, ‘Medicine in the age of reform’, in A. Burns and J. Innes (eds), Rethinking the Age of Reform: Britain 1780–1850, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003, pp. 163–81. 9 M. Foucault, Madness and Civilisation: A History of Insanity in the Age of Reason, trans. R. Howard, London: Tavistock, 1971. 10 R. Porter, Madmen: A Social History of Madhouses, Mad-Doctors and Lunatics, Stroud: Tempus, 2004, pp. 18–22.

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11 M. Foucault, The Birth of the Clinic: An Archaeology of Medical Perception, trans. A.M. Sheridan-Smith, London: Tavistock Press, 1973; M. Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, trans. A. M. Sheridan-Smith, London: Allen Lane, 1977. 12 A. Bielenberg, Ireland and the Industrial Revolution: The Impact of the Industrial Revolution on Irish Industry, 1801–1922, London: Routledge, 2009. 13 Clarkson and Crawford, Feast and Famine, pp. 88–111. See also I. Miller, Reforming Food in Post- Famine Ireland, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2014. 14 J. Burnett, Plenty and Want: A Social History of Diet in England from 1815 to the Present, London: Methuen, 1966 [1979], pp. 15–29. 15 Foucault, Madness and Civilisation. 16 G.S. Rousseau, Enlightenment Crossings: Pre- and Post-Modern Discourses, Anthropological, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1991, p. 96. 17 E. Shorter, A History of Psychiatry: From the Era of the Asylum to the Age of Prozac, New York: John Wiley and Sons, 1997, pp. 1–33. 18 See A. Digby, Madness, Morality and Medicine: A Study of the York Retreat, 1796–1914, Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1985. 19 A.P. Williamson, ‘Psychiatry, moral management and the origins of social policy for mentally ill people in Ireland’, Irish Journal of Medical Science, 1992, vol. 161, 556–8. 20 M. Finnane, Insanity and the Insane in Post-Famine Ireland, London: Croom Helm, 1981, pp. 19–52. 21 For an insightful discussion of socio-economic aspects of nineteenth-century Irish asylums, see A. Mauger, ‘“Conﬁnement of the higher orders”: the social role of private lunatic asylums in Ire- land, c.1820–60’, Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences, 2012, vol. 67, 281–317. 22 Andrew T. Scull, Museums of Madness: The Social Organisation of Insanity in Nineteenth-Century England, London: Allen Lane, 1979, pp. 125–63. 23 Miller, A Modern History of the Stomach, p. 13. 24 ‘Meditations on dyspepsia’, Blackwood’s Edinburgh Review, 1861, vol. 90, 302; Miller, Modern History of the Stomach, pp. 29–30. 25 Miller, ‘“A dangerous revolutionary force amongst us”,98–101. 26 Alleged Increasing Prevalence of Insanity in Ireland: Special Report from the Inspectors of Lunatics to the Chief Secretary, Reports of Commissioners, Commons, 1894 [C.7331], vol. xliii.647; I. Miller, Reforming Food in Post-Famine Ireland: Medicine, Science and Improvement, 1845–1922, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2014, chapter two. 27 ‘Lunatic dietaries’, Medical Times and Gazette, 23 April 1864, vol. 1, 452–5 on p. 452. 28 A. Scull, C. MacKenzie and N. Hervey, Masters of Bedlam: The Transformation of the Mad-Doctoring Trade, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996, pp. 48–83. 29 J. Connolly, The Construction and Government of Lunatic Asylums and Hospitals for the Insane, London: John Churchill, 1847, p. 65. 30 Ibid., p. 65 31 Ibid., p. 66. 32 Ibid., p. 69. 33 ‘The Hanwell Lunatic Asylum’, Lancet, 25 January 1840, vol. 33, 649–52 on p. 650. 34 E.M. Courtenay, ‘On Irish asylum dietary’, Journal of Mental Science, 1886, vol. 32, 16–22 on pp. 20–1. 35 C.T. Thackrah, Lectures on Digestion and Diet, London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme and Green, 1824, p. 61. 36 ‘Lunatic dietaries’, 452–5 on p. 454. 37 ‘The beer dietary in asylums’, Journal of Mental Science, 1883, vol. 28, 248–53. 38 ‘Beer-diet for lunatics’, British Medical Journal, 23 April 1861, vol. i:1060, 655. 39 Report of the Commissioners of Inquiry into the state of the Lunatic Asylums and other Institutions for the Custody and Treatment of the Insane in Ireland Part One, Command Papers, Reports of Commissioners, 1857–8 [159], xxvii.1, p. 284. 40 Ibid., p. 308. 41 Ibid., p. 304. 42 Report on the District, Local and Private Lunatic Asylums in Ireland, Command Papers, Reports of Commissioners, 1846 [736], xxii.409, 736, p. 47. 43 Report of the Commissioners of Inquiry into the State of the Lunatic Asylums, p. 14.

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44 Report from Select Committee on Pauper Lunatics in the County of Middlesex, and on Lunatic Asylums, Com- mons, Reports of Committees [557], vi.75, p. 58. 45 J.A. Campbell, ‘On the appetite in insanity’, Journal of Mental Science, 1886, vol. 32, 193–200 on pp. 197–200. 46 M. Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, trans. A. Sheridan, New York: Pantheon Books, 1977. 47 M. Ignatieff, A Just Measure of Pain: The Penitentiary in the Industrial Revolution, 1750–1850, London: Macmillan Press, 1978. 48 M.J. Weiner, Reconstructing the Criminal: Culture, Law and Policy in England, 1834–1914, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990, pp. 46–91. 49 Ibid., pp. 92–158. 50 For class and asylums in Britain, see C. MacKenzie, Psychiatry for the Rich: A History of Tichehurst Private Asylum, 1792–1917, London: Routledge, 1992. For Ireland, see Mauger, ‘Confinement of the higher orders’. 51 For more on mid-nineteenth-century conceptions of crime, nutrition and psychological well- being, see I. Miller, ‘Constructing moral hospitals: childhood health in Irish reformatories and industrial schools, c.1851–1890’, in A. MacLellan and A. Mauger (eds), Growing Pains: Childhood Illness in Ireland, 1750–1950, Dublin: Irish Academic Press, 2013, pp. 105–22. 52 See, for instance, A. Hardy, ‘Development of the prison medical service, 1774–1895’,in R. Creese, W.F. Bynum and J. Bearn (eds), The Health of Prisoners: Historical Essays, Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1995, pp. 59–82. 53 Hardy, ‘Development of the prison medical service’, pp. 65–8. 54 J.G. Malcolmson, ‘On the effects of solitary confinement upon health’, Lancet London, 1837, vol. ii, 163–5 on p. 163. 55 See, for instance, Ignatieff, A Just Measure of Pain, pp. 175–8. 56 George Holford, ‘Thoughts on the criminal prisons of this country’, Edinburgh Review 25, 1821, 286–302 on p. 286. 57 Ibid., pp. 289–90. 58 Ibid., p. 291. 59 Fifth Report of the Committee of the Society for the Improvement of Prison Discipline, London: J. and A. Arch, 1823, pp. 63–5. 60 Ibid., pp. 65–6. 61 P. Mere Latham, An Account of the Diseases lately Prevalent at the General Penitentiary, London: Thomas and George Underwood, 1825, pp. 14–15. 62 Ibid., p. 72. 63 W. Beaumont, Experiments and Observations on the Gastric Juice and the Physiology of Digestion, Plattsburgh: F.P. Allen, 1833. 64 Miller, Modern History of the Stomach, pp. 40–9. 65 J. Von Liebig, Animal Chemistry or Organic Chemistry in its Application to Physiology and Pathology, ed. W. Gregory, London: Taylor and Walton, 1842. 66 K.J. Carpenter, ‘Nutritional studies in Victorian prisons’, Journal of Nutrition 136, 2006, 1–8onp.1. 67 Sydney Smith, The Works of the Rev. Sydney Smith, Volume One, London: Longman, Orme, Brown, Green and Longmans, 1840, p. 450. 68 Review of ‘A plea for the imprisoned’, Law Magazine or Quarterly Review of Jurisprudence, 1841, vol. 26, 35–67 on p. 43. 69 Carpenter, ‘Nutritional studies in Victorian prisons’,p.1. 70 Inspectors of Prisons, Report relative to the System of Prison Discipline &c., Commons, Reports of Commissioners [457], vol. xxv and xxvi.1, p. 3. 71 Ibid., p. 3. 72 Ibid., pp. 4–5. 73 Weiner, Reconstructing the Criminal, p. 105. 74 Inspectors of Prisons, Report relative to the System of Prison Discipline &c., Commons, Reports of Commissioners [457], vol. xxv and xxvi.1, p. 11. 75 R. Christison, ‘On scurvy part one: account of an epidemic of scurvy which prevailed in the general prison at Perth in 1846’, Monthly Journal of Medical Science, 1847, vol. 7, 873–91 on pp. 885–6.

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76 W.H. Dixon, The London Prisons, London: Jackson and Walford, 1850, p. 14. 77 Twenty-Eighth Report of the Inspectors-General on the General State of Prisons in Ireland, Reports of Commissioners, Commons, 1850 [1229], vol. xxix, p. 22. 78 Ibid., p. viii. 79 Ibid., p. ix. 80 E. Gibson, ‘Penal servitude and tickets of leave’, Journal of the Statistical and Social Inquiry Society of Ireland, 1863, vol. 3, 332–43 on p. 335. 81 C.B. Gibson, Life Among Convicts, London: Hurst and Blackett, 1863, p. 55. 82 For more on Smith’s dietary surveys, see T.C. Barker, D.J. Oddy and J. Yudkin, The Dietary Surveys of Dr Edward Smith 1862–3, London, 1970. For Smith’s interventions in workhouse dietary arrangements, see J.L. Huff, ‘Corporeal economics: work and waste in nineteenth-century constructions of alimentation’, in C.E. Forth and A. Carden-Coyne (eds), Cultures of the Abdomen: Diet, Digestion and Fat in the Modern World, London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005, pp. 31–51. 83 E. Smith, ‘Report on the action of prison diet and discipline on the bodily functions of prisoners’, Report of the Thirty-First Meeting of the British Association for the Advancement of Science, London: John Murray, 1862, pp. 44–67 on p. 44. 84 Ibid., p. 45. 85 See, among others, C. Lawrence, ‘Incommunicable knowledge: science, technology and the clinical art in Britain, 1850–1914’, Journal of Contemporary History, 1985, vol. 20, 502–20. 86 For laboratory investigations into the stomach and digestion, see Miller, Modern History of the Stomach, pp. 59–62. 87 Carpenter, ‘Nutritional studies in Victorian prisons’,p.4. 88 Ibid., p. 48. 89 Smith, ‘Report on the action of prison diet’, p. 50. 90 Ibid., p. 61. 91 Ibid., p. 65. 92 E. Lankester, ‘On prison and workhouse dietaries’, British Medical Journal, 2 November 1867, vol. ii:357, 380–2. 93 Smith, ‘Report on the action of prison diet’, p. 65. 94 See, for instance, the debates on the validity of nutritional science that took place during the Famine as discussed in I. Miller, ‘The chemistry of famine: nutritional controversies and the Irish Famine, c.1845–7’, Medical History, 2012, vol. 56, 444–62. 95 Report of the Committee Appointed by His Excellency the Lord Lieutenant to Inquire into the Dietaries of County and Borough Gaols in Ireland (1867–8), Reports of Commissioners, Commons, 1868 [3981], vol. xxxv.665, p. 15. 96 Ibid., p. 17. 97 Prison Dietaries (Ireland). Accounts and Papers, Commons, 1867–8, 131, vol. lvii.533. 98 Hardy, ‘Development of the prison medical service’, p. 63. 99 Prison Discipline, &c. Copies of correspondence between the Secretary of State for the Home Department and the Inspectors of Prisons, relating to the Report of a Select Committee of the House of Lords on Prison Discipline; and, of the Report of a Committee Appointed by the Secretary of State to Inquire into the Dietaries of County and Borough Prisons, Commons, Accounts and Papers [313], vol. xlix.543, p. 50. 100 Ibid., p. 54. 101 Ibid., p. 64. 102 Ibid., p. 62. 103 W. Guy, ‘On sufficient and insufficient dietaries, with especial reference to the dietaries of prisoners’, Journal of the Statistical Society of London, 1863, vol. 26, 239–80 on p. 239. 104 Ibid., p. 240. 105 Ibid., p. 241. 106 Ibid., pp. 278–9. 107 Ibid., p. 280.

219 12 INDUSTRIALIZING DIET, INDUSTRIALIZING OURSELVES Technology, food, and the body, since 1750

Chris Otter

Previously food and factories had nothing to do with each other, but now many artiﬁcial processes have been interposed between man and the plants and animals from which his food is derived … We do not know what has been added to or taken away from our food. Mummiﬁed preparations are vividly dyed to simulate the green freshness of plants, the red or yellow of fruit juices, the golden colour of butter and eggs. R.H.A. Plimmer and Violet G. Plimmer, Food and Health, 1925

During the twentieth century, anxieties about the “industrialization” of food have been expressed in various ways. The mysterious processes interposing between producer and consumer have been regarded with suspicion. Nothing, perhaps, embodies humanity’s increasing detachment from “nature” more than the increasingly synthetic, artiﬁcial nature of food. Foodstuﬀs, the Plimmers suggested, bear little resemblance to the plants and animals from which they are derived. Food systems themselves disturb ecologies and devour energy. This chapter provides a schematic overview of the history of food industrialization and of the unease that it generated. The Industrial Revolution was a globally transformative process. It was also a vital phase in world food history. The transition from an “organic” economy, powered by renewable but unreliable energy sources, to a “mineral” economydrivenbynon- renewable but energy-dense fossil-fuels, enabled food systems to expand in scale.1 Steam and internal combustion engines liberated food distribution from the constraints of wind, water and animal power. This allowed industrializing nations to outsource food production and concentrate on manufacturing, something particularly true in Britain:

The British Isles are but the center of a vast industrial system which ramiﬁes to the corner of the earth … England produces only a very small part of its food supply. Owing no doubt to its gradual development of the machine-technique, the surplus which the machine made possible had gone in large part to maintain higher competitive standards of living … In short the national food supply rests upon the double contingency of production in foreign countries and the shipping available for bringing the food to British ports.2

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Supply chains were extended and increasingly reliant upon mineral energy. Food became more processed than at any previous point in human history, with manufacturers creating food products.3 Expanded food systems funnelled primary products to processing centers – factories, mills, dairies – where raw materials (sugars, oils) were refined and often sold to food manufacturers who combined the processed materials in order to create a finished product. Food production became mechanized and its organization was a crucial part of the story of the rise of managerial capitalism.4 The ensuing foodstuffs – bottled sauces, wrapped bread, chicken nuggets, candy bars, fish sticks, TV dinners – have certain defining characteristics. They tend to be highly durable, particularly when combined with refrigeration systems. They are energy-dense, providing intense bursts of calories. They often contain significant levels of fat and low levels of fibre. They are the archetypal foodstuffs of the nutrition transition: a shift towards a high-calorie diet rich in animal proteins, refined carbohydrates and fats which began in the west in the eighteenth century and which has since globalized.5 Since the nutrition transition is linked in complicated ways with the epidemiologic transition and the rise of “lifestyle” or “mismatch” diseases (diabetes, heart disease and so forth), the industrialization of diet is inseparable from the industrialization of the human body.6 Some of the effects of this industrialization are positive (increased disease resistance, longer life expectancy) and some are negative (obesity). The effect on other living bodies has been even more profound. Wheat, corn, cattle and chickens have become significantly different as a consequence of selection, feeding and hybridization, making the industrialization of food a major event in “evolutionary history.”7 Before beginning, a brief caveat is in order. It would be highly misleading to regard the industrialization of food as a purely “modern” phenomenon. Industrialization is not wholly synonymous with fossil fuels. Long-distance trade in foodstuffs has existed for millennia (witness spices moving from Han China to Rome, for example). Food processing is hardly modern: milling and food preservation (drying, salting, smoking), for example, have long histories.

Agriculture and industrialization In The Agrarian Question (1899), Karl Kautsky declared that “the revolutionising of agriculture is setting in train a remorseless chase.”8 Kautsky wrote during a period of great transformation in agricultural technology. The invention of the mechanical (but still horse- powered) reaper by Obed Hussey (1833) and Cyrus McCormick (1834) transformed American agriculture: by 1864, almost 100,000 harvesters were being manufactured annually.9 Agricultural machinery was thus “at the centre of the US industrial revolution” (see Figure 12.1).10 By 1865, 80 percent of American wheat was harvested by machine: these technologies slowly permeated European agriculture thereafter.11 The industrialization of agriculture fundamentally altered the energy basis of world food production. When Kautsky wrote, fossil fuels had yet to truly pervade agriculture, but this began to change with the invention of steam- and oil-powered tractors and combine harvesters.12 Gasoline-driven tractors were developed in the United States in 1889, and the appearance of functional power-take-off shafts amplified their appeal in the twentieth century.13 Tractorization took offfirst in the United States and has spread globally since 1945. It was essential to what Cochrane and Ryan described as “a massive transference of cheap fossil fuels into agriculture” between World War II and 1973.14

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Figure 12.1 Steam thresher. From J. Russell Smith, The World’s Food Resources (New York: Henry Holt, 1919)

The transition to a mineral economy, then, was as much an agricultural as a manufacturing phenomenon. Farming began drawing on the “accumulated wealth” of the earth’s “subterranean forest” of coal and oil.15 Land could now be used largely for food production, and the intimate spatial connection between urban areas and their agrarian hinterlands was shattered. The labor requirements of agriculture were correspondingly reduced. A mineralized agrarian economy could allow one-fiftieth of the labor force to produce food, while in organic economies, this figure could be as high as four-fifths.16 Fossil fuels drove pumps which drained land, powered factories making farm tools, and provided raw materials for the manufacture of pesticides. As Howard Odum famously said, “industrial man no longer eats potatoes made from solar energy, now he eats potatoes partly made of oil.”17 Perhaps the most significant fossil fuel input came with the invention of synthetic nitrate fertilizer by Fritz Haber in 1909. The ensuing Haber–Bosch process broke the limits of an organic fertilizer system built around manure and legumes, by relying upon mineral energy. Since 1945, natural gas has been used to manufacture nitrates in much of the world, while coal predominates in China.18 The global use of synthetic fertilizers rose by nearly 250 percent between 1966 and 1986.19 Vaclav Smil regards this technological achievement as the greatest of the twentieth century: “the single most important change affecting the world’s population – its expansion from 1.6 billion people in 1900 to today’s6 billion – would not have been possible without the synthesis of ammonia.”20 Hybridization and selection of crops has also contributed to this process. The first International Conference on Hybridization and Cross-Breeding was held in London in 1899.21 The amount of hybrid corn grown on American farms rose dramatically in the

222 INDUSTRIALIZING DIET, INDUSTRIALIZING OURSELVES mid-twentieth century.22 New wheat varieties like Red Fife and Marquis came to dominate American and Canadian wheat farming (see Figure 12.2). Taken cumulatively, this amounted to a “biological revolution” in American agriculture.23 Such crops were designed with various attributes in mind: yield, disease resistance, capacity to resist drought, and photo- periodicity. Global agricultural statistics can be unreliable, but it has been estimated that world food production has risen eighteen-fold between 1750 and 2000.24

Chicken In 1901, J.A. Hobson observed that “weaving, baking, brewing, and a great number of home industries of last century have now become deﬁnite branches of industry.”25 The emergence of large-scale processing has been one of the most signiﬁcant dimensions of food industrialization. The basic characteristics of food processing involve the transformation of raw materials into a more technologically-mediated product, often involving the

Figure 12.2 Crossbred wheat. From J. Russell Smith, Industrial and Commercial Geography (New York: Henry Holt, 1926)

223 C. OTTER accentuation of palatability and storability.26 The twentieth-century tendency has been towards large-scale, heavily-capitalized operations, which has driven industry concentration: in 1947, there were around 42,000 food manufacturing companies in the United States, a number reduced by over one-half by 1977.27 Meat production, for example, has gone from being a generally small-scale, local operation to something much greater in size, scope and complexity. In Cincinnati, or “Porkopolis,” dead pigs were hung from a rotating wheel upon which they were cleaned and gutted: thus was born the “disassembly line.”28 The meat industry was an early example of large-scale, industrialized food production.29 The division of labor has become almost exquisitely specialized, as Timothy Pachirat has memorably described.30 Slaugh- tering times have accelerated: in the early 1970s, the fastest slaughtering lines killed 179 cattle per hour; today, the figure is around 400.31 Such speed demands the geographical concentration or “urbanization” of livestock through the formations of industrial feedlots with most inputs ultimately reliant upon oil.32 Chicken provides a particularly cogent example of this process: “chicken, an afterthought on American farms before World War II, has been transformed into the most studied and industrialized animal in the world.”33 Before 1930s, American chicken production was a largely incidental product of egg production, taking place on small farms scattered across the country.34 In 1925, the average American consumed around half a pound of chicken annually; by 1995, this figure was 70 pounds.35 Certain aspects of chicken industrialization were evident in the early twentieth century. In Britain, birds were fattened in coops (seven feet long by eighteen inches wide).36 Fattening began after around four months, with funnel crammers being used. In their authoritative guide to the British meat industry, Leighton and Douglas observed that “funnel cramming is done by inserting the nozzle of a specially made funnel into the gullet of the bird and then pouring in the food, which is made of the consistency of cream. This method is quicker than hand cramming, but great care must be taken not to choke the bird.”37 They concluded rather unconvincingly that “after the first few feeds the birds seem to welcome the appearance of the crammer at feeding time.”38 Some tubes ran straight into the chicken’ssto- mach.39 The use of incubators to regulate the temperature for hatching chicks became normal; the chicken’s environment was becoming enclosed and regulated. Geneticists analyzed the characteristics of this particularly plastic animal. William Bate- son published the first scientific paper on chicken inheritance in 1902.40 The map of the chicken genome has been relentlessly charted ever since.41 Sewall Wright’s development of mating systems analysis in the 1930s and 1940s enabled poultry breeders to better predict improvements, and by the 1940s, quantitative genetics was being utilized.42 “Chicken of Tomorrow” contests, held in postwar America, were also genetically significant. By the early 1950s, most commercial American broiler chickens were descended from “Chicken of Tomorrow” prize winners.43 The industry was soon organized around such hybrids: chicken engineering was underway.44 These chickens were exceptionally efficient meat producers. In 1940, chickens required over four pounds of feed for every pound of weight gained; by the late 1980s, this amount had practically halved.45 Antibiotics were added to feed as growth-promoters from the 1950s. Today’s Cornish Cross chickens are specifically bred for their capacity for rapid growth: they represent the “pinnacle of industrial chicken breeding.”46 Today’s broiler chickens reach market weight at forty-two days. These animals are enfolded in an integrated, artificial, bounded landscape, in which light and heat are judiciously regulated. The American broiler industry became

224 INDUSTRIALIZING DIET, INDUSTRIALIZING OURSELVES concentrated in western Arkansas, northern Alabama and northern Georgia.47 These complexes became increasingly vertically integrated, with everything from hatching to processing undertaken within the same facility, with every part of the chicken utilized, including slaughterhouse waste being recycled as animal feed. Tyson, the world’smost successful chicken company, was largely responsible for creating vertical integration, bringing previously dissociated elements of the industry together into one smoothly interconnected system.48 This allowed chicken to be branded far more successfully than other forms of meat.49 Such branding was facilitated by the invention of heavily processed types of chicken which bear little relation to the form of the original animal (nuggets, strips, patties), the sale of which has dramatically increased in the past three decades.50 Such intense industrialization is, perhaps, reaching its biological limits. The use of antibiotics is generating resistant strains of pathogen, and foodborne microbes like salmonella easily spread within poultry production ecologies.51 Attempts to engineer perfect broiler chickens with high breast meat yields have produced several unintended biological consequences, from musculoskeletal problems to immunodeﬁciency. The metabolic stress placed on these animals has generated rising mortality rates.52 Like cattle feedlots, intense systems of poultry production produce large volumes of fecal material, which can create ecological problems. In America’s Delmarva Peninusula, 1.5 billion pounds of manure are produced annually, which is more than the waste from a city of four million people.53 Excessive nitrogen and phosphorus are causing eutrophication in local water systems.54

White bread The white sliced bread loaf has been one of the most vilified twentieth-century foodstuffs. “There is no crime that I know of that in my judgment equals the crime of the white-flour man,” intoned one early twentieth-century crusader, “unless it is that of the man who bricks up his chimneys and compels his family to breathe over and over again the air that has been devitalised, out of which the oxygen has been burned by the stove.”55 White wheat bread has long been a status food, but only since the nineteenth century has it been democratized, and this democratization has catalyzed eulogy and discontent in equal measure. Traditional milling used numerous techniques (stones, pestles, querns, handmills) to crush the whole grain. Bran was either left in the flour or sieved out. These industries were, to adopt Lewis Mumford’s parlance, “eotechnic”: they relied on human, animal, wind or water power.56 In the nineteenth century, roller milling transformed the flour- making process. The first successful mill using rollers rather than stones was built by Sulz- berger (a Zurich engineer) in 1834 and, although stone mills remained initially predominant, roller milling reached the United States and Central Europe after 1860, with Minneapolis and Budapest becoming centers of the global milling industry.57 Roller milling proceeded in several stages. First, various machines – sieves, magnets, aspirators, cylinders, washers – were used to clean the grain, and to remove stones and other impurities. Then, rather than being ground in one single operation, wheat was first broken and then reduced. Breaking wheat necessitated the use of spiral grooved rollers which crushed rather than fully ground the wheat.58 The aim here was not to produce flour, but to remove as much bran as possible from the grain, which was then sifted and either re-broken or sent to another machine, the purifier. Purifiers removed bran flakes from middlings (as these intermediate products were often known), and hence made “a higher grade of flour than was ever known before.”59 The middlings were then reduced to flour by smooth rollers.60

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Such a short summary of the complex milling process cannot do it justice. Indeed, as one commentator noted, a diagram was perhaps far superior “in conveying to the practical mind a deal of information which but for the ﬂow sheet would necessitate the adoption of the exhausting and cumbrous plan of verbal or more probably detailed written information” (see Figure 12.3).61 Flour emerged from roller mills in many clearly diﬀerentiated

Figure 12.3 German abridged high milling. From Peter Kozmin, Flour Milling: A Theoretical and Practical Handbook of Flour Manufacture for Millers, Millwrights, Flour-Milling Engineers, and Others Engaged in the Flour-Milling Industry, trans. by M. Falker and Theodor Fjelstrup (London: G. Routledge & Sons, 1917)

226 INDUSTRIALIZING DIET, INDUSTRIALIZING OURSELVES and perfectly calibrated streams. It could then be blended into mixtures for particular purposes, and it was regularly bleached to accelerate the process of whitening, using che- micals like chlorine and nitrogen peroxide.62 In 1914, the American Supreme Court ruled that bleaching was legitimate, and the practice has remained legal ever since.63 Mechanization appeared to be taking command: “milling, which was in ancient times a very simple process but a very laborious one, has now become a very complex process but one accomplished with comparatively little labour.”64 Mills themselves were large, multi- storied buildings.65 Fires were something of a hazard in early roller mills. One milling textbook documented 363 fires in twenty-two years, caused by sparks, fans, lights and inattentive workmen.66 Engine rooms could be isolated from the rest of the mill, while automatic sprinklers were being installed in mills by the later nineteenth century.67 According to William Voller, manager of the Albert Flour Mills in Gloucester, “the automatic sprinkler now dominates the entire field of flour mill insurance.”68 Roller milling also engendered an energy transition in flour production. Early steam- driven flour mills used traditional millstones. The Albion Flour Mill, on the south bank of the Thames, was equipped with a steam engine in 1786 by Boulton and Watt. The mill burned down in 1791 and a rejoicing crowd watched the flames.69 The progress of steam milling was rather slow in the following decades: some early German mills (for example at Stettin, Munich and Leipzig) deployed steam power.70 Kanefsky estimated that in 1870, two-thirds of all horsepower available for British grain milling was produced by watermills, but he noted the decline in their numbers thereafter.71 In 1865, William Stanley Jevons observed that “wind-cornmills still go on working until they are burnt down, or out of repair; they are then never rebuilt, but their work is transferred to steam-mills.”72 In 1933, windmills had largely fallen into disuse in Britain.73 Milling was gravitating to large ports, where large milling companies controlled much of the trade. A similar story is evident for baking. “The advent of machinery in the bakery has caused a revolution in bread baking,” declared Harry Snyder, professor of Agricultural Chemistry at the University of Minnesota in 1930.74 This revolution was quite dramatic, given the condition of baking in the mid-nineteenth century. In Capital, Marx described the English baking industry as “archaic” and “pre-Christian.”75 Despite the advent of biscuit-making technologies for navies, bakeries generally remained small-scale and frequently rather squalid institutions in Britain and the United States. As late as 1890, 90 percent of Amer- ican bread was baked at home.76 The technological reform of the bakery was, however, underway by this date. By 1900, most British bakehouses had dough-kneaders and other forms of machinery were gradually being adopted.77 Practical dough dividers, which split dough into precise sizes, entered the marketplace in 1896.78 Oven designs proliferated, with the steam-pipe oven viewed by William Jago and his son, William C. Jago, overlords of British scientific baking, as particularly significant.79 Sanitary concerns led to the development of wrapping. Wrapped bread first appeared in 1895, and the first reliable wrapping machine was built in 1913. By the 1920s, commercial bread was almost universally wrapped.80 The first factory-produced sliced bread emerged in 1928 from the Chillicothe Baking Company in Missouri.81 The mass-produced, sliced, wrapped white bread loaf had arrived, and it sold spectacularly well: it was a pure, streamlined loaf for an industrial age.82 This mass-produced industrial bread loaf required accelerated fermentation. Traditional techniques for breadmaking were laborious and time-consuming, but the development of the “straight” method, in which flour, salt, yeast and water were mixed simultaneously,

227 C. OTTER reduced dough-making times to a few hours. The process could be shortened through the addition of more yeast and malt extract: such short processes became more popular in England, “and are almost universally used in machine or automatic bakeries.”83 Such technologies relied upon standardized, compressed yeast.84 Baking was further accelerated by the development of the Do-Maker process in 1953, which allowed dough to be made in a few minutes by injecting a liquid ferment directly into the flour.85 This system utilized a central control panel, allowing feed rates and desired dough viscosity to be pre-set, with meters showing the amount of ingredients entering the mixer, enabling rapid adjustments to be made.86 By the early 1960s, “almost all bakery engineers are now attempting to do something on these lines.”87 The Do-Maker process has since all but disappeared, but it stimulated more successful technological developments like the Chorleywood Baking Pro- cess, or CBP (developed in England in 1961), which also combined mixing and dough development in a single integrated procedure.88 The CBP was extremely fast and allowed the use of low-quality wheat to produce very cheap white bread: it has been adopted in Australasia and South Africa.89 Breadmaking was becoming almost a subdivision of engineering (the term “bakery engineer” was emerging into industry parlance).90 The direct interaction with dough through touch and smell retreated, to be replaced by numerous gauges and instruments, from thermometers and clocks to farinographs and extensometers. There were profound transformations in plant personnel, with the production manager becoming responsible for a large bakery’s production.91 A complex division of labor typified bakery organization: workers were employed as dough-makers, dividers, or oven clearers, for example.92 Cereal chemists oversaw the addition of various additives, such as milk, sugar and malt. Emulsifiers like soy flour and lecithin were increasingly used to soften bread and retard staleness by the 1960s.93

Mobility and durability Archetypal industrial foods, like the chicken nugget and white sliced bread, were designed to be mobile and durable. They were easily packed and stacked. Chicken nuggets were engineered to move from freezer to plate in as little time as possible, while white bread was engineered to remain soft for far longer than traditional bread. Mobility and durability were not simply engineered into foods themselves: they were also properties of food infrastructures which had been liberated from the limits of organic power systems. Further- more, the development of mechanical refrigeration, canning and chemical preservatives decreased the perishability of raw and processed foodstuffs. As a result, networks of food provision became longer and consumers in affluent parts of the world could consume many foods year-round, increasingly in a “fresh” condition.94 Food was hardly immobile before the development of a fossil fuel economy. Cattle were driven over significant distances: from Hungary to Italy, for example, or from Scotland to London.95 The emergence of the railroad and steamship, however, substantially increased the ambit of regular trade in foodstuffs. They enabled the opening up of New World and European colonial territories. Railroads were integral to the development of Canadian wheat, for example: they funneled wheat from prairie elevators to major inspection points, whereupon the grain was exported. The protectionist National Policy encouraged railway construction in the later nineteenth century.96 The result was the Canadian Pacific Rail- road, “the spine of Canada.”97 In truth, it was more like a conveyor belt. South Asian wheat was also channeled into the world market by a huge rail network. Telegraphy

228 INDUSTRIALIZING DIET, INDUSTRIALIZING OURSELVES combined with railroads to distribute information about prices and goods. American meat packing companies, for example, depended on railways and telegraphs. Distribution houses wired orders to central offices in Chicago, which monitored and controlled flows of orders to packing plants, and the meat which came from them.98 In the later nineteenth century, steamships carried live animals from North and South America to European markets, an arrangement which tended towards cruelty and which also enabled the intercontinental transfer of epizootics like foot and mouth disease. The development of mechanical refrigeration ultimately solved this problem. In the United States, experiments with refrigerator cars began in 1857.99 These early systems relied on natural ice, and icing stations became a recognizable part of American railroad infrastructure (see Figure 12.4). Numerous patents were awarded after 1867 for refrigerated meat trucks.100 The modernized refrigerator car, complete with refillable ice bunkers, appeared in 1881, designed by Andrew Chase for Gustavius Swift.101 Contemporaneous experiments produced functional systems of mechanical refrigeration, using various principles. Ultimately, the vapor compression machine triumphed. In the mid-1850s, Alexander Twining in Cleveland, Ohio, and James Harrison, in Australia, received patents for, and constructed, small ether machines which marked the beginning of

Figure 12.4 Loading ice into refrigerated trucks. The Post-Intelligencer Collection, Museum of History & Industry

229 C. OTTER the commercial application of compression refrigeration. The vapor compression machine was greatly refined by the German engineer Carl von Linde, who conceptualized it as a steam engine in reverse, using thermodynamic theory to calculate its efficiency.102 His machines, introduced into German breweries from 1874, became globally popular, and made ammonia the most popular refrigerant.103 In the brewing industry, the rise of refrigeration aided the formation of large-scale capitalist enterprises.104 Refrigeration also allowed the shipment of dead meat rather than live animals. In October 1875, Timothy Eastman sent frozen meat from New York to London. The car- cases were simply suspended from hooks in the hold, and the circumambient temperature around them maintained at freezing by a combination of ice and fans.105 A more sophisticated success came in 1877, when the S.S. Paraguay sailed from Buenos Aires to Le Havre, using an ammonia compression refrigeration machine. The frozen meat reportedly arrived in excellent condition.106 The adoption of technologies which kept meat in a chilled rather than frozen condition greatly assisted the rise of the Argentinean meat industry, and Britain became the center of the world’s frozen and refrigerated meat trade (see Figure 12.5). Commentators reflected on the overcoming of problems of distance: “refrigeration … made possible the concentration of killing and dressing, distance now being no object, as districts hundreds of miles from the packing house could be served with meat as easily as the district in the immediate vicinity of the plant.”107 Fishing underwent industrialization in the nineteenth century with the development of the steam trawler. In 1883, there were 181 steam trawlers operating from British ports: in 1901, there were 1,573.108 Early efforts to equip these ships with mechanical refrigeration equipment met with mixed success. It was not until the 1920s that refrigerating machines were installed on American vessels to help chill fish.109 The first fully-equipped freezer ship was the Karmoy (1915), but this appears to have been rather unsuccessful.110 Clarence Birdseye drew on such techniques when he introduced industrial flash freezing in 1924, and frozen fish became hugely popular thereafter. The process allowed fish to be frozen without causing any cellular damage, banishing some of the suspicions surrounding marketing of the commodity.111 This very perishable product could now be transported over significant distances: “the low temperature to which the product is cooled allows it to be shipped in corrugated cardboard cartons protected by more of the cardboard, for considerable distances without refrigeration.”112 Since 1945, there has been a great expansion in production of frozen fish, particularly through integrating freezing technologies into the trawlers themselves: in the 1960s, giant factory trawlers were built in Japan and the USSR.113 Marketing frozen fish presented certain problems: early efforts to sell “fishbricks” which could be cut into any desirable shape were unsuccessful, not least because grocery stores lacked requisite display cases.114 The fish stick, launched by Birds Eye in 1953 following three years of research, was the solution.115 It required almost no effort to cook, and replicated the taste of fresh fish more successfully than the canned product. Fish sticks have since become a globally successful industrial food. In the 1960s, for example, they were introduced into West Germany, and became immediately popular.116 Like the chicken nugget, the fish stick is a processed, industrialized food, designed for mobility and durability: the product’s animal origin is dissembled, making it particularly popular with children. Temperature control has pervaded most branches of food production. After 1945, freeze-drying was used for the production of instant coffee and dried soups.117 The first frozen French fries date from 1946, but the real pioneer of this industry was J.R. Simplot,

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Figure 12.5 Beef refrigeration equipment. From Joseph Raymond, “Transport of Refrigerated Meat by Sea,” in The Frozen and Chilled Meat Trade, vol. II (London: Gresham, 1929) who began supplying McDonald’s in 1966. As Eric Schlosser notes, French fries “have become the most widely sold foodservice item in the United States.”118 The 1948 invention of frozen concentrated orange juice transformed the Florida orange industry: in 1943–4, Florida produced 46.2 million boxes of oranges, a ﬁgure doubling to ninety- three million by 1956–7.119 These developments have been assisted by the rise of refrigerated road transport (see Figure 12.6) and, on a more global scale, containerization, which has been vital to the transferrable transportation system.120 The ﬁrst carriage of containers by sea came in 1956 (from New York to Houston) and containers were soon sent internationally.121 Containers with their own internal refrigeration systems made the system increasingly integrated.122

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Figure 12.6 Insulated motor van. From J.T. Critchell and J. Raymond, History of the Frozen Meat Trade (London: Constable and Company, 1912)

The cold chain was completed with the development of the cold store. Such buildings, mainly used for fruit, were spreading in the United States from 1870.123 By 1904, the United States boasted 620 public cold-storage warehouses, with a combined capacity of 102,500,000 cubic feet.124 During the twentieth century, the cold chain has been greatly refined, not least through scientific comprehension of the effect of temperature, humidity and atmospheric chemistry on various foodstuffs, or controlled atmospheric storage. There were many experiments on the impact of refrigeration and novel gaseous environments for fruit: controlled atmospheric storage thrived after 1945 (see Figure 12.7).125 Cold chains now regulate the entire aeriform milieu of food, not merely its temperature. Within cold chains, average temperatures plummeted. In the interwar period, American cold stores were usually around minus 20 degrees Celsius, but by the 1970s, they were frequently minus 30, with some Japanese stores as low as minus 55 degrees Celsius. This trend abated in the 1970s, perhaps due to rising energy prices, although some containers can maintain temperatures of minus 60 degrees Celsius, for tuna, sea urchins and swordfish for Japan’s sushi market.126 Industrialized food systems, then, are characterized by distended transportation networks which move raw materials (including animal feedstuffs) to processing hubs – roller mills, concentrated feeding systems – often located in periurban zones or ports. These hubs are characterized by a high degree of mechanization, a highly sophisticated division of labor, and significant fossil-fuel inputs. Throughout these food systems, temperature control has promised a reduction of waste and a balancing of gluts and dearths through the equalization of supply. Such technological developments have not just affected food distribution: they have had very real impacts on the history of finance. Storage (temperature- controlled or otherwise), unified world markets, and real time price signals (whether coming through telegraphic or fibreoptic cables) have combined to encourage speculation in the form of futures or hedging.

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Figure 12.7 Boxed apples. From W.P. Hedden, How Great Cities are Fed (New York: D.C. Heath, 1929)

Canning, memorably described as “anxiety in its absolute state” by the sociologist Gir- almo Sineri, was another vital technology of mobility and durability.127 In 1919, the economic geographer J. Russell Smith argued that “canning, more than any other invention since the introduction of steam, has made possible the building up of towns and communities beyond the all too narrow bounds of varied production.”128 Canning originated with the metal cannisters used by the eighteenth-century Dutch navy and the early nineteenth- century bottling techniques of a French confectioner, Nicolas Appert.129 Metal cans were soon adopted, and the first food-canning works was developed at Bermondsey in London in 1812. The metal’s cost meant that early tin cans were largely used for specific customers like explorers or navies, for whom the preservation of food was particularly important. One early explorer to utilize canned products was Otto von Kotzebue, who used them on his three-year voyage to the Bering Strait and South Seas in 1815–18.130 The commercial development of canning followed quickly. The French canned sardine industry developed from 1824, when Joseph Colin opened the first fish cannery.131 Canned food developed in the United States during and following the Civil War, which introduced large numbers of soldiers to canned produce, particularly pork and beans, and sweetened condensed milk. Gail Borden opened his first large condensing plant at the start of the Civil War, and supplied it to troops. In 1860, five million cans of food were being produced annually in America: by 1870, this number was thirty million.132 America was now producing far more canned food than any other nation on earth. In 1899 Elbridge Amos Stuart, an Indiana grocer, developed a technique for producing canned evaporated milk, which he called “Carnation.”133 H.J. Heinz, who began selling pickles and sauerkraut in the 1870s, soon turned to canning and began selling baked beans and macaroni and cheese. In 1897, an employee of Campbell’s, the chemist John Dorrance, pioneered a method of condensing soup: within a year, vegetable, tomato, chicken, oxtail and consommé soup were on sale.134 From the 1850s, cans were made of steel, and plated with tin. Inventors, meanwhile, attempted to find ways to eliminate soldering, most notably the New Yorker Max Ams,

233 C. OTTER whose 1896 double seam, when combined with automatic machinery, greatly increased the speed of can production.135 Seamless cans were replacing soldered ones by the early twentieth century. Early cans were made of thick metal, and could be huge: one 1815 can weighed 17 pounds 12 ounces. Such cans could only be opened with a hammer and chisel. In 1858, Ezra Warner received a patent for a can opener with large curved blade which could be maneuvered around the edge of the can.136 Bull’s head tin openers were sold with cans of bully beef in the 1860s.137 The first wheeled can opener, designed to preclude the jagged, dangerous edges which early openers created, was patented by William Lyman in 1870.138 In 1894, F.C. Busch designed a scored top which could be removed without an opener: this was the first attempt to create something akin to a contemporary ring pull.139 The tin can was not the only receptacle to revolutionize the storage and distribution of food. The milk bottle, pioneered in the United States and France in the 1870s, became a ubiquitous article in early twentieth-century Britain, which developed a distribution system built around a peculiarly British electric vehicle, the milk float. By the 1940s, well over one hundred million milk bottles were produced in Britain annually.140 Packaging, meanwhile, became globally ubiquitous. Ralph Borsodi rather grandly claimed that “the elevator made the skyscraper possible; the package has made the kitchenette home possible.”141 Later in the century, plastic bottles, tetrapaks and alu- minium foil proliferated. American food industries spent nearly two billion dollars on plastic packaging in 1972.142

Synthetic food Food processing quickly became a scientific enterprise. Manufacturers of chilled, canned and packaged food began to employ chemists to provide quality control of their products. The American Can Company established a laboratory in 1906, and the National Canners’ Association of the United States began investigations in 1910.143 Crosse and Blackwell’s Bermondsey factory had bacteriological and analytical departments, and a technical research centre, by 1939.144 Such laboratories were soon involved in debates about safety thresholds for additives or particular chemical components of food. In 1920, for example, Samuel Prescott founded the Coffee Research Laboratory at MIT. In order to test the effects of caffeine, rabbits were force-fed coffee: humans, results suggested, would have to simultaneously drink 150–200 cups of coffee to die.145 Food production thus became heavily quantified. In collaboration and sometimes in competition with government laboratories, industry negotiated legal limits of preservatives. British Ministry of Health regulations of 1927 outlined the amount of preservatives permitted for different foods: in jam, for example, forty parts per million of sulphur dioxide were allowed.146 Other forms of scientific preservation were developed. Food irradiation techniques, involving the application of small doses of radiation to food to kill micro- organisms, were pioneered in the early twentieth century.147 In 1956, Victor Cohn predicted that by 1975, “we may have replaced the refrigerator and freezer … with an ordinary storage cabinet filled with atomic-ray-preserved food.”148 Irradiation remains legal, but by the end of the 1990s, only about 0.002 percent of fruit, vegetables, and poultry consumed in the United States were irradiated.149 Irradiation is, at least at this point in history, a minor story in the history of the industrialization of food. Fortification and chemical manipulation are not. From vitaminized margarine and milk in the late 1920s to the later twentieth-century rise of “nutraceuticals,”

234 INDUSTRIALIZING DIET, INDUSTRIALIZING OURSELVES food manufacturers have increasingly engineered foodstuﬀs to produce very calculated qualities: appearance, durability, texture, and ﬂavor. By 1987, the European Union had approved around 380 such additives.150 The resulting foods are “convenient” in the sense that they are durable, bacteria-resistant, require limited preparation and often necessitate little mastication. The earliest convenience foods replaced simple meals or parts of more complex meals: bottled sauces, bouillon cubes, pancake mixes, packaged cereals.151 After 1945, entire preprepared multi-part meals became available: the TV dinner was pioneered in 1953, following a turkey glut.152 Some social context is necessary here. Ready meals appeared along with increasing numbers of women entering the workforce, and they were often interpreted in explicitly gendered ways:

without ready prepared meals, boil-in-bag packs, instant coﬀee and mashed potato, and many other items, our present industrial life, with one out of every three married women engaged in occupations outside the home, would be diﬃ- cult if not impossible.153

The industrialized kitchen was clearly part of this order. In higher-class homes, fossil- fuel-driven motors powered electric ovens and kitchen implements, thus largely eradicating the need for servants. Domestic refrigeration extended the cold chain into the home. Such technologies were democratized over the twentieth century, at uneven rates: domestic technologies permeated the American home well before the European, and they permeated urban homes before rural ones. The rise of supermarkets, to which customers (usually women) drove, integrated food purchasing into an increasingly automobilized culture and agglomerated foodstuffsingiant“consumption factories” rendering the dispersed topography of traditional retailing increasingly obsolete.154 The supermarket, where foods were concentrated in large, fossil-fuel-powered buildings, mirrored the food-production hubs in other parts of the food system. The rise of TV dinners, fortified bread and instant mashed potatoes coincided with renewed concerns about global population growth, which had been largely allayed since the invention of synthetic nitrates. John Boyd Orr thought that conventional farming could feed 5–6 billion, but beyond this it might be necessary to “call in the chemists, who can synthesize nearly all the constituents of food except the mineral elements, of which there is no shortage.”155 Chemists had, in fact, been doing this for some time. Synthetic flavorings were developed from the later nineteenth century: synthetic oil of almonds, for example, was made from toluene, a coal tar product.156 In 1879 Constantin Fahlberg, working at Johns Hopkins University, derived saccharin from coal tar. Fahlberg’s achievement seemed almost alchemical: saccharin was 300 times as sweet as sugar yet contained no calories. Despite some initial unease about deriving a dietary constituent from a fossil fuel, saccharin was soon being used in various products, including syrup, jam and chocolate.157 In the later twentieth century, synthetic sweeteners proliferated: cyclamate (now banned in the United States), sucralose, aspar- tame and stevia.158 They allowed consumers to keep eating while striving to lose weight, andtheyweremarketedfrom1950sas“guilt-free sites of indulgence.”159 Jean Nidetch of Weight Watchers made artificially sweetened food central to weight-conscious diets.160 In the United States, the consumption of sweeteners rose by 150 percent between 1975 and 1984.161

235 C. OTTER

In vitro meat might be a very recent innovation, but the idea of synthetic meat dates from at least the same time as saccharin. In 1895, the sanitarian Benjamin Richardson predicted that in the future, “the chemist should be able to prepare from the vegetable world foods which would be identical in all important features, including flavour, with animal food.”162 Four years later, John Harvey Kellogg launched protose, a canned meat substitute made of nuts.163 Winston Churchill speculated that in the future, synthetic meat would be produced.164 Anton Metternich, in Die Wüste droht (The Threat of the Desert, 1947), apparently “devoted an entire chapter to synthetic liverwurst.”165 In very recent years, the use of foetal bovine serum or stem cells has promised a realization of the visions of Richardson and Churchill. As a possible alternative to “test tube” meat, Adam Shriver has proposed the genetic engineering of animals “with a reduced or completely eliminated capacity to suffer.”166 Synthetic utopianism has not been limited to laboratory-produced meat. J.B.S. Haldane thought that cellulose would be a vital feedstock for food production: “when – not if – we can separate the cellulose-splitting enzymes from those which break up the sugar further, we shall be in a position to convert wood pulp or hay quantitatively into human food,” making hunger a thing of the past.167 Reality and fantasy became hard to distinguish. The American Chemical Society’s 1951 meeting saw untrammelled optimism: “mankind will be producing synthetic foods from sunlight, water, ammonia, and the carbon dioxides in the air.”168 Yeast and algae have been mooted as solutions to the world food problem. They have also been utilized to produce single-cell proteins (SCPs). In the 1960s and 1970s, various companies developed techniques to produce such edible biomass. The Soviets, for example, were producing 1.1 million tonnes of SCPs by the end of the 1970s.169 British Petroleum ultimately launched its single-cell proteins as animal feed.170 In 1972, John Gow, head of ICI’s food and agriculture research division, claimed that one square mile could produce enough protein for the whole world, generating water, 171 CO2 and heat as waste products. Single-cell protein cultivation has been described as “the first attempt in the history of mankind to produce proteinaceous food and feedstuffs without the aid of agriculture.”172 Mycoproteins, meanwhile, are also used for human food products: Quorn, for example, was launched in 1985.173

The industrial eater No ﬁeld within the entire scope of mechanization is so sensitive to mishandling as that of nutrition. Here mechanization encounters the human organism (whose laws of health and disease are still incompletely known). The step from the sound to the unsound is nowhere so short as in the matter of diet.174

In The Omnivore’s Dilemma, Michael Pollan reflected on another key feedstock of the food manufacturing system – corn: “it takes a certain kind of eater – an industrial eater – to consume these fractions of corn, and we are, or have evolved into, that supremely adapted creature: the eater of processed food.”175 What is true for corn is true for soy, or wheat. Most of today’s consumers – at least in the west – ingest large amounts of processed, preprepared and fast food, which is a chemically heterogeneous, engineered product composed of “fractions” of different ingredients, listed on the sides of food packages. In this final section, I will reflect on the “industrial eater” and the discontents surrounding “industrial eating.”

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The industrial eater is, in many ways, palpably better fed than the pre-industrial eater. Human height, for example, has risen significantly in all parts of the world passing through the nutrition transition, and improved nutrition (including maternal nutrition) is demon- strably a significant factor in this change.176 Average body size has increased by 100 percent since 1800, part of what some scholars call “technophysio evolution,” a term meaning historical bodily transformations whose causes are primarily environmental, not genetic.177 Debates over transformation in calorific intake during industrialization continue to rage, but the majority of research does suggest that by the end of the nineteenth century, per capita calorific intake was rising in Europe. Most people in Britain, for example, were adequately fed. The most recent research suggests figures of 3,165 calories for skilled workers and 2,700 calories for poor workers around 1900.178 This ensured “sufficient energy for sustained work” for most of the working population, although “a substantial minority” still had energy intakes which “were incompatible with sustained physically demanding work.”179 Without such calorific levels, it is doubtful that anything like an Industrial Revolution could have happened. Despite the persistence of massive social disparities and endemic food insecurity, this process has globalized. In 1969/71, world per capita food consumption was 2,411 calories: thirty years later it was 2,789 calories.180 The industrialization of diet coincides rather neatly with what James Riley has called the “democratization of survival to old age” caused by changed mortality patterns.181 There are many reasons for this epidemiologic transition, not least improvements in public health systems. Improved nutrition, however, has clearly played a vital role in producing bodies capable of resisting opportunistic infections and endemic diseases like tuberculosis.182 Vitamin and mineral deficiencies are extremely rare for consumers of fortified foods. Public health techniques and nutrition are not mutually exclusive: the pasteurization of milk and construction of infant feeding centres, for example, combined both strategies. Despite these clear dietary improvements, the industrialization of diet raised many anxieties. George Orwell, for example, grumbled that:

in the highly mechanised countries, thanks to tinned food, cold storage, synthetic ﬂavouring matters, etc., the palate is a dead organ … Look at the factory-made, foil-wrapped cheese and “blended” butter in any grocer’s; look at the hideous rows of tins which usurp more and more of the space in any food-shop, even a dairy; look at a sixpenny Swiss roll or a twopenny ice-cream; look at the ﬁlthy by-product that people will pour down their throats under the name of beer. Wherever you look you will see some slick machine-made article triumphing over the old-fashioned article that still tastes of something other than sawdust.183

Historians have often concurred, referring, for example, to the “abysmal dietary situation of the 19th-century industrialization period.”184 These commentators have generally utilized two forms of critique: an Orwellian approach which assails the taste of processed food, and a more medical critique which argues that an industrialized diet increased morbidity during a period of mortality decline. In practice, these two lines of attack are diﬃcult to disentangle, and it is, in turn, hard to separate either from a broader, more moral, critique of the eﬀect of technology and “progress” on the human mind and body. Early twentieth-century commentators also remarked on changing mortality patterns, pointing out that diseases like cancer were increasing in incidence in the most economically advanced parts of the world.185 Diet was often posited as a cause of this

237 C. OTTER transformation. “To make radical dietary changes in one hundred to one hundred and fifty years is to court disaster” complained Melvin Page, who blamed sugar and refined wheat flour for humanity’s degeneration.186 These were the foods of sedentary, urbanized populations, unknown to Paleolithic peoples or contemporary societies who had yet to industrialize. Thus was born the idea that the industrialization of diet led humanity away from the foods we had evolved to eat, something underpinning contemporary appeals to Paleo diets and also more profound ruminations on so-called “mismatch diseases.”187 Industrial food was blamed for various ailments, including appendicitis, diver- ticular disease, varicose veins, deep vein thrombosis, haemorrhoids, gall stones, coronary heart disease, obesity and hiatus hernia.188 Nonwestern peoples did not suffer from such afflictions, and neither did most wild mammals (pets and livestock were a different story). Critiques of human progress invariably had a dietary dimension: witness the critique of the western diet in Nazi Germany.189 The industrial diet, critics proclaimed, was deficient in fibre. This produced constipation, which “seems always to have ridden with civilization, a most unnecessary passenger,” which in turn catalyzed various crazes, from wholemeal bread and yoghurt to abdominal surgery.190 Gastric ulcers, dyspepsia, diverticulitis and appendicitis were all blamed, at one time or another, on industrialized food. Archaeological evidence has shown demonstrable lack of tooth decay in Paleolithic skeletons, which suggests a clear link between the Neo- lithic revolution, dietary transformation and the decline of dental health.191 Such empirical data suggested that tooth decay might be the archetypal disease of civilization, a kind of insidious mass morbidity causing misery without death: “dental caries is, unquestionably, the most common of all diseases affecting civilised mankind.”192 More striking, perhaps, has been the rise in obesity. An industrial food system, combined with the replacement of much human labor by machines, has produced a historically-novel combination of plenty and sedentarism which in turn has allowed human bodies to grow in size. Orwell argued that technological advances were threatening to create a “paradise of little fat men.”193 Wherever the western dietary model (and heavy fossil-fuel consumption) is adopted, people grow bigger. In Chinese cities, for example, the prevalence of childhood obesity rose from 1.5 percent in 1989 to 12.6 percent in 1997.194 In South Korea, the decline of a traditional diet, rich in vegetables and rice, and its replacement with a more western-style diet, has led to a rise in obesity levels.195 The media began evoking the idea of “epidemic obesity” in 1987.196 Scholars soon concurred, although there has been thought-provoking critique of the concept.197 What is undeniable is that industrialization has created an environment within which humans have become substantially bigger. Rates of coronary heart disease, meanwhile, began rising among men in the 1920s and rose dramatically across the twentieth century.198 The health consequences of industrialized food are complex and ambivalent. On the one hand, rising human heights, life expectancy, disease resistance and micronutrient intake are clear positives related in various ways to dietary shifts. On the other hand, the slew of “mismatch diseases” caused by radical dietary and technological change must be viewed as a significant, and negative, unintended consequence of the industrialization of food. Dietary change can thus be used to support metanarratives of either progress or decline: the most satisfactory solution is probably to evoke both simultaneously. The industralization of diet is, finally, inseparable from industrialization per se, and is thus deeply interconnected with recent global environmental history. There is insufficient space here to chart these developments, but it is worth noting that right from the

238 INDUSTRIALIZING DIET, INDUSTRIALIZING OURSELVES beginning of the industrialization of food, romantics and socialists produced what might be termed eco-critique of dietary change. Marx, for example, noted that:

[a]ll progress in capitalist agriculture is a progress in the art, not only of robbing the labourer, but of robbing the soil … Capitalist production therefore, develops technology, and the combining together of various processes into a social whole, only by sapping all the original sources of wealth – the soil and the labourer.199

Similarly, the advent of synthetic nitrate fertilizers was immediately attacked by organic farmers concerned about damage to the soil.200 By the 1930s, soil erosion was regarded as a major consequence of the intensiﬁcation and globalization of agriculture.201 Today, the list of environmental problems caused by global food system has expanded to include concerns as diverse as the genetic homogenization of crops and livestock, pollution, eutrophication and food miles. Doris Grant, railing against the ecological and biological consequences of industrial bread, urged housewives to regard home-made bread as “the ﬁrst line of defence for the housewife and her family against our present-day unnatural and dangerous environment.”202

Conclusion

Before our food reaches the table it is poisoned in the soil, disinfected, bleached, softened, dyed, tinned, bottled, packaged, fortified, irradiated, thickened, frozen, flaked, sprayed, embalmed, flavored, extended, emulsified, gassed, deodorized, stabilized, hydrolized, polished, neutralized, or subjected to atomic fall-out.203

The fish stick was a mere eight years old when Doris Grant penned these hyperbolic words. She thus wrote at the precise historical juncture when industrial foods were becoming hegemonic and normal in the west. Industrial foods were mass-produced, standardized, wrapped, durable and mobile. They were gustatorily anodyne and predictable: they were easy to prepare. Industrial foods relied on vast global systems to supply the raw materials and energy required for processing. These raw materials were, with the exception of fish, increasingly selected and even genetically modified to facilitate durability and processing. Fish populations themselves have been decimated by industrial trawling.204 The industrialization of food, then, is a dramatic chapter in the history of life on earth. Our contemporary dietary patterns have been irrevocably shaped by the industrialization of food. The nutrition transition was powered by fossil fuels and provided the dietary surplus necessary to power the Industrial Revolution.205 It has also quite clearly produced the most reliable stream of calories ever seen on earth. It has boosted maternal health, human height, human weight, and (to some degree) human life expectancy. Fortified food has greatly reduced the incidence of deficiency diseases in the west. It has, perhaps, rectified some of the biological damage caused by the Neolithic revolution, which Jared Diamond famously called “the worst mistake in the history of the human race.”206 Yet such optimism must be tempered. Industrialized food has brought with it a litany of morbidities – type 2 diabetes, obesity, constipation, food allergies – which have transformed our bodies in negative ways. Industrialized food has become so omnipresent as to be practically inescapable. Organic food, for example, is often held up as a rejection of food industrialization, but organic food has itself been industrialized: Michael Pollan has used the term

239 C. OTTER

“industrial organic” to describe this process.207 Exclusive dining experiences and fast-food restaurants alike rely upon fossil fuel-powered systems. Like most other aspects of our lives, our diets have become inseparable from the mineral economy, which has generated concerns about food security as well as anxieties about ecological collapse.208 Industrialized food is, in its current manifestation, a transient phase in food history which will disappear along with fossil-fuel society at some unknown date in the future.

Notes 1 E. Wrigley, Continuity, Chance, and Change: The Character of the Industrial Revolution in England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990). 2 Walter Hamilton, “The Requisites of a National Food Policy,” Journal of Political Economy, 26:6, June 1918, 620. 3 John Connor, Richard Rogers, Bruce Marion and Willard Mueller, The Food Manufacturing Indus- tries: Structure, Strategies, Performance, and Policies (Lexington, MA: Lexington Books, 1985), p. 4. 4 Alfred Chandler, The Visible Hand: The Managerial Revolution in American Business (Cambridge, MA: Belknap, 1977), pp. 348–50. 5 Barry Popkin, “The Nutrition Transition and its Health Implications in Lower-Income Coun- tries,” Public Health Nutrition, 1:1, 1998, 5. 6 See, for example, Daniel Lieberman, The Story of the Human Body (New York: Allen Lane, 2013), esp. pp. 209–92. 7 E. Russell, Evolutionary History: Uniting History and Biology to Understand Life on Earth (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011). 8 Karl Kautsky, The Agrarian Question, trans. Pete Burgess [1899] (Winchester, MA: Zwan Publications, 1988), p. 297. 9 John H. Perkins, Geopolitics and the Green Revolution: Wheat, Genes, and the Cold War (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), p. 50. 10 Charles Post, “The Agrarian Origins of US Capitalism: The Transformation of Northern Agri- culture Before the Civil War,” Journal of Peasant Studies, 22:3, 1995, cited in Michael Watts and David Goodman, “Agrarian Questions: Global Appetite, Local Metabolism: Nature, Culture, and Industry in Fin-de-siècle Agro-food Systems,” in David Goodman and Michael Watts (eds), Globalizing Food: Agrarian Questions and Global Restructuring (New York: Routledge, 1997), p. 16. 11 Giovanni Federico, Feeding the World: An Economic History of Agriculture, 1800–2000 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005), p. 100. 12 J.R. McNeill, Something New Under the Sun: An Environmental History of the Twentieth-Century World (New York: Norton, 2001), pp. 217–18. 13 Federico, Feeding the World, p. 92. 14 Willard Cochrane and Mary Ryan, American Farm Policy, 1948–1973 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1976), p. 5. 15 Rolf Sieferle, The Subterranean Forest: Energy Systems and the Industrial Revolution (Cambridge: White Horse Press, 2001), p. 42. 16 Wrigley, Continuity, Chance, and Change, p. 72. 17 Howard Odum, Environment, Power, and Society (New York: Wiley-Interscience, 1971), p. 116. 18 Vaclav Smil, Enriching the Earth: Fritz Haber, Carl Bosch, and the Transformation of World Food Production (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2004), pp. 116–18. 19 Paul Josephson, Resources under Regimes: Technology, Environment, and the State (Cambridge, MA: Har- vard University Press, 2005), p. 168. 20 Smil, Enriching the Earth, p. xiii. 21 Noel Kingsbury, Hybrid: The History and Science of Plant Breeding (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009), p. 151. 22 Federico, Feeding the World, p. 97. 23 A. Olmstead and P. Rhode, “Biological Innovation in American Wheat Production: Science, Policy, and Environmental Adaptation,” in S. Shrepfer and P. Scranton (eds), Industrializing Organisms: Introducing Evolutionary History (London: Routledge, 2004), p. 71.

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24 James Belich, Replenishing the Earth: The Settler Revolution and the Rise of the Anglo-World, 1783–1939 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), p. 3. 25 J.A. Hobson, The Social Question [1901] (Bristol: Thoemmes, 1996), p. 40. 26 Connor et al., Food Manufacturing Industries, 41. 27 Connor et al., Food Manufacturing Industries, 405. 28 William Cronon, Nature’s Metropolis: Chicago and the Great West (New York: Norton, 1991), pp. 228–9. 29 Richard Perren, Taste, Trade and Technology: The Development of the International Meat Industry since 1840 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), p. 1. 30 Timothy Pachirat, Every Twelve Seconds: Industrialized Slaughter and the Politics of Sight (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011). 31 Amy Fitzgerald, “A Social History of the Slaughterhouse: From Inception to Contemporary Implications,” Human Ecology Review, 17:1, 2010, 62. 32 Michael Pollan, The Omnivore’s Dilemma: A Natural History of Four Meals (New York: Penguin, 2006), p. 72. 33 Steve Striffler, Chicken: The Dangerous Transformation of America’s Favorite Food (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005), p. 15. 34 William Boyd and Michael Watts, “Agro-Industrial Just-in-Time: The Chicken Industry and Postwar American Capitalism,” in David Goodman and Michael Watts (eds), Globalizing Food: Agrarian Questions and Global Restructuring (New York: Routledge, 1997), p. 195. 35 Boyd and Watts, “Agro-Industrial Just-in-Time,” p. 192. 36 Gerald Leighton and Loudon Douglas, The Meat Industry and Meat Inspection (London: The Educational Book Company, 1910), 5 vols, V, p. 1451. 37 Leighton and Douglas, Meat Industry, V, p. 1462. 38 Leighton and Douglas, Meat Industry, V, p. 1463. 39 Roger Horowitz, Putting Meat on the American Table: Taste, Technology, Transformation (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University, 2006), p. 106. 40 William Boyd, “Making Meat: Science, Technology, and American Poultry Production,” Technology and Culture, 42:4, October 2001, pp. 652–3. 41 J. Bitgood, “The Genetic Map of the Chicken and Availability of Genetically Diverse Stocks,” in Robert Etches and Ann Gibbins (eds), Manipulation of the Avian Genome (Boca Raton: CRC Press, 1993), p. 61. 42 Boyd, “Making Meat,” 656. 43 Boyd, “Making Meat,” 657. 44 Boyd, “Making Meat,” 658. 45 Striffler, Chicken, p. 16. 46 Pollan, Omnivore’s Dilemma, p. 171. 47 Peter Atkins and Ian Bowler, Food in Society: Economy, Culture, Geography (London: Arnold, 2001), p. 83. 48 Striffler, Chicken, p. 39. 49 Striffler, Chicken, p. 25. 50 Shai Barbut, Poultry Products Processing: An Industry Guide (Boca Raton: CRC Press, 2002), p. 289. 51 J.H. McCoy, “Trends in Salmonella Food Poisoning in England and Wales 1941–72,” Journal of Hygiene, 74, 1975, 277. 52 Boyd, “Making Meat,” 661–2. 53 Boyd, “Making Meat,” 643. 54 Boyd, “Making Meat,” 644. 55 Mr. Perky, cited in R. Russell, Strength and Diet: A Practical Treatise with Special Regard to the Life of Nations (London: Longmans, Green, & Co, 1905), p. 347. 56 Lewis Mumford, Technics and Civilization [1934] (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010), pp. 107–50. 57 Peter Kozmin, Flour Milling: A Theoretical and Practical Handbook of Flour Manufacture for Millers, Millwrights, Flour-Milling Engineers, and Others Engaged in the Flour-Milling Industry, trans. M. Falker and Theodor Fjelstrup (London: G. Routledge & Sons, 1921), pp. 34, 38. 58 Kozmin, Flour Milling, p. 217. 59 C.O. Swanson, Wheat Flour and Diet (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1928), p. 60. 60 Swanson, Wheat Flour and Diet, p. 89.

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61 William R. Voller, Modern Flour Milling: A Text-Book for Millers and Others Interested in the Wheat and Flour Trades, 3rd edn (Gloucester, England: s.n., 1897), 336. 62 Kozmin, Flour Milling, 480. 63 Aaron Bobrow-Strain, White Bread: A Social History of the Store-Bought Loaf (Boston: Beacon Press, 2012), 66–8. 64 Swanson, Wheat Flour and Diet, 102. 65 Kozmin, Flour Milling, p. 561. 66 Voller, Modern Flour Milling, pp. 433–5. 67 Voller, Modern Flour Milling, p. 436. 68 Voller, Modern Flour Milling, p. 440. 69 Christian Petersen, Bread and the British Economy, c.1770-1870, ed. Andrew Jenkins (Aldershot: Scolar Press, 1995), pp. 60–2. 70 Kozmin, Flour Milling, p. 37. 71 John Kanefsky, “Motive Power in British Industry and the Accuracy of the 1870 Factory Return,” Economic History Review, New Series, 32:3, August 1979, 372. 72 W.S. Jevons, The Coal Question: An Inquiry Concerning the Progress of the Nation, and the Probable Exhaus- tion of our Coal-mines, 3rd edn, revised [1906] (New York: A.M. Kelley, 1965), p. 178. 73 On the windmill’s decline, see Richard Hills, Power from Wind: A History of Windmill Technology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), pp. 215–32. 74 Harry Snyder, Bread: A Collection of Popular Papers on Wheat, Flour and Bread (New York: Macmillan, 1930), p. 109. 75 Karl Marx, Capital: A Critique of Political Economy (London: Lawrence and Wishart, 1954), I, p. 237. 76 Bobrow-Strain, White Bread, p. 23. 77 John Burnett, Plenty and Want: A Social History of Diet in England from 1815 to the Present Day (London: Scolar, 1979), p. 141. 78 William Jago and William C. Jago, The Technology of Bread-Making, Including the Chemistry and Analytical and Practical Testing of Wheat, Flour, and Other Materials Employed in Bread-Making and Confectionery (London: Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent, & Co., Limited, 1911), p. 646. 79 Jago and Jago, Technology of Bread-Making, p. 659. 80 Aaron Bobrow-Strain, “White Bread Bio-politics: Purity, Health, and the Triumph of Industrial Baking,” Cultural Geographies, 15, 2008, 28. 81 Bobrow-Strain, White Bread, p. 55. 82 Bobrow-Strain, “White Bread Bio-politics,” 31. 83 D.W. Kent-Jones and E.F. Mitchell, The Practice and Science of Breadmaking (Liverpool: The North- ern Publishing Co. Ltd., 1962), p. 106. 84 James Grant, The Chemistry of Breadmaking (London: Edward Arnold, 1912), p. 155. 85 Bobrow-Strain, White Bread, pp. 69–70; Kent-Jones and Mitchell, Practice and Science of Breadmaking, p. 126. 86 Kent-Jones and Mitchell, Practice and Science of Breadmaking, p. 129. 87 Kent-Jones and Mitchell, Practice and Science of Breadmaking, p. 130. 88 Stanley Courvain and Lisa Young, Technology of Breadmaking, 2nd edn (New York: Springer, 2007), pp. 38–9. 89 W.P. Edwards, The Science of Bakery Products (Cambridge: Royal Society of Chemistry, 2007), p. 174. 90 James Tobey, “Baking Technology and National Nutrition,” Scientiﬁc Monthly, 49:5, November 1939, 464. 91 Edmund Bennion, Breadmaking: Its Principles and Practice, 4th edn (London: Oxford University Press, 1967), p. 297. 92 Bennion, Breadmaking, pp. 300–1. 93 Bennion, Breadmaking, pp. 52, 158. 94 Susanne Freidberg, Fresh: A Perishable History (Cambridge, MA: Belknap, 2009). 95 Karl Appuhn, “Ecologies of Beef: Eighteenth-Century Epizootics and the Environmental History of Early Modern Europe,” Environmental History, 15:2, April 2010, 268–87. 96 Carl E. Solberg, The Prairies and the Pampas: Agrarian Policy in Canada and Argentina, 1880–1930 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1987), p. 13. 97 Agnes Cameron, “The Empire of Larger Hope,” Metropolitan Magazine, XXVI:III, June 1907, p. 298.

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98 Chandler, Visible Hand, pp. 391–402. 99 Oscar Anderson, Refrigeration in America: A History of a New Technology and its Impact (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1953), p. 35. 100 Richard Perren, Taste, Trade and Technology: The Development of the International Meat Industry since 1840 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), p. 50. 101 Chandler, Visible Hand, p. 299. 102 Mikael Hård, Machines are Frozen Spirit: The Scientiﬁcation of Refrigeration and Brewing in the 19th Cen- tury: A Weberian Interpretation (Boulder: Westview, 1994), p. 122. 103 Barry Donaldson and Bernard Nagengast, Heat and Cold: Mastering the Great Indoors: A Selective History of Heating, Ventilation, Air-Conditioning and Refrigeration from the Ancients to the 1930s (Atlanta: American Society of Heating, Refrigerating and Air-Conditioning Engineers, 1994), pp. 131–2. 104 Hård, Machines are Frozen Spirit, p. 187. 105 Perren, Taste, Trade and Technology, p. 48. 106 Perren, Taste, Trade and Technology, p. 49. 107 D. Anthony and W. Blois, The Meat Industry: A Text-Book for Meat Traders and Others Engaged in the Various Branches of the Meat Industry (London: Baillière, Tindall & Cox, 1931), p. 49. 108 Ian Simmons, An Environmental History of Great Britain: From 10,000 Years Ago to the Present (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2001), p. 162. 109 Anderson, Refrigeration in America, p. 175. 110 Ice and Refrigeration, 49:6, December 1915, p. 333. 111 Freidberg, Fresh, pp. 249–53. 112 C. Robert Moulton, Meat Through the Microscope: Applications of Chemistry and the Biological Sciences to Some Problems of the Meat Packing Industry (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1929), p. 32. 113 Roger Thévenot, A History of Refrigeration Throughout the World (Paris: International Institute of Refrigeration, 1979), pp. 316, 320. 114 Paul Josephson, “The Ocean’s Hot Dog: The Development of the Fish Stick,” Technology and Culture, 49:1, January 2008, 45. 115 Josephson, “Ocean’s Hot Dog,” 48. 116 Burghard Cielsa and Patrice Poutrus, “Food Supply in a Planned Economy: SED Nutrition Policy Between Crisis Response and Popular Needs,” in Konrad Jarausch (ed.), Dictatorship as Experience: Towards a Socio-Cultural History of the GDR (New York: Berghahn, 1999), p. 154. 117 Thévenot, History of Refrigeration, p. 322. 118 Eric Schlosser, Fast Food Nation: What the All-American Meal is Doing to the World (New York: Pen- guin, 2002), p. 115. 119 Alissa Hamilton, Squeezed: What You Don’t Know About Orange Juice (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009), pp. 23–4. 120 Thévenot, History of Refrigeration, p. 341. See also Shane Hamilton, Trucking Country: The Road to America’s Walmart Economy (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008); Marc Levinson, The Box: How the Shipping Container Made the World Smaller and the World Economy Bigger (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006). 121 Levinson, The Box,p.1. 122 Richard Woodman, The History of the Ship: The Comprehensive Story of Seafaring From Earliest Times to the Present Day (London: Conway Maritime Press, 1997), p. 325. 123 Thévenot, History of Refrigeration, p. 90. 124 Anderson, Refrigeration in America, p. 128. 125 A. Keith Thompson, Controlled Atmosphere Storage of Fruits and Vegetables, 2nd edn (Cambridge, MA: CABI, 2010), p. 3. 126 Thévenot, History of Refrigeration, 331; Flemming Jessen, Jette Nielsen and Erling Larsen, “Chil- ling and Freezing of Fish,” in Ioannis Boziaris (ed.), Seafood Processing: Technology, Quality and Safety (Oxford: Wiley, 2014), p. 52. 127 Giralmo Sineri, cited in Massimo Montanari, Food is Culture, trans. Albert Sonnenfeld (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), p. 15. 128 J. Russell Smith, The World’s Food Resources (New York: Henry Holt, 1919), p. 408. 129 Stuart Thorne, The History of Food Preservation (Totowa: Barnes and Noble Books, 1986), pp. 25–9. 130 Thorne, History of Food Preservation, p. 43.

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131 Sue Shephard, Pickled, Potted, and Canned: How the Art and Science of Food Preserving Changed the World (New York: Simon & Schuster, 2000), p. 241. 132 Richard Osborne Cummings, The American and His Food: A History of Food Habits in the United States, revised edn (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1941), p. 69. 133 Shephard, Pickled, Potted, and Canned, p. 151. 134 Daniel Sidorick, Condensed Capitalism: Campbell Soup and the Pursuit of Cheap Production in the Twentieth Century (Cornell: Cornell University Press, 2009). 135 Thorne, History of Food Preservation, p. 99. 136 Henry Petroski, The Evolution of Useful Things: How Everyday Artifacts – From Forks and Pins to Paper Clips and Zippers – Came To Be As They Are (New York: Vintage, 1994), p. 187. 137 Shephard, Pickled, Potted, and Canned, p. 245. 138 Petroski, Evolution of Useful Things, pp. 188–9. 139 Thorne, History of Food Preservation, p. 105. 140 Arthur Guy Enock, This Milk Business: A Study from 1895 to 1943 (London: H.K. Lewis, 1943), p. 195. 141 Ralph Borsodi, The Age of Distribution: A Study of the Economy of Modern Distribution [1927] (New York: Arno Press, 1976), p. 229. 142 Connor et al., Food Manufacturing Industries, p. 32. 143 Thorne, History of Food Preservation, p. 151. 144 Michael French and Jim Phillips, Cheated Not Poisoned? Food Regulation in the United Kingdom, 1875– 1938 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000), p. 28. 145 Larry Owens, “Engineering the Perfect Cup of Coffee: Samuel Prescott and the Sanitary Vision at MIT,” Technology and Culture, 45:4, 2004, 799. 146 Edwin Jordan, Food-Poisoning and Food-Borne Infection, 2nd edn (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1931), p. 93. 147 James Spiller, “Radiant Cuisine: The Commercial Fate of Food Irradiation in the United States,” Technology and Culture, 45:4, October 2004, 743; Edward Josephson, “An Historical Review of Food Irradiation,” Journal of Food Safety, 5, 1983, 163–5. 148 Victor Cohn, 1999: Our Hopeful Future (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1956), cited in Warren Belasco, Meals to Come: A History of the Future of Food (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), p. 200. 149 Spiller, “Radiant Cuisine,” 759–60. 150 Atkins and Bowler, Food in Society, p. 215. 151 Ruth Schwartz Cowan, “The Industrial Revolution in the Home,” in Donald MacKenzie and Judy Wajcman (eds), The Social Shaping of Technology, 2nd edn (Buckingham: Open University Press, 1999), p. 286. 152 Raj Patel, Stuffed and Starved: The Hidden Battle for the World Food System (Brooklyn: Melville House Publishing, 2007), pp. 263–4. 153 A. Holmes (director of the British Food Manufacturing Industries Research Association), Guar- dian, July 8, 1968, cited in Christopher Driver, The British at Table 1940–1980 (London: Chatto & Windus, 1983), p. 144. 154 Patel, Stuffed and Starved, p. 220. 155 John Boyd Orr, The White Man’s Dilemma: Food and the Future (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1953), 79, cited in Belasco, Meals to Come, p. 43. 156 James Grant, Confectioners’ Raw Materials: Their Sources, Modes of Preparation, Chemical Composition, the Chief Impurities and Adulterations, their More Important Uses and Other Points of Interest (London: Edward Arnold & Co., 1926), p. 93. 157 “Substitutes for Sugar,” British Medical Journal, May 10, 1902, 1171. 158 For an authoritative history, see Carolyn De La Peña, Empty Pleasures: The Story of Artificial Sweeteners from Saccharin to Splenda (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2010). 159 De La Peña, Empty Pleasures, pp. 6, 11. 160 De La Peña, Empty Pleasures, p. 132. 161 De La Peña, Empty Pleasures, p. 177. 162 Benjamin Ward Richardson, responding to H.F. Lester, “The Progress of the Abattoir System in England,” Journal of the Society of Arts, March 22, 1895, 437. 163 Karen Iaccobo and Michael Iaccobo, Vegetarian America: A History (Westport: Praeger, 2004), p. 126.

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164 Simon Fairlie, Meat: A Benign Extravagance (White River Junction: Chelsea Green Publishing, 2010), p. 227. 165 Joachim Radkau, Nature and Power: A Global History of the Environment, trans. Thomas Dunlap (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), p. 319. 166 Adam Shriver, “Knocking Out Pain in Livestock: Can Technology Succeed Where Morality Has Stalled?” Neuroethics, 2:3, November 2009, cited in Fairlie, Meat, 229. 167 J.S. Haldane, “Enzymes,” in Possible Worlds and Other Papers (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1928), p. 53. 168 “Sunny Side of the Street,” Life, September 10, 1951; cited in Belasco, Meals to Come,p.3. 169 Robert Bud, The Uses of Life: A History of Biotechnology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), p. 135. 170 Bud, Uses of Life, p. 136. 171 Driver, The British at Table, p. 138. 172 Horst Doelle, Microbial Process Development (River Edge: World Scientific Development, 1994), p. 205. 173 Bud, Uses of Life, p. 137. 174 Siegfried Giedion, Mechanization Takes Command: A Contribution to Anonymous History (New York: Norton, 1969) p. 169. 175 Pollan, Omnivore’s Dilemma, p. 90. 176 Roderick Floud, Kenneth Wachter and Annabel Gregory, Height, Health and History: Nutritional Status in the United Kingdom, 1750–1980 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), p. 135. 177 Roderick Floud, Robert Fogel, Bernard Harris and Sok Chul Hong, The Changing Body: Health, Nutrition, and Human Development in the Western World since 1700 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011). 178 Ian Gazeley and Andrew Newell, “Urban Working-Class Food Consumption and Nutrition in Britain in 1904,” IZA Discussion Paper No. 6988, November 2012, 22. 179 Gazeley and Newell, “Urban Working-Class Food Consumption,” 23. 180 John Kearney, “Food Consumption Trends and Drivers,” Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society: Biological Sciences, 365:1554, September 27, 2010, 2794. 181 James Riley, Rising Life Expectancy: A Global History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), p. x. 182 John Butterly and Jack Shepherd, Hunger: The Biology and Politics of Starvation (Hanover, New Hampshire: Dartmouth College Press, 2010), p. 217; Peter Lunn, “Nutrition, Immunity and Infection,” in R. Schofield, D. Reher and R. Bideau (eds), The Decline of Mortality in Europe (Oxford: Clarendon, 1991), p. 137. 183 George Orwell, The Road to Wigan Pier (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1962), p. 179. 184 Carole Shammas, “The Eighteenth-Century English Diet and Economic Change,” Explorations in Economic History, 21:3, July 1984, 267. 185 E.g. Frederick Hoffman, The Mortality From Cancer Throughout the World (Newark: The Prudential Press, 1915). 186 Melvin Page, Degeneration, Regeneration (St. Petersburg, FL: Biochemical Research Foundation, 1949), cited in J.I. Rodale, Sugar: The Curse of Civilization, 2nd edn (Berkhamsted: The Rodale Press, 1967), p. 20. 187 For a fascinating analysis of the phenomenon of mismatch, see Lieberman, Story of the Human Body. 188 Denis Burkitt, “Some Diseases Characteristic of Modern Western Civilization,” British Medical Journal, February 3, 1973, 274–5. 189 Robert Proctor, The Nazi War on Cancer (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999), pp. 120–72. 190 C.C. Furnas and S.M. Furnas, Man, Bread and Destiny (New York: Reynal and Hitchcock, 1937), p. 273. See also James Whorton’s magisterial study of costiveness, Inner Hygiene: Constipation and the Pursuit of Health in Modern Society (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000). 191 Richard Steckel, Jerome Rose, Clark Larsen and Phillip Walker, “Skeletal Health in the Wes- tern Hemisphere from 4000 B.C. to the Present,” Evolutionary Anthropology, 11, 2002, 146. 192 C. Doswell Wallis, “Some Thoughts on the Prevention of Dental Disease and Irregularity,” at the Manchester Conference on the Prevention of Diseases of the Teeth, May 15, 1920, cited in

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Charles Hecht (ed.), The Gateway to Health: Prevention of Diseases of the Teeth (London: St. Catherine Press, 1921), p. 299. 193 Orwell, Road to Wigan Pier, p. 169. 194 Patel, Stuﬀed and Starved, pp. 270–1. 195 Barry Popkin, The World is Fat: The Fads, Trends, Policies, and Products that are Fattening the Human Race (New York: Avery, 2009), p. 99. 196 Sander Gilman, Fat: A Cultural History of Obesity (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2008), p. 16. 197 Barry Popkin and Collen Doak, “The Obesity Epidemic is a Worldwide Phenomenon,” Nutrition Reviews, April 1998, 106; Michael Gard and Jan Wright, The Obesity Epidemic: Science, Morality and Ideology (London: Routledge, 2005). 198 Ina Zweiniger-Bargielowska, “Slimming Through the Depression: Obesity and Reducing in Interwar Britain,” in Derek Oddy, Peter Atkins and Virginie Amilien (eds), The Rise of Obesity in Europe: A Twentieth Century Food History (Farnham: Ashgate, 2009), p. 179. 199 Marx, Capital, I, pp. 474–5. 200 Perkins, Geopolitics and the Green Revolution, p. 216. 201 Donald Worster, Dust Bowl: The Southern Plains in the 1930s (New York: Oxford University Press, 1979). 202 Doris Grant, Your Bread and Your Life (London: Faber & Faber, 1961), p. 15. 203 Grant, Your Bread and Your Life, p. 61. 204 Callum Roberts, The Unnatural History of the Sea (Washington: Island Press, 2007), pp. 163–302. 205 This is one of the many theses in Sidney Mintz’s extraordinary Sweetness and Power: The Place of Sugar in Modern History (New York: Penguin, 1986). 206 Jared Diamond, “The Worst Mistake in the History of the Human Race,” Discover Magazine, May 1987, pp. 64–6. 207 Pollan, Omnivore’s Dilemma, pp. 134–84. 208 Dale Pfeiﬀer, Eating Fossil Fuels: Oil, Food and the Coming Crisis in Agriculture (Gabriola Island: New Society Publishers, 2006).

246 Part III 1900–present This page intentionally left blank 13 THE EVOLUTION OF A FAST FOOD PHENOMENON The case of American pizza

Bonnie M. Miller

Victor Ripp, an American author born from Russian emigrants, visited Moscow in the late 1980s and was struck by the Russian people’s fascination with the “quasi-mystical” aura of American goods, including fast food cuisine. “People were still talking about the Astro Pizza truck that recently circulated through the streets around the Kremlin,” he wrote, as if eating a slice of pizza enabled one to ingest the experience of being Amer- ican, even for a fleeting moment.1 Although Cold War communist ideology framed American materialist desires as wasteful, Ripp detected a note of “deep longing” in Soviet perceptions of American extravagance that seemed to coexist with an adherence to their own values (and food customs) as the “things that matter,” to use the words of Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev in the famous kitchen debates with Vice President Richard Nixon in 1959. Just as Nixon touted the dishwashers and material goods in the American home for liberating housewives from daily drudgeries, fast food has taken on a similar symbolic resonance, as a byproduct of the quick-paced, mobile American lifestyle. George Ritzer calls this process the “McDonaldization” of society, whereas the values of fast food franchising have assumed a central place in American business and popular culture in the generations following World War II.2 Fast food, he argues, connotes much more than quick preparation foods sold at low cost; rather, it is a business model that privileges efficiency, conformity, mobility, and convenience over quality, artistry, and consumer comfort. Fast food restaurants characteristically standardize food preparation techniques, often using frozen, precooked, and prepackaged food, limited menus, and self-service.3 Despite the culinary homogenization that the global conquest of pizza seems to suggest, makers of the cuisine exhibit remarkable national, regional, and local differentiation. The story of pizza, as it was reinvented from “Italian” to “Italian-American” to “American” cuisine over the last century, exemplifies how pizza’s categorization as “fast food” and as an “ethnic food” has evolved over time in relation to important transformations in American diet and culture. The fast food industry took off during the 1950s, with the rise of the big chains like McDonald’s, Kentucky Fried Chicken, and Burger King, among others. Still, earlier roadside restaurant chains, such as White Castle, A & W Root Beer, Friendly’s and Howard Johnson’s, began peppering the American landscape as early as the 1920s and 1930s. By the late nineteenth century and into the twentieth, the Industrial Revolution had

249 B.M. MILLER created a market for feeding hungry workers, leading to the rise of lunch wagons and street vendors, which evolved into lunchrooms, cafeterias, diners, and chain restaurants.4 The fast food industry owes its spectacular rise, in part, to the capitalist ingenuity of franchising as a business concept. In a franchising model, franchisees buy into a system with already established name recognition, menus, food suppliers, and advertising. They exist as independent owners and managers but pay royalty fees to the franchisor based on a percentage of profits. By using the capital of small investors, franchisors facilitate the quick spread of a chain without assuming much personal financial risk. The system strives to create uniformity among units, in taste, menu, price, and branding by centralizing standards of operation and food specifications. Brand names provide an identity to restaurants that simplify the selection process for patrons. The ripple effects of franchising are felt not only in changing the pace and selection of the dining experience, but also behind the scenes, in revolutionizing food processing technologies, standardizing management and labor practices, and implementing assembly-line production techniques. Franchising fast food chains multiplied rapidly in the economic boom of the post-World War II period, with the estimated opening of about 100,000 units nationwide between 1945 and 1960.5 As Richard Pillsbury has argued, this change suited the more individualistic urban-industrial society of postwar America, but it also had the effect of revolutionizing American eating habits on a national scale.6 Franchises benefited from the mass migration of people out of congested urban areas and into new housing developments in the suburbs. The proliferation of chain restaurants helped foster the customer base for a new suburban mode of eating, one that catered to families with disposable income and cars, who were attracted to quick, family-friendly eating options. As the suburbs grew, the construction of highways, strip malls, and roadside restaurants with sprawling parking lots reconfigured the American landscape. Many roadside eateries adopted identifiable architectural designs, such as the classic red roof of the Pizza Hut chains, with standardized exterior and interiors to build visual recognition of the brand. The continual growth of franchising during the 1970s and 1980s contributed to the shift in the nation’s economy from a manufacturing- base to one oriented around a growing service sector. Greater participation of women in the paid labor force as well as new immigrants, after the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 abolished the national origins quota system, swelled the supply of workers, many of whom found jobs in the service industry. The exodus of homemakers into paying jobs also had the effect of restructuring household dynamics, creating a need for shortening cooking preparation time. By the 1980s, expansion shifted internationally for many of the largest chains, exporting Americanized fast food across the globe. While most studies of fast food focus on the transformations of the American diet in the post-World War II period, the essence of fast food, and for my purposes – pizza as a fast food – has had a much longer history. Antonio Pace, President of the Vera Pizza Napo- letana, an association striving to preserve high standards for Neapolitan pizza, says with pride: “La pizza è il più antico fast food,” which means, “Pizza is the oldest fast food.”7 The culinary history of pizza goes at least as far back as the Greeks and Romans, with the consumption of flatbreads, often prepared with olive oil, spices, and at times toppings, as a mainstay of the Mediterranean diet. Pizza began to take more of its modern character in the city of Naples, with the introduction of the tomato to pizza.8 In eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Naples, pizza became a staple of the urban poor because it was a cheap, filling food that could be sold on the streets to laborers. Purchasing food outside the home was necessary for many Neapolitans because many households did not contain kitchens

250 THE EVOLUTION OF A FAST FOOD PHENOMENON with hearths and ovens, in part due to the high cost of fuel.9 Bread, prepared with few ingredients, could satiate the poor at low cost. It was, even centuries ago, a quintessential food-on-the-run sold cheaply to the working class, not unlike the New York City pizzeria selling pizza by the slice to passersby on their lunch break. Despite this history, the modern conception of fast food is most typically likened with the history of the hamburger chain, not the pizzeria. Activists, nationalists, consumer advocates, health officials, environmentalists, and other special interests have resisted the expansion of fast food chains around the globe, and their most visible target has been McDonald’s. But many pizza chains, Domino’s and Pizza Hut the two largest, have followed similar trajectories of domestic and global expansion as other big chains. Forbes reported in 2013 that there are over 66,000 units of US-based fast food restaurants outside the United States, just with respect to the ten largest fast food chains alone. Of these, three are pizza chains: Pizza Hut, with nearly 6,000 restaurants abroad, built 367 new international units in 2012; Domino’s Pizza, with nearly 4,500 stores abroad, delivers pizza in over 60 countries; and the newest of the three, Papa John’s, has nearly 800 international units and continues to expand.10 In addition to rapid expansion, the pizza industry experienced a similar process of consolidation as did other segments of the fast food industry in the 1970s and 1980s, with the absorption of smaller outlets by large food corporations; i.e. Pizza Hut sold to PepsiCo in 1977, Pillsbury acquired Totino’s frozen pizza in 1975, and Kraft purchased Tombstone frozen pizza in 1986. This shifted ownership from smaller, family-owned businesses (many of which had ethnic ties to Italy) to large corporations. In many cases, the brand names remained intact after acquisition in order to preserve the label’s associations with family, tradition, and rusticity – a marketing decision that likely had the effect of masking the corporatization of pizza for many consumers. The ultimate example of fast food conglomeration was the development of Yum! Brands, incorporating a portfolio of fast food chains (Pizza Hut, Taco Bell, Kentucky Fried Chicken, Long John Silver’s, and A & W), with units in over 100 countries. The pizza industry may have been spared the sharp criticism that other fast food chains face because of the remarkable persistence of independent pizzerias, particularly in the “pizza belt” of the United States (primarily New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut), in withstanding the economic pressures of the larger conglomerates. According to Robert Emerson’s analysis of the fast food market in the 1970s, pizza was the only segment of the fast food industry that had yet to overtake the mom-and-pop stores.11 In the 1980s and 1990s, in what some have called the “pizza wars,” standardized pizza chains faced intense competition with each other and independent pizzerias. Perhaps because of the continued coexistence of chain and independent pizza-makers, activists may not have felt as threatened by the power of the big franchises to drive out independent small businesses and limit consumer choice. Quite the opposite, Pizza Hut takes credit for opening up the Midwest to pizza. Brothers Frank and Daniel Carney started the Pizza Hut chain in 1958 in Wichita, Kansas in a region of the country with historically small Italian-American populations. Frank Carney noted that when Pizza Hut first opened, “most of the people had really not eaten pizza; they were experiencing it for the first time.” Pizza Hut assumed much of the risk in introducing the new food to the Midwest, which, according to Carney, paved the way for independent operators to set up shop in the region.12 According to Pizza Today’s analysis of the industry in 2007, independent operators continue to retain control of about 46 percent of the pizza market.13

251 B.M. MILLER

For a long time pizza also managed to avoid as fattening a reputation as other popular fast foods, despite the high carbohydrate, sodium, and fat content in its typical preparation. This myth may stem from pizza’s ethnic roots, as there was a popular notion that ethnic foods were naturally healthier, due to their reliance on vegetables as well as charbroiling, baking, and stir-frying cooking methods (rather than deep-frying).14 Livestrong.com, a website dedicated to supporting the health of cancer survivors, continues to peddle this view, praising pizza as a “complete, healthy meal” offering “all of the major food groups when loaded with the right toppings.”15 While the perception of pizza as a “healthier” fast food option still has traction, it is less pervasive today than in past decades. The big pizza chains have trended toward adding more high-fat content items to their menus (like breadsticks, cheesy bread, and chicken wings) and pizzas loaded with greater quantities of meat and cheese. This business inclination likely reflects anticipated consumption patterns. Mintel’s consumer research servicing the fast food industry (2012) found that 60 percent of respondents did not care if the pizza was healthy or not when they ate it.16 Some of Pizza Hut’s bestsellers, for example, are its Pepperoni Lovers’ and Meat Lovers’ pizzas. If one were to measure fast food status by its health content, pizza has certainly caught up to its fast food competitors with respect to caloric indulgence. Another reason why pizza does not easily conform to the “fast food” prototype is that, unlike the more standardized menus of the hamburger chains, the big pizza franchises learned that they could not universalize the product. The global expansion of McDonald’s, by contrast, worked from the opposite mindset. According to John Love, McDonald’s international operators had more success changing local eating habits by selling the American system than adapting their menu to suit local food patterns.17 The Carney brothers of Pizza Hut, however, after having great success with their thin crust pizza in the Midwest, struggled to penetrate the Northeastern market, a region with a larger Italian- American demographic. After researching local culinary preferences, the Carney brothers introduced their highly successful “thick ’n’ chewy” crust in 1975 to better suit North- eastern tastes. Pizza styles varied even in states as close geographically as Connecticut and New York. Frank Carney noted that the company had to create two different pizza crusts to service areas that were within 100 miles of each other.18 The creation and celebration of different regional and local styles of pizza provided at least a superficial segmentation to the market, enough to evince the aura of diversification. Finally, pizza’s ethnic heritage makes it more the exception than the rule in the Amer- ican fast food industry, especially in the 1950s and 1960s. Its success paved the way for fast food conglomerates to appropriate other Americanized ethnic cuisines, like Tex/Mex.19 For these reasons, pizza may not be the paradigmatic example of the American fast food industry. Its low production costs, quick preparation, and versatility of consumption have, nonetheless, turned it into a billion-dollar fast food industry, ideal to meet the needs of a mobile and culturally diverse society.

The evolution of pizza In the mass emigrations of Southern and Eastern Europeans to the United States between 1880 and 1920 came multitudes of Southern Italian peasants ﬂeeing from economic hardship. Many of the new immigrants coalesced into a poor, working class clustered into tenement homes in concentrated urban areas. Preserving familiar food customs was very important to these newcomers, but some adaptation was inevitable. The Americanization

252 THE EVOLUTION OF A FAST FOOD PHENOMENON of Italian cuisine first began with the accommodations they had to make to their cooking styles and recipes resulting from the different cookery, utensils, and ingredients available in America. Local food markets catering to Italian clientele served as important social centers in urban Italian-American neighborhoods. Early shopkeepers imported ingredients like olive oil, salume, and cheese directly from Italy and prepared breads and sausages in customary fashion for local paesani. One observer of the North End in Boston in 1925 demarcated the geographic limits of the area by “the red and green peppers [that] beam out from the shiny purple eggplants, and long strings of onions and garlic [that] hang over the great bunches of rhubarb, or carrots with feathery green tops.”20 The distinctive colors, smells, and spices of Italian-American food staples gave justification to the ghettoization of their communities; largely denigrating the Italian-American diet as unhealthy and distasteful, dominant American middle-class culture, at least prior to the 1920s, perceived these food customs as emblematic of Italian-American social and cultural inferiority. Italian-Americans in these ethnic enclaves, however, were generally resistant to the Americanizing efforts of social workers, nutritionists, and reformers, who utilized new concepts in home economics to try to bring their eating habits and living conditions more in line with American standards. Even the well-intentioned agents of Americanization cast Italian-Americans as an alien culture and a public health threat, using their food choices and oppositional response to signify the group’s larger ineligibility for social inclusion. Lucy Gillett, who made recommendations for improving Italian-American eating habits to the New York Association for Improving the Condition of the Poor in 1922, took the premise that “The nutrition problem is not all a question of food.” She criticized Italian-American families for making ignorant choices that impacted their health, paying for expensive cheese from Italy, for example, at $1.50 per pound when three times as much American cheese could be bought, thus forcing the family to sacrifice on items such as milk, causing deficiencies and disease in children.21 Likewise, in a study done for the Division of Neigh- borhood Agencies in New York in 1920, John Daniels put it best when he asked: “What can you expect of the Americanism of the man whose breath always reeks with garlic?” He wrote, “One’s very food affects his Americanism.” Once the new immigration restrictions of the mid-1920s slowed the mass emigrations of Southern Italians, however, these negative attitudes began to change.22 There are many reasons why mainstream Americans began looking more favorably upon Italian-American food around 1920. For one thing, the scientific discovery of vitamins gave visibility to the preponderance of fruits and vegetables in the Italian-American diet. In addition to acknowledging the nutritional balance of Italian foodways, the US government’s rationing programs during World War I brought forth greater appreciation for the cost-effectiveness of Italian food. The Food Administration held up some Italian-American dishes, like spaghetti, as a model for the nation during wartime because they used little to no meat.23 By the 1930s, many American cookbooks included recipes for spaghetti, touting the dish as an economical way to fill families in times of need. Also furthering a more inclusive posture toward Italian cuisine was a warming of American political attitudes toward Italy in the 1920s, with Benito Mussolini’srisetopowerin 1922, at least until he aligned with Adolf Hitler. Many Americans as yet were unsure about the implications of fascism, and they saw Mussolini as a leader who could modernize Italy. “Spaghetti houses” opened in cities across America in the 1920s, making “Italian” restaurants the most popular “foreign” cuisine in America by the end of that decade.24 Given the popular association between Italian-American food and low cost, it

253 B.M. MILLER is not surprising that Italian-American cuisine became the first ethnic food to break into the fast food industry.25 Italian-American restaurateurs contributed to the assimilation of native cuisine by altering dishes to suit the tastes of a diversified Americanized clientele. In this process, they invented new dishes, like spaghetti and meatballs, fettuccine alfredo, and veal parmigiana, that would have been unknown to Italian immigrants by those names. Over time, this hybridized cuisine helped constitute the symbolic trappings of a new, more coherent Italian- American identity (which, at least for the first generation of immigrants, had been based more on village or town affiliation than any unified sense of national Italian identity).26 At least up through the 1950s, many Italian restaurants widened their appeal to non-Italian consumers by capitalizing on stereotypical conceptions of Italian and Italian-American culture and cuisine. Exemplifying one of these establishments was a table d’hôte in Greenwich Village called Gonfarone’s, catering initially to local Italians, then bohemian artists and writers in the Village, and ultimately serving an ethnically diverse crowd, according to Maria Sermolino, the daughter of one of the owners. Despite becoming one of the most popular restaurants in the area, the owners of Gonfarone’s recognized that their success with non-Italian patrons hinged on performing the familiar roles and constructing the appropriate setting that met popular expectations of Italian dining. The owners, the bus boys, the cooks, and even the swarthy Tuscan bartender, had to speak and “act” Italian.27 Pizza is emblematic of this new food pattern. Most sources cite Gennaro Lombardi’s pizzeria on Spring Street, in the heart of New York City’s Little Italy, as America’s first pizzeria, having obtained the first mercantile license to sell pizza in 1905. Still, pizza remained largely confined to the Italian-American community before World War II. By the 1920s, there were a growing number of family-owned pizzerias in Northeastern cities, where the vast majority of Italian immigrants had settled. With little or no refrigeration, pizza-makers had to obtain all ingredients fresh, especially the mozzarella cheese, which had to be produced and consumed daily.28 For many Italian-Americans, a traditional pizza was a flat, thin bread with salt and oil on it, occasionally with fresh tomatoes, onions, or anchovies added on top. This flat bread was (and still is) customary to the areas of Naples and Rome, known as pizza bianca to the Romans and pizza di pane to the Neapolitans.29 It is likely that many Italian immigrants had not eaten pizza before arriving in the United States, but once here, the dish acquired a special importance in the building of Italian- American community life. In Cleveland, Ohio, for example, Italian-Americans formed voluntary associations that helped nurture a sense of ethnic group identity, and these were often called “pizza and sausage clubs” because food was integral to their shared experience. Many Italian-American families practiced the custom of exchanging pizzas with other families at Easter, embedding family names into the crust using strips of dough.30 World War II, however, was a major turning point in broadening pizza consumption in the United States. Military service abroad acquainted American soldiers with new places and tastes, like Italian cuisine, sparking interest in ethnic cuisines at home. Even so, the American diet was not accustomed to certain spices and textures, placing limits on such culinary exploration. As pizza became more mainstream in the late 1940s and 1950s, the typical recipe changed to suit the American palate: less garlic, oregano instead of basil, larger pie sizes, and greater quantities of meat-based toppings. By 1957, the Saturday Eve- ning Post had taken note of “the tremendous pizza craze that has swept over the country.”31 The popular press in the 1950s celebrated pizza for becoming a mainstay of the Amer- ican diet through mythic pronunciations of its lineage from Naples to America.

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Exemplifying this story was a Boston Globe piece, published in 1954, describing pizza’s roots as a dish born in the “fragrant kitchen” of “Mama” in Naples, as she prepared foods for “Papa,” coming in from a long day of work in the fields. Of course, pizza historically was a street food in Naples, so the idea of Mama making pizza at home for Papa was an invented tale designed to sentimentalize pizza’s domesticated origins. In America, the Globe continued, pizza transformed from its bucolic roots into a “special dish at lunch, supper, and parties” easily prepared by Americans of any ethnicity with “Quick-mix” packages. The article cast pizza in nostalgic terms, as a celebration of a glorified traditional past, that had now turned into a prepackaged, fast food ideal for America’s quick-paced modern lifestyle.32 This imagined narrative of the food’s evolution enabled Americans to take pride in the integration of adapted foods from its diverse ethnic cultures without conceding the homogenizing effects of Americanization and mass production. Many historians of the immigrant experience write about the generational conflict that existed between first-, second-, and third-generation immigrants regarding the preservation of family customs, language, religion, and other aspects of group identity. Greater inclusion of Italian-American food into the dominant American diet as compared to other ethnic foods functioned to decrease the stigma attached to preserving their food patterns. Many Italian-Americans, particularly of the second generation, had to weigh their desires for acceptance with the cost of abandoning their ethnic traditions. Southern Italian immigrant and teacher Leonard Covello in East Harlem observed how school was a source of turmoil for young Italian-Americans, who faced the peer pressures of Americanization, creating feelings of shame and hostility for the culture of their parents.33 In describing his own experiences as a schoolboy, he talks about his embarrassment by the “bulky sandwiches of crusty Italian bread heaped with salami, cheese or Italian sausage” sent from home that he felt he had to hide or eat before school.34 The rise in popularity of certain dishes, like spaghetti and pizza, eased this sense of alienation and facilitated inclusion into the host society: Italian-Americans could perform their identities as American and as Italian- American simultaneously through consuming foods that were fast becoming a staple of American youth culture. According to Irvin Child’s study of Italian-American immigrants in New Haven, Connecticut, a growing acceptance of Italian-American foods, even an affinity for it, enabled many second- and third-generation immigrants to retain their families’ traditional food customs because they faced less outside resistance to restrict it than other ethnic groups.35 Preparing and consuming pizza and other new “Italian- American” dishes helped cultivate a shared ethnic consciousness among a diverse and provincially-minded group of immigrants from Italy. It enabled them to take pride in holding onto their culinary roots, adapted as these might be, while also celebrating their ethnic food’s ubiquitous rise in status in American households and restaurants.36 Still, the Americanization of pizza took place, in large part, outside Italian-American communities. The significant impact of non-Italians on the growth and development of the pizza industry after World War II helped to reinvent the ethnic heritage of the dish. Americans of non-Italian heritage co-opted the dish, innovated new recipes for the sauce and crust, and utilized new technologies to maximize production. By 1975, for example, Greek entrepreneurs owned at least one pizzeria in nearly every rural township in Eastern Connecticut, comprising 39 percent of pizzerias in the state, despite the larger demographic of Italian-Americans than Greek-Americans in the state.37 Irish-Americans Tom and Jim Monaghan opened up the first Domino’s Pizza in Ypsilanti, Michigan, in 1960. Tom Monaghan built a successful empire based on applying mass production techniques

255 B.M. MILLER to pizza-making and creating a business infrastructure conducive to large-scale franchising, despite facing significant setbacks along the way. He kept the operation as simple as possible, offering no non-pizza items, besides beverages, and no dine-in service. When he described the pizza-making process, he did so in the language of maximizing efficiency: to handle the rush, he wrote in his memoir, “Each member of the team has to employ manual dexterity, economy of movement, speed, and quick thinking.”38 Speed in pizza production and delivery time was Domino’s signature skill, itself emblematic of the new fast food culture that seemed to value time over quality. His success rested on cornering the market in college towns and military bases and seeking out more effective tools, like larger ovens and more durable pizza boxes, to streamline production. Peddling pizza’s Italian roots factored remarkably little in Monaghan’s marketing strategy. The process of Americanizing pizza began with marking the important distinction between national variations of the dish. Symbolizing this break was President Dwight D. Eisenhower’s declaration of American pizza’s independence in 1953, when he publicly stated that he had tasted better pizza in New York than he had ever had in Naples, Italy, prompting a staunch defense of Neapolitan superiority by Admiral Robert Carney, the commander-in-chief of the North Atlantic Treaty Southern European Forces. Whereas pizza was largely unknown in America outside the Italian-American community before World War II, Eisenhower’s statement symbolized the appropriation of pizza as an ethnic food into American national cuisine, a trend that complemented the broader trend toward a homogenization of mass culture occurring in the 1950s. In 1954, Look Magazine proclaimed pizza’s newfound “citizenship,” denoting its graduation into Americanized cuisine as a new staple in the repertoire of dishes prepared and consumed routinely in American home kitchens.39 By the early 1950s, pizza had become conventional, with at least 15,000 pizzerias in the United States and widespread supermarket circulation of ready-made refrigerated or frozen pizza.40 Even as non-Italian restaurants and cookbooks subsumed pizza into the category of American cuisine, the popular press still hailed its Italian-American heritage. By the late 1960s, the nation’s growing interest in civil rights shifted cultural ideals toward a celebration of diversity and difference, particularly for the nation’s youth. Food became one means of showcasing American pluralism: pizza was all the more “American” due to its ethnic derivation and blend of globally-acquired ingredients. It was thus celebrated for its simultaneous performance of ethnic distinctiveness and mass appeal.41 Particularly as second- and third-generation ethnic Americans and participants in the counterculture grew dissatisfied with the homogenization of American culture in the 1960s and 1970s, criticizing the fast food industry for its contribution, many large conglomerates revamped their strategy and preached new messages of diversification. The ethnic fast food boom enabled second- and third-generation immigrants and Americans with broadening culinary tastes to share in “ethnic”-style dishes without sacrificing modern convenience. This nostalgic turn toward the nation’s ethnic past raised the value placed on “authenticity” in food advertising. While this was new for many “ethnic” foods in the 1970s, pizza had blazed the path decades before. Pizza chains, as early as the 1950s, drew on the language and imagery of the “Old Country” to emphasize themes of tradition, distinctiveness, and quality. But the “staged authenticity,” to borrow Dean MacCannell’s term, driving ethnic fast food marketing reproduced a homogenization of another sort, an imagined construction of ethnic difference prescribed, in this case, by stereotypical images of Italian and Italian-American culture.42 Pizza Hut’s famous logo, for example, the icon of “Pizza

256 THE EVOLUTION OF A FAST FOOD PHENOMENON

Pete,” was of an Italian-looking man with swirled moustache and red-checkered apron, often tossing a pie into the air. Over time these commodified images of pizza’s Italian identity became so overused that they lost their currency. By the mid-1970s, Lippincott & Margulies, the advertising firm for Pizza Hut, urged the company to retire the little Italian character in favor of a logo featuring the outline of their roof.43 For some pizza chains, like Paul Revere’s Pizza International, Ltd., with stores in Wis- consin, Iowa, and Texas, pizza seemingly lost its “ethnic” status altogether. Tom and Dick Mueller, who founded that company in 1975, marketed their brand with an icon of Paul Revere announcing, “The pizza is coming,” to mark a culinary revolution of a new sort. The Muellers’ playful placement of pizza at the nation’s founding, as part of a newly imagined historical heritage, signified its coming of age as an “all-American” food.44 As one food writer in the 1980s put it, “America’s amoré for Italian cooking has been going on for so long and with such intensity that many no longer consider pasta and pizza to be ethnic.”45 These renunciations of pizza’s “ethnic” standing due to its widespread consumption raises an important question: does a dish relinquish its “ethnic” status once it becomes a staple of mainstream American food culture? In the case of pizza, its claim to ethnic identification remains highly contested and malleable.

Pizza as fast food Technological innovations of the 1950s and 1960s revolutionized the pizza-making industry. More efficient gas ovens replaced coal ovens, facilitating higher volume production. Machines designed to knead large quantities of dough replaced the need to do that work by hand. The coming of refrigeration enabled pizza shops to preserve dough and other ingredients for multiple days.46 On the East Coast, Greek-American restaurateurs started rolling out the dough early in the morning and refrigerating the dough in the same ten- inch pans that they would bake in, a technique that sped up production. Pizza Hut, like many other big chains, offered franchisees access to a central commissary, providing already prepared frozen dough that could be baked quickly using conveyor ovens.47 New food processing techniques, supply houses, mechanisms for distribution, and better cooking apparatus transformed pizza by the 1960s into a commodity for mass production. The effect has been a substantial increase in pizza consumption in the United States and abroad, but to many critics, the standardization and large-scale franchising of the pizza industry has been to the detriment of quality and taste. Pizza is an ideal fast food. The dish facilitates a limited, single-dish menu while still allowing for significant creative variation through toppings. Different pizza restaurants can make their pizza distinctive by further varying recipes for sauce (from sweet to spicy) and dough thickness. The relative ease of production is coupled with its versatility of consumption, which can take place in a dining establishment, at home, in the car, on the street, at parties, or at school. To expedite delivery and take-out ordering in a culture increasingly reliant on cell phones and other electronic devices, many pizza chains currently utilize online and mobile phone ordering apps and promote through social media, like Facebook and Twitter. And lastly, pizza ingredients are relatively inexpensive, making it an economical option to feed a crowd. Whereas companies like McDonald’s devoted significant resources to driving down the costs of products like beef and potatoes in order to lower prices, pizza-makers had the advantage of cheaper production costs.48 Pizza’s acclimation to the post-World War II American diet and lifestyle and its global exportation

257 B.M. MILLER stems from three general areas: ﬁrst, quick preparation and service; second, contextualiza- tion as a social food; and third, regional and local diﬀerentiation.

Speed, convenience, and delivery Pizza as a fast food made its mark on the industry with the innovation of home delivery. While the rise of home pizza delivery is generally associated with Domino’s Pizza 30- minute delivery guarantee, first implemented in 1967, it was one of many pizza stores utilizing the practice in the 1960s and 1970s. And, in fact, the concept of home delivery can be traced back much further, to a popular practice in Italian-American neighborhoods of fresh bread deliveries from Italian bakeries.49 Domino’s specialized in free delivery, with no sit-down service at all. Monaghan initially targeted college towns and military bases, only later expanding into urban and suburban residential areas. With delivery, however, standardization and predictability of the end product was essential. Monaghan decided early on to offer one-size pizzas only, the 12-inch, to simplify production, though in recent years, Domino’s has diversified its menu choices to include sandwiches, pasta, and chicken wings to remain competitive. He funded research into finding the most effective “hot boxes” and “hot bags,” pizza containers with portable heaters to ensure that pizza arrived at the desired temperature at the customers’ homes. Carefully monitoring delivery speeds, and even holding contests to award personnel for making the quickest pizzas, Monaghan constructed the Domino’s brand on the promise of speed. This vision, though, had its liabilities. In the 1990s, Domino’s had to relinquish the 30-minute guarantee after a series of costly lawsuits involving car accidents with delivery personnel. Pizza chains struggled to formulate marketing strategies to edge out competition. Little Caesars, one of Domino’s historic competitors, tried delivery for a few years and then opted for a primarily take-out-only operation. According to its founder Mike Ilitch, the son of Macedonian immigrants, “We feel that as long as society is mobile, and we’re conveniently located in accessible spots, we’ll do fine with our take-out operation.”50 Little Caesars oriented its marketing around the concept of good value for the price, selling two pizzas for the price of one. Shakey’s Pizza, a chain based in San Francisco with over 460 stores in 1980, could not compete with the more limited-menu chains of Domino’s and Little Cae- sars, and so it sought to mimic the dining experience of the mom-and-pop restaurants. Shakey’s changed its dining concept in the late 1970s from a pizza parlor to a “new style” restaurant, offering a reasonably priced buffet with a salad bar, pizza, and a variety of other food options. Shakey’s, like other chains of that period, also introduced Mexican-style pizzas (Shakey’s called them taco-style pizzaritos) as a fusion of Italian and Mexican fast food tastes.51 Shakey’s did not survive, but new chain concepts emerged. In 1984, John Schnatter founded Papa John’s, a growing pizza chain that defines itself by the motto: “Better Ingre- dients, Better Pizza.” Schnatter said in an interview with Fortune magazine, “We realized early on that Domino’s had the speed, Little Caesars had the price, and Pizza Hut had variety,” so he created a chain concept that “acted like an independent as far as quality” in order to achieve “the best of all worlds.” By 2008, the chain was ranked third in overall pizza sales at $2 billion, behind only Pizza Hut and Domino’s.52 The technological innovation of the home freezer, which proliferated in the 1950s, made possible the rise of the frozen pizza market. By 1972, one in every three households had a home freezer.53 The first frozen pizza brand came out in 1957, produced by the Celentano Brothers. Soon after, Rose and Jim Totino, of Minneapolis, who had opened a pizza parlor

258 THE EVOLUTION OF A FAST FOOD PHENOMENON in 1952, began producing frozen pizzas. Pillsbury acquired Totino’s in 1975, giving them a nationwide market in frozen food distribution. By 1969, Totino’s frozen pizza had cornered the market, with 75 percent of all frozen pizza sales, but it faced the competition of an emerging rival, Tombstone, bought by Kraft in 1986. Recognizing the potential convenience of frozen pizza, several major fast food conglomerates acquired smaller companies that sold frozen pizzas. Nestlé owns DiGiorno, the leading brand in pizza sales as of 2012. Nestlé also bought Tombstone from Kraft in 2010 and owns the rights to Jack’s and Cali- fornia Pizza Kitchen frozen pizza varieties. In 1974 Nestlé’s Stouffer’s Food Division acquired the license to sell one of its most successful product lines, french bread pizza, a recipe innovated by street vendor Bob Petrillose on the Cornell University campus. Schwan Food Co. owns the number two brand in pizza sales, Red Baron, as well as the up-scale line, Freschetta. Nestlé and Schwan are battling for dominion of the frozen pizza market with their rival lines, DiGiorno and Freschetta, marketing what they called a “self-rising” crust to try to imitate the taste and consistency of pizzeria-style pizza.54 The growth of the frozen food segment of the food industry broke down an important barrier for fast food. Fast food no longer had to be dine-in, take-out, or delivered; it could seemingly be “cooked” as part of a family’s daily routine. In addition to providing pre- made pizzas in the frozen food aisle, food vendors offered items to simplify the labor of pizza preparation at home: pizza-making kits, prepackaged dough, canned pizza sauces, pre-shredded cheese, and even pre-cut toppings. The sale of home-making kits, such as sold by Chef Boy-ar-dee, and recipes for English muffin pizzas encouraged the idea of pizza preparation at home as early as the 1950s. The supermarket became an extension of the fast food chain, offering frozen foods that were precooked and could be quickly and easily prepared, with standardized results. For many families, this was even faster, or roughly equivalent, to awaiting food preparation at local restaurants or delivery. The growth of the frozen food market accelerated the trend in American family life toward minimizing time allotted to food preparation. In the 1920s the average homemaker spent five to six hours a day preparing family meals. The development of packaged, convenience foods cut that time to an hour and a half or less by the 1950s, which is still three times as long as the average American devotes to food preparation today.55 The invention of the microwave was, perhaps, the ultimate asset to quick food preparation, but it had its limits with respect to pizza, which does not generally heat well in the microwave. Although frozen pizza does not heat as quickly in conventional ovens as it might in the microwave, it has the added advantage of being cheaper than pizza restaurants; according to Good Housekeeping’s survey of market prices in 1975, it found that Pizza Hut’s pizza costs up to twice as much as homemade and between 25 and 50 cents more per pizza than frozen pizza.56 Whereas the initial appeal of frozen pizza was its ability to feed a family for less, inexpensive brands like Tombstone, which cater to budget-conscious consumers have faced more recent competition from up-scale varieties, like DiGiorno and Freschetta. These brands target consumers willing to pay for higher-quality frozen pizza for the convenience of at-home preparation. Like the big pizza franchises, a few key players dominate the frozen pizza industry. Ohio-based MaMa Rosa’s has become the largest branded refrigerated pizza distributor in the United States, with annual sales of about $70 million. They offer a variety of frozen pizzas, including a Lean Lifestyle brand aimed at health-conscious and diabetic consumers as well as packaged, refrigerated dough that could be made into pizza at home. Its genesis began in Ohio with Michael Gilardi, founder of Gilardi’s Pizza Products, in 1979.

259 B.M. MILLER

ConAgra Foods acquired it in 1998, transforming it into a configuration of brands: “MaMa Rosa’s,”“Mama Angelina’s,” and “Our Old Italian,” names calculated to conjure up the familial and traditional origins of the brand. In 2006, the company transferred ownership again, this time to Plaza Belmont Management Group LLC. Since then, the company grew through the acquisition of other frozen pizza and frozen food companies, like Amstar/Virga Foods in 2008, and was awarded a multi-million-dollar contract for servicing public schools and military bases in Puerto Rico in 2009.57 The evolution of the company epitomizes the process of corporate and global aggrandizement that marks both the dine-in and frozen food sides of the fast food industry. MaMa Rosa’s now distributes to over 10,000 supermarkets, pharmacies, and convenience stores. Yet surprisingly, the rise of frozen foods has not necessarily hurt fast food restaurant sales. To the contrary, the two trends have reinforced each other, promoting consumer desire for particular fast foods and deepening Americans’ dietary reliance on processed foods. Like other fast food chains, by the mid-1980s the large pizza franchises opened units in malls, department stores, workplace and college cafeterias, airports, and even hospitals. By the end of the decade, Americans were spending $20 billion a year on pizza, 90 percent of which was purchased for dine-in and take-out and ten percent from frozen retail varieties at supermarkets, according to the National Association of Pizza Operators.58 In 1960, the United States Department of Agriculture (USDA) approved pizza for meeting their guidelines for school lunches, and the most profitable school lunch menu item was born. The Senate Select Committee on Nutrition and Human Needs declared its nutrients in exact accordance to USDA recommendations: 15 percent protein, 27 percent fat, and 58 percent carbohydrate.59 A Virginia-based School Nutrition Association’s “Vote for School Lunch” campaign in 2006 found that based on the votes of thousands of school children, pizza was the landslide winner as the most popular lunch choice.60 The fast food industry had conquered yet another domain – schools – so much so that some public schools have begun to contract out school lunch programs directly to fast food providers, like McDonald’s and Pizza Hut. Nonetheless, concerns over childhood obesity have raised public scrutiny of school lunch programs. While most schools are reluctant to get rid of a pizza option due to its popularity with kids, one up-and-coming Los-Angeles- based chain found an innovative way to break into the competitive market for these school contracts. Fresh Brothers, opening in 2007, created a recipe that blended vegetables into their pizza sauce, securing them contracts with several local districts. The competition for these contracts is fierce, with a number of companies, like Tony’s Pizza, LiveSmart, and Domino’s, offering healthier product lines intended to meet school lunch guidelines. Once again, pizza’s adaptability has safeguarded its longevity and opened space for small business operators to compete with the big franchises.

A comfort and party food Vice President of marketing for the Nebraska-based Godfather’s Pizza chain recognized that the perception of pizza as a fun, family-oriented food is key to its successful promotion: “Eating pizza is a social, and sharing, occasion. It’s fun, and more than just a fueling occasion.”61 Classifying pizza as a party food was brilliantly calibrated to meet the needs of a working-class American culture: it could be obtained quickly, at manageable cost, and consumed by the “pie,” meaning it was meant to be consumed in social groupings. American sports culture provides one arena for shared pizza consumption. Entrepreneurs

260 THE EVOLUTION OF A FAST FOOD PHENOMENON in the industry targeted the consumer base of sports fans, particularly for delivery, because watching games is often a cause for social gatherings. Monaghan, of Domino’s Pizza, became owner of the Detroit Tigers in 1983 and ran promotions in conjunction with the team. He sold the team in 1992 to Mike Ilitch, owner of Little Caesars Pizza, who followed Monaghan’s lead. Papa John’s became the corporate sponsor of the National Football League (NFL) in 2010 and has earned the designation as the NFL’sofficial pizza. Papa John’s has leveraged this relationship toward very successful promotional campaigns, particularly in relation to one of the biggest sales days of the year for pizza, Super Bowl Sunday. In addition to sports fans, many families, particularly with parents between the ages of 25 and 44, have woven TV or movie pizza nights into their family routines, accounting for seven percent of total pizza sales according to a 2012 survey of pizza respondents.62 Movies have helped to institutionalize the social conventions of eating pizza, with recurring representations across film genres of kids and teenagers consuming pizza, ranging from Mary-Kate and Ashley’s Sleepover Party (1995) to horror movies, like Slumber Party Massacre (1982). Some films depicted pizzerias as centers of community life, like Do The Right Thing (1989), or social networks, such as Mystic Pizza (1988). The aura of pizza also owes much to its legendary place in American celebrity culture, whether it is Joe DiMaggio wooing Marilyn Monroe with pizza or famous celebrities, like Jackie Gleason and Frank Sinatra, publicly celebrating their bottomless appetite for the dish. Most fast foods, in fact, do not enjoy this social connotation; the perception of pizza as a social occasion has resulted from a history of calculated marketing campaigns equating pizza with entertainment – as a food that brings forth sentiments of comfort, friends, and good times. One of the earliest pizza franchises, Shakey’s Pizza Parlor, founded by war veteran Sherwood “Shakey” Johnson and Ed Plummer in 1957 in Sacramento, California, tried to hook the dine-in crowd with musical performances. Set in an English-style pub with Dixieland music, Shakey’s abandoned the prototype of the Italian-American pizzeria and created an atmosphere more akin to a bar. As early as the 1950s, restaurateurs recognized that shaping the atmosphere and social context of eating pizza was critical to successful promotion. Even with pizza delivery as opposed to dine-in, marketers emphasized the social aspect of pizza and helped inculcate the cultural notion of the “pizza party.” Some smaller chains in the 1980s, for example, in their efforts to compete with Domino’s, began delivering videocassette rentals to homes along with pizzas.63 An evening of entertainment, therefore, could be acquired all in one package, at a low price. Gatti’s Pizza, a Texas-based chain with over a hundred units in the Southwest, launched an advertising campaign in 2007 with the motto, “Getting Together Over Gatti’s.” Many of the units opened GattiTowns, entertainment centers featuring kids’ rides, virtual reality games, and bumper cars in conjunction with their pizza restaurants. The intent was to create pizza destinations ideally suited for birthday parties and corporate outings.64 The fusion of fun and pizza undoubtedly inspired the construction of the “Giant Pizza Play- ground” at the National Zoological Park in Washington, D.C., a 22-foot rubberized pizza- themed play area with oversized olives, mushrooms, and other toppings for children to climb on, fit with a cheese wedge slide. During the “pizza wars,” as businesses struggled to come up with new concepts to edge out the competition, many chains created gimmicks to appeal to children. Ray Kroc, founder of the McDonald’s franchise, helped secure hegemony in the children’s market through the launch of Ronald McDonald, who debuted on television in 1963,

261 B.M. MILLER spearheading the approach of targeting advertising to children.65 One chain, ShowBiz Pizza, marketed itself through the concept of “pizza-and-family-fun,” integrating playrooms directly into its pizza restaurants. In 1977, Nolan Bushnell, founder of Atari video games, opened the ﬁrst Chuck E. Cheese in San Jose, California, hoping to integrate his interest in video gaming with the restaurant business. ShowBiz and Chuck E. Cheese became primary rivals, and both competed for consumer attention by oﬀering performances by animatronic robots and enticing playspaces. ShowBiz later bought out Chuck E. Cheese in 1984 after it went bankrupt, and the two chains merged. The incorporation of arcades, playrooms, and electronic entertainments into pizza restaurants (in these two chains and many others) helped to inspire the cultural association between kids and pizza. Such restaurants marketed themselves as ideal venues for birthday parties, and the success of their campaigns is clearly evident. Today even kids’ party places that are not pizza restaurants often contract out to local places to cater their parties or encourage families to have pizza delivered. Pizza has become almost as vital to kids’ birthday partiesasbirthdaycake.

The illusion of choice One reason why the pizza industry has thrived domestically and globally, in markets with very different culinary preferences, is its adaptability. It exemplifies glocalization, the modification of global production trends to suit local tastes.66 Pizza franchisors did not universalize the product; they could instead adapt crust thickness, sauce spiciness, and topping choices to appeal to particular markets. The ease by which such superficial alterations could be applied to pizza has aided in the alacrity and success of its global profusion, countering perceptions of cultural homogenization yet fostering the economic domination of a handful of pizza chains around the globe. For instance, Pizza Hut, the chain with the greatest number of international units, floundered in the early 1980s in its attempts to break into Hong Kong in large part because cheese was not a staple of the local diet. It eventually achieved success by altering the recipe to use very light cheese and curried beef, seafood, or barbequed beef. By the mid-1990s, Pizza Hut had garnered nearly 80 percent of the market share in Hong Kong.67 Most typically, pizza-makers acclimate to local food patterns through the creative use of toppings. Some of the most popular toppings internationally include: pickled ginger, mutton, and tofu in India; tuna in Europe; curry in Pakistan; coconut in Costa Rica; and red herring in Russia.68 Similarly pizzerias around the United States offer distinctive varieties of pizza that suit local tastes, such as: taco pizza in Antlers, Oklahoma; crawfish tail cream cheese red pepper pizza in Ridgeland, Mis- sissippi; and alligator-topped pizza in Oregon.69 The regionalization of pizza and pastiche of multi-national and multi-ethnic influences has been an important factor in staving off criticisms of homogenization. Although many independent pizzerias stick to their particular regional styles, a number of chain restaurants marketing regional pizza styles have achieved success outside their geographic areas, such as California Pizza Kitchen, Uno’s Chicago Grill (deep-dish Chicago style), and Amici’s East Coast Pizzeria (offering New York-style pizza to West Coast consumers). Their strategy is to sell to transplanted consumers, longing for the pizza style they are accustomed to, as well as garner consumers seeking alternatives to the local norm. Some of these styles, like California and New York, have been more successful than others in external markets. In effect, the notion of regionalization rationalizes the coexistence of multiple chains

262 THE EVOLUTION OF A FAST FOOD PHENOMENON catering to different styles in all geographic areas and creates an illusion of choice within the pizza marketplace that advertisers can use to build consumer loyalty. Many popular regional styles of American pizza cuisine are rooted in Neapolitan recipes. Chicago’s deep-dish pizza, for example, has antecedents in Italian tortes, such as pitta, sfincuini, pizza rustica, and pizza pasqualina. In 1943, Ike Sewell and Ric Riccardo bought a pub and used this basic culinary concept to innovate the buttery, pan-prepared thick crust of their now-famous “Chicago-style” deep-dish pizza. Pizzeria Uno opened six months later, made famous by a Chicago Tribune reporter’s rave review that the pizza was not only better than that which he had eaten in Italy, but that with a bottle of Chianti, was the best meal for the money in all of Chicago. Sewell and Riccardo began franchising Pizzeria Uno in 1979, and at present, there are 140 locations throughout the United States as well as a handful of units in foreign countries. Ironically, Uno Chicago Grill has only three Chicago locations, but Sewell and Riccardo helped define the regional brand, influencing many other local independent pizza-makers to adopt variations of the style.70 Also based on Neapolitan-style pizza, New York pizza has a thin crust with a dense outer core. Because of the large Italian demographic in the city, pizzerias proliferated in the greater New York area. New York pizzerias are most well known for selling pizza by the slice. A leading innovator of this new trend was Patsy’s, a pizzeria that opened in 1933 in East Harlem. Many pizzerias would showcase their pizzas in front glass windows to attract passersby, marketing slices as a quick snack or meal-on-the-go. Nearby New Haven, Connecticut, a city with a thriving Italian ethnic neighborhood around Wooster Square, also became a popular spot for pizza, a legendary favorite of celebrities like Frank Sinatra. In 1925, Italian immigrant Frank Pepe opened his Pizzeria Napoletana, offering its infamous white-clam pizza, and in 1938, Pepe’s nephew opened up a rival shop, Sally’s Apizza, in close proximity.71 In East Boston, Italian baker Francisco Santarpio began serving pizza in 1933 and Anthony Polcari opened Pizzeria Regina in Boston’s North End in 1926, offering carryout directly to cars, a progenitor of the curbside-to-go fast food trend. Pizzerias, like Pepe’s and Santarpio’s, represent Italian-American family businesses with substantial consumer followings that have withstood the competition of the large franchises. But they hardly represent the norm of the Northeastern pizza marketplace. When Tim Monaghan, of Domino’s Pizza, visited New York in the 1960s, he expected to learn about pizza from the Italian masters but instead was surprised to find that Filipino- and Jewish- Americans owned most of the shops.72 As stated earlier, Greek-Americans control a large stake of the Connecticut pizza market. Despite the legendary status of a few key places, then, the vast majority of pizzerias in the “pizza belt” are either franchised units of the pizza chains or independent operators, many of whom are not ethnically Italian. Pizza was easily incorporated into new styles of cooking emerging in parts of the country, like California. Alice Waters is largely credited for initiating the phenomenon of “California-style” cuisine in her restaurant, Chez Panisse, in the early 1970s. She created sophisticated dishes that utilized local ingredients and fused Asian, Hispanic, Italian, French, Southern, and other regional and ethnic influences. Her protégés, particularly her partner Jeremiah Tower, innovated the culinary sensation of “California-style” pizza. California-style pizza typically had a thin crust and incorporated an array of unusual toppings, like tandoori chicken, wild mushrooms, or goat cheese. Austrian-born chef Wolfgang Puck, in his restaurant, Spago, put the dish on the map, offering non-traditional pizzas to an upper-class clientele. Rather than pigeonholing the dish as Italian-American, he integrated different ethnic food traditions into his recipes, including offering a smoked salmon

263 B.M. MILLER and golden caviar pizza he called “Jewish pizza.”73 Marketers of California-style claimed their pizza to be antithetical to fast food in principle due to its inventive and varying set of ingredients, despite its mass production. The casual dining chain, California Pizza Kitchen, opened in 1985 and spread to over 250 locations in more than 30 states and 11 countries. Its menu offered “designer” pizza varieties peddling a fusion of global flavors: i.e. Peking Duck Pizza, Santa Fe Pizza, Spicy Korean Barbeque Pizza, Thai Chicken Pizza, and Jamaican Jerk Chicken. The New York Times dubbed the restaurant “gourmet fast food.”74 Co-founder Richard Rosenfield defined the California Pizza brand as of a higher class than the typical delivery chains to appeal to consumers not merely seeking convenience, but seeking a more sophisticated, international pizza experience. This strategy, ironically enough, did not prevent the franchise from supplementing its dine-in brand with its own line of frozen supermarket-sold varieties, distributed by Nestlé USA. Consumers in recent decades have grown more nutrition conscious, creating a market for “healthier” pizza options branded as “light,”“natural,”“lean,”“low-carb,”“vegan,” “whole-grain,”“gluten free,” and “organic.” Despite a marked increase in these nutritional claims, only about 40 percent of consumer respondents reported any concern about the health value of pizza when they ate it, which likely reflects the social context of eating pizza, taking place at parties or other social gatherings.75 Nonetheless, the growing segment of the food industry dedicated to health-conscious selection has inspired the growth of new pizza businesses seeking to capitalize on this demand by remaking pizza into a more healthful choice – using thinner, whole-grain flatbreads, minimal cheese, vegetable and lean meat toppings. Chicagoan Ed Jacobson launched the franchised chain, Edwardo’s Natural Pizza, utilizing a hydroponic herb garden on premises to emphasize the fresh and natural ingredients in his deep-dish pizzas. Similarly, Vaughan Lazar and Michael Gordon founded Pizza Fusion in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, a pizzeria committed to organic ingredients and environmentally responsible processing, including hybrid delivery cars. Achiev- ing $60 million in sales in 2008, it appeals to consumers who are vegan, lactose intolerant, and allergic to gluten.76 A number of new frozen pizza varieties have also been introduced, including the high fiber Kashi Four Cheese Pizza, the probiotic and multigrain Frozen Naked Pizza line, and Annie’s organic-rising crust pizza. These newer offerings strive to compete with the larger, more established corporations in the fast food marketplace, which are similarly clamoring to meet this growing consumer demand. Domino’s, in fact, was the first national pizza chain to offer a gluten-free crust.77 In the 1990s, a number of independent pizzerias and up-scale chains asserted themselves against the power of large franchises by offering consumers “artisanal” or “gourmet” pizza, labels aimed to distinguish their product from the industrially-produced, standardized fare. They pledged more “authentic” preparation and use of higher-quality ingredients. A few even sought out official certification of Italian authenticity from an organization called the Associazione Verace Pizza Napoletana (VPN). Recognizing that purchasing food is an act of enunciating one’s identity, these marketing campaigns articulated a class-based system of pizza consumption, appealing to those who identify with culinary sophistication and des- ignating the chains for the masses. Some businesses marketed their pizza for more sophisticated tastes by replacing or supplementing mozzarella cheese with feta, goat, gouda, asiago, and other cheeses, as well as incorporating international or fusion cuisine trends into their recipes. But the large chain restaurants fired back; Domino’s Pizza, for example, launched in 2011 its version of “Artisan Pizza,” a square shaped pizza with what they call “an artisan-style crust,” with such varieties as “Tuscan Salami & Roasted Veggie” and

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“Chicken & Bacon Carbonara.” Pizza Hut in New Zealand launched a “gourmet” product line in 2005 to attract the business clientele of its up-scale competitors.78 Such co-optation of the language of “artisanal” pizza complicates, if not blurs entirely, any neat distinction between “standardized” and “artisanal” pizza. Pizza advertisements, from California Pizza’s Kitchen’s “hearth-based” pizza to Dom- ino’s artisanal selections, emphasize, first and foremost, claims to authenticity. Pizzeria Venti, for example, a small Florida-based chain, markets its recipes as authentically Italian, even claiming to import water and extra virgin olive oil directly from Northern Italy to ensure quality.79 The prevalence for which this label has been appended, and in many cases the laxity for which it has been adhered to, has had repercussions. Particularly in Naples, there is resistance to the ways that pizza as a cuisine has been changed, even corrupted, outside the city. In the mid-1990s, a delegation of Neapolitan pizza chefs traveled to the United States, acting as the “pizza police,” to quote the New York Times, to promote the rules of proper pizza-making conduct according to the trade group, the Naples Pizza Association.80 Despite such protests, the food segment of Neapolitan tourism capitalizes on marketing to consumers’ desire to try the “real” thing. In 1995, for example, Antonio Bassolino, the mayor of Naples, created the tradition of a ten-day annual pizza celebration called “PizzaFest.”81 To be sure, there are regional variations of pizza styles in Italy as well as America (Neapolitan, Roman, and Sicilian are the most well known). The popularity of pizza in America and around the globe has bolstered the cuisine’s importance in Italian food culture, particularly with respect to international tourism. The fiercely competitive pizza wars have certainly extended internationally, requiring flexibility and ingenuity not only in recipe selection but also in business approach. Pizza Hut and Domino’s, for example, are battling for dominion in India. Both chains have over one hundred stores and open about 50 new units there a year, quadrupling the average of other markets. Whereas Domino’s is primarily a delivery business and Pizza Hut has table service, the rivalry between the two brands in India has prompted both sides to crossover into the other’s domain. Domino’s has renovated many of its stores to include a dine-in option, which now yields at least 40 percent of its business, while Pizza Hut is making as much as 50 percent of its sales through home delivery.82 Notwithstanding the varying stylistic differences in crust and toppings, the proliferation of pizza franchises domestically and globally and the persistence of independent pizzerias have facilitated a shared conception of what constitutes American-style pizza. The dish has become recognizable to consumers around the nation and the world, of all ethnic backgrounds. In fact, pizza appears as an entrée on more than one-third of all restaurant menus in the United States.83 Yet, regional and local differentiation, which continues to evolve, thwarts perceptions of homogenization by creating the sensation of variety, even as a few large conglomerates retain hegemony in global markets.

Conclusion “Fast food,” a phrase reviled by those in the industry for its implication of speed over quality, has transformed domestic, and potentially even global, eating habits. While pizza has its roots in Italy and Italian-American communities, today big industries export pizza globally as quintessential American fare, such as Pizza Hut’s Middle Eastern oﬀering of its “Cheese Burger Crown Crust Pizza,” a pizza topped with ground beef, tomatoes and lettuce with a ring of mini cheeseburgers on top of the pizza crust. In Germany, Pizza Hut

265 B.M. MILLER offers a “Mac ’n’ Cheese Pizza.”84 Toppers Pizza, a Wisconsin-based pizza chain with 20 stores in the Midwest, defined its brand with specialty pizzas, such as its Buffalo Chicken Pizza, Mac and Cheese Pizza, and “BL Frickin’ T” Pizza (a bacon, lettuce, and tomato topped pizza), all successfully launched in 2008.85 These pizza franchises attempted to integrate classic American fast foods into their pizza recipes to create a hyper-American- ized food experience bound into one dish. What this history shows is that pizza businesses, whether franchised or independently owned, have been very deliberate in the imagery and ingredients they draw from in marketing their pizzas, whether relying on its “Old Coun- try” ethnic past, peddling it as a cheap, filling, on-the-go option, emphasizing its healthy or wholesome quality, or selling the “bigger, bolder” American theme. Despite pizza’s Italian and Italian-American roots as well as its post-World War II emergence as a mass-produced food commodity, pizza entrepreneurs seemingly leverage pizza’s “fast food” and “ethnic” status as they see fit. Food functions to enact ethnic and national identities. As waves of immigrants came to the United States from Southern and Eastern Europe, the vast majority of them emigrated to escape poverty and hunger. Hasia Diner’s research has shown how Southern Italian immigrants “measured their American lives against remembered Italian scarcity.”86 Hold- ing on to traditional cooking methods and dishes helped to ease new immigrants into their new surroundings, and these foodways developed over time into a new set of hybridized ethnic dishes that helped nurture a new group identity, one that identified as American with a sustained ethnic consciousness. Even if the dishes had transformed substantially from their European variants, their authenticity often mattered less than their symbolic importance, for they could still be celebrated for their ethnic origins, and in many cases, marketed as such.87 For many immigrants America represented the promise of prosperity, and food abundance was a critical signifier of satiety, even if it was measured in quantity over quality. In many ways, fast food is the incarnation of the American dream: food that can be acquired fast, cheaply, and in “super-size” portions. Mikhail Gorbachev recognized the symbolic importance attached to American fast food, and in particular pizza, when he sought to mobilize the aura of American food culture to facilitate cross-cultural communication with the West. He paved the way for pizza’s introduction into Russia, appearing in a 1997 Pizza Hut commercial that depicted Russian consumers thanking him for bringing the restaurant chain to Russia, shouting, “Hail to Gorbachev!” What a powerful way to show the possibilities of cultural exchange with the literal consumption of American culture: Gorbachev raising up a slice of Pizza Hut pizza in salute.88

Notes 1 Victor Ripp, Pizza in Pushkin Square: What Russians Think about Americans and the American Way of Life, New York: Simon & Schuster, 1990, pp. 14, 73. 2 George Ritzer, The McDonaldization of Society, Los Angeles: SAGE Publications, Inc., 2013 [orig. pub. date 1993], pp. 1, 6. 3 Fast food is typically dispensed at self-service counters or drive-through windows, but some chain restaurants, like Pizza Hut, oﬀer menu dining service with waits as long as traditional restaurants. Robert Emerson, The New Economics of Fast Food, New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold, 1990, p. 17. 4 Richard Pillsbury, From Boarding House to Bistro: The American Restaurant Then and Now, Boston: Unwin Hyman, 1990, pp. 33–46. 5 Thomas Dicke, Franchising in America: The Development of a Business Model, 1840–1980, Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1992, p. 126.

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6 Pillsbury, From Boarding House to Bistro, pp. 83, 103, 107. See also Stan Luxenberg, Roadside Empires: How the Chains Franchised America, New York: Viking, 1985. 7 Edward Behr, “Pizza in Naples,” The Art of Eating 22, Spring 1992, 8. 8 Evelyne Slomon, The Pizza Book: Everything There is to Know about the World’s Greatest Pie, New York: Times Books, 1984, pp. 3–6. 9 Rosario Buonassisi, Pizza: The Dish, the Legend, New York: Firefly Books, 2000, p. 130; Carol Helstosky, Pizza: A Global History, London: Reaktion Books, Ltd., 2008, pp. 9–47; Behr, “Pizza in Naples,” p. 7; Elizabeth Romer, Italian Pizza and Hearth Breads, New York: Clarkson N. Potter, Inc., 1987. 10 Carol Tice, “The American Fast Food the World Loves: Top Global Brands,” Forbes, March 11, 2013, http://news.yahoo.com/american-fast-food-world-loves-115152945.html (accessed May 6, 2013). 11 Robert Emerson, Fast Food: The Endless Shakeout, New York: Lebhar-Friedman Books, 1979, p. 67. 12 Ibid., pp. 158–9. 13 Restaurant & Foodservice Market Research Handbook (2007): 219. 14 For examples of this viewpoint, see: Toni Lydecker, “Fast Food Goes Ethnic,” NRA News,March 1985, 12–15; “Ethnic Foods: America’s Cuisine,” Chilton’s Food Engineering 56, April 1984, 67. 15 Nicole Turner-Ravana, “Food Groups in Pizza,” Livestrong.com, February 7, 2011, www.livestrong. com/article/375711-food-groups-in-pizza/ (accessed June 17, 2013). 16 Pizza Restaurants: Executive Summary, London: Mintel Publications, Ltd., December 2012, p. 4. 17 John Love, McDonald’s: Behind the Arches, Toronto: Bantam Books, 1986, p. 435. 18 Emerson, Fast Food, pp. 234–5. 19 Harvey Levenstein and Joseph Conlin, “The Food Habits of Italian Immigrants to America: An Examination of the Persistence of a Food Culture and the Rise of ‘Fast Food’ in America,” in Dominant Symbols in Popular Culture, ed. Ray Browne, Marshall William Fishwick, and Kevin Browne, Bowling Green: Bowling Green State University Popular Press, 1990, p. 232. 20 “Little Italy in the Streets of Paul Revere,” The Independent 114, June 20, 1925, 693. 21 John Daniels, America Via the Neighborhood, New York: Harper & Brothers Publishing, 1920, pp. 1–2; Lucy Gillett, “Factors Influencing Nutrition Work Among Italians,” Journal of Home Economics 14.1, January 1922, 17. 22 See Harvey Levenstein, “The American Response to Italian Food, 1880–1930,” Food and Foodways 1, 1985, pp. 1–24. 23 See recipes in C. Houston Goudiss and Alberta Goudiss, Foods That Will Win the War and How to Cook Them, New York: World Syndicate Company, 1918, pp. 49, 51, 55, 110. 24 Levenstein and Conlin, “The Food Habits of Italian Immigrants to America,” p. 242. 25 Harvey Levenstein, Revolution at the Table: The Transformation of the American Diet, New York: Oxford University Press, 1988, p. 146. 26 Simone Cinotto, “Leonard Covello, the Covello Papers, and the History of Eating Habits among Italian Immigrants in New York,” Journal of American History 91.2, September 2004, 511; John Mariani, America Eats Out: An Illustrated History of Restaurants, Taverns, Coffee Shops, Speakeasies, and Other Establishments That Have Fed Us for 350 Years, New York: William Morrow and Company, Inc., 1991, p. 63. 27 Maria Sermolino, Papa’s Table d’Hôte, Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott Company, 1952, pp. 13, 15, 41. 28 Slomon, The Pizza Book, pp. 10–11. 29 Nancy Verde Barr, We Called It Macaroni: An American Heritage of Southern Italian Cooking, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1996, p. 268; Carla Bianco, The Two Rosetos, Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1974, p. 134. 30 Hasia Diner, Hungering for America: Italian, Irish, and Jewish Foodways in the Age of Migration, Cam- bridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001, pp. 70, 80; Donald Tricarico, The Italians of Green- wich Village: The Social Structure and Transformation of an Ethnic Community, New York: Center for Migration Studies of New York, Inc., 1984, p. 23. 31 Richard Gehman, “Crazy about Pizza,” Saturday Evening Post 230, November 30, 1957, 54. 32 “Our Globe Family: Pizza – Born of Necessity,” The Boston Globe, March 23, 1954. 33 Leonard Covello, The Social Background of the Italo-American School Child: A Study of the Southern Italian Family Mores and their Effect on the School Situation in Italy and America, Totowa: Rowman & Littlefield, 1972 [orig. pub. 1967], p. 390.

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34 Leonard Covello, The Heart is the Teacher, New York: McGraw-Hill Book Company, Inc., 1958, p. 70. 35 Irvin Child, Italian or American? The Second Generation in Conflict, New York: Russell & Russell, 1970 [orig. pub. 1943], p. 197. 36 Diner, Hungering for America, p. 225; Harvey Levenstein, Paradox of Plenty: A Social History of Eating in Modern America, New York: Oxford University Press, 1993, pp. 216–18. 37 Lawrence Lovell-Troy, The Social Basis of Ethnic Enterprise: Greeks in the Pizza Business, New York: Garland Publishing, 1990, pp. 1, 35; Donna Gabaccia, We Are What We Eat: Ethnic Food and the Making of Americans, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998, p. 198. 38 Tom Monaghan, with Robert Anderson, Pizza Tiger, New York: Random House, 1986, p. 18. 39 “The Americanized Pizza … And How to Eat One,” Look Magazine, November 1954, 114. 40 Herbert Mitgang, “For the Love of Pizza,” Colliers, March 7, 1953, 66. 41 Simone Cinotto, “‘Now That’s Italian!’: Representations of Italian Food in American Popular Magazines, 1950–2000,” pp. 1–21. Paper given at the Italian Academy of Advanced Studies in America. www.italianacademy.columbia.edu/publications/working_papers/2003_2004/paper_sp04_ Cinotto.pdf (accessed June 8, 2012). 42 Dean MacCannell, “Staged Authenticity: Arrangements of Social Space in Tourist Settings,” The American Journal of Sociology 79.3, November 1973, 589–603; Cinotto, “‘Now That’s Italian!’” pp. 13–21; Warren Belasco, “Ethnic Fast Foods: The Corporate Melting Pot,” Food and Foodways 2, 1987, 1–30; Davide Girardelli, “Commodified Identities: The Myth of Italian Food in the United States,” Journal of Communication Inquiry 28, October 2004, 307–24. 43 Philip Langdon, Orange Roofs, Golden Arches: The Architecture of American Chain Restaurants, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1986, p. 178. 44 Alan Dorich, “Pizza Revolution,” Food & Drink 7, Jan/Feb 2008, 34–6. 45 Patricia Dillon, “Mexican and Italian Dominate,” Food Engineering 61, February 1989, 76. Further developing this point, see Bryan Salvage, “Ethnic Foods – The Hottest New Market Segment,” Food Business 150, October 1981, 30–1. 46 Slomon, The Pizza Book, p. 12. 47 Levenstein, Paradox of Plenty, pp. 230–1. 48 See Eric Schlosser, Fast Food Nation: The Dark Side of the All-American Meal, New York: Perennial, 2002. 49 Gary Mormino, Immigrants on the Hill: Italian Americans in St. Louis, 1882–1982, Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1986, p. 98. 50 Rona Gindin, “A Fight to Stay on Top,” Restaurant Business 89, July 1, 1986, 153. 51 Carol Casper, “Pizza,” Restaurant Business 92.3, February 10, 1993, 138; “Franchising: How Fer- tile Its Future?,” Restaurant Business 79, March 1, 1980, 116–17. 52 Scott Cendrowski, “Papa John’s John Schnatter,” Fortune 160.6, September 28, 2009, 34. 53 Daniel J. Boorstin, The Americans: The Democratic Experience, New York: Random House, 1973, 116. 54 Penny Pollack and Jeff Ruby, Everybody Loves Pizza: The Deep Dish on America’s Favorite Food, Cin- cinnati: Emmis Books, 2005, pp. 55–60; The Pizza Market in the U.S.: Foodservice and Retail, 2nd Edition, Rockville, Maryland: Packaged Facts, 2012, pp. 29–32. 55 Melanie Warner, Pandora’s Lunchbox: How Processed Food Took Over the American Meal, New York: Scribner’s, 2013, pp. 205–6. 56 “GH Goes to 7 Popular Fast-Food Chains and Tells How They Rate in Nutrition, Quality, Cost,” Good Housekeeping 181, November 1975, 172. 57 Genevieve Diesing, “Prudent Pizza,” Food & Drink, Fall 2009, 77–8; Alan Dorich, “Slice of Suc- cess,” Food & Drink 7, March/April 2008, 44–6. 58 Nancy Ross Ryan, “Great American Food Chronicles: Pizza,” Restaurants & Institutions 99.23, September 4, 1989, 100. 59 Ibid., 100. 60 “Healthy Turnout,” Restaurants & Institutions 116.21, November 1, 2006, 15. 61 Jacque White Kochak, “Pizza Turns Chic as Sales Soar,” Restaurant Business 83, February 10, 1984, 134. 62 The Pizza Market in the U.S., pp. 67, 78. 63 Stephen Phillips, “Pizza’s Home-Delivery War,” New York Times, September 27, 1986.

268 THE EVOLUTION OF A FAST FOOD PHENOMENON

64 John Libby, “Gettin’ Together,” Food & Drink 6, Sept.–Oct. 2007, 58–9; Brian Salgado, “Getting Interactive,” Food & Drink, Winter 2009, 140–1. 65 Love, McDonald’s, pp. 223–4. 66 On glocalization, see Roland Robertson, “Glocalization: Time-Space and Homogeneity-Hetero- geneity,” in Global Modernities, ed. Mike Featherstone, Scott Lash, and Roland Robertson, London: Sage, 1995, pp. 25–45. 67 Mahmood Kahn and Li Lan, “Hong Kong’s Fast-Food Industry: An Overview,” Cornell Hotel & Restaurant Administration Quarterly 36.3, June 1995, 34. 68 Pollack and Ruby, Everybody Loves Pizza, 15. 69 Ibid., p. 63. 70 Ryan, “Great American Food Chronicles,” p. 100. 71 Pollack and Ruby, Everybody Loves Pizza, pp. 22–7. 72 Monaghan, Pizza Tiger, p. 90. 73 Mariani, America Eats Out, p. 246. 74 Pollack and Ruby, Everybody Loves Pizza, p. 40. 75 Pizza Restaurants,p.4. 76 Ryan, “Great American Food Chronicles,” p. 100; Chris Petersen, “Purposeful Pizza,” Food & Drink, Summer 2009, 56–7. 77 The Pizza Market in the U.S., pp. 13, 64–6. 78 “Pizza Hut: Going Gourmet,” Marketwatch: Global Round-Up 4.8, August 2005, 61. 79 Kate Burrows, “It’s in the Water,” Food & Drink 5, Sept.–Oct. 2006, 24–8. 80 Florence Fabricant, “Italian Pizza Police Oﬀer Rules for the Real Thing,” New York Times, June 7, 1995. 81 Helstosky, Pizza, 41. 82 Sheridan Prasso, “India’s Pizza Wars,” Fortune International 156.6, October 1, 2007, 31–4. 83 The Pizza Market in the U.S., p. 53. 84 Caroline Morse, “Outrageous Fast Foods You Can’t Eat in America,” Smarter Travel, April 24, 2013. http://travel.yahoo.com/ideas/outrageous-fast-foods-you-can-t-eat-in-america-224842296. html (accessed April 28, 2013). 85 “Toppers Pizza,” Food and Drink, Winter 2008, 13. 86 Diner, Hungering for America, p. 48. 87 Susan Kalcˇik, “Ethnic Foodways in America: Symbol and the Persistence of Identity,” in Ethnic and Regional Foodways in the United States: The Performance of Group Identity, ed. Linda Keller Brown and Kay Mussell, Knoxville: The University of Tennessee Press, 1984, pp. 37–9, 56. 88 Schlosser, Fast Food Nation, p. 237.

269 14 COOKING CLASS The rise of the “foodie” and the role of mass media

Kathleen Collins

Introduction In the United States, there are two cable television networks dedicated wholly to food and cooking. In 2012, the Food Network had a nightly average of 1.1 million viewers.1 Small kitchen appliance expenditures continue to increase,2 and despite the demise of the venerable Gourmet Magazine in 2009, there are hundreds of print magazines and countless blogs to refer to when looking for recipes or food writing. These and many other indicators seem to incontrovertibly charge Americans with being a nation consumed, as it were, with food. But what does this evidence tell us? Is interest in food a modern-day phenomenon? Does all of this consumption around the subject mean that we are cooking more than ever before? While there is a plethora of popular media on the topic of food, here we can observe the topic – especially the phenomenon of food television – from a more critical vantage point and ask some basic but perhaps ultimately complex questions in order to illuminate the role of “mediated” food in our modern lives. The first question to ask has already been alluded to: Is it new? We will challenge the notion that “foodie-ism” is a new development, trend, interest or hobby. While it is certainly arguable that food enthusiasm has reached new heights and has gone mainstream in unprecedented ways, foodie-ism (definition of which to be tackled herein as well) has actually ebbed and flowed over the twentieth century and earlier. Food and cooking were claimed as forms of entertainment long before the television Food Network came into being in 1993, in print and broadcast formats. The advent of new technologies, however, has allowed interest in food to proliferate and to reach new and larger audiences. The next question to address: Is it passive? In answering this, we will challenge outdated, simplistic theories of mass media effects. The concept of the passive or active in food-as- entertainment can be problematic. What is the impact of either active or passive consumption and the proliferation of food as entertainment? Closely related to this polemic is what we learn from food television. In addition to recipes and food knowledge, there are plenty of intangibles. Among these are what it means to be an “ideal” middle-class or upper-middle-class consumer and citizen in today’s world, at least according to certain constituents. Along the same continuum lies a third question: Is it democratic? Is food television (and other popular forms of food-as-leisure) as democratic in nature or as universally accessible

270 COOKING CLASS as it seems on the surface or as it purports to be? In a connection to our first question, while many consumer-citizens perceive the present day to be the apogee of the “foodie” phenomenon, what may really be at play is a saturation and the mainstreaming of the culture of heightened awareness and attention paid to food and cooking. In contrast to the early twentieth century, when high society restaurants would be patently off limits to those who were not affluent and did not read French – what Andrew Haley describes as the “social Darwinism of aristocratic dining”3 – it would seem that we are presently wit- nessing a more democratized food culture. However, while class and social boundaries in many cultural sectors have become blurred over time, we may now be living in a food culture that still propagates a hierarchical system, albeit a more subtle iteration. Food is still a divided, classist arena with a high dose of aspiration (versus inspiration as touted by television programmers and hosts) with political, economic and cultural causes and effects. In fact, as Joanne Finkelstein writes in her article titled “Foodatainment,” food is often removed from its nutritional function “[and] this distance has been amplified in the late twentieth century as food has become both more subject to social imperatives of fashion and more deeply located within the entertainment industries.”4 In this chapter, we will address the above-mentioned questions by looking at the history of food media in the twentieth century in the United States from magazines and newspapers to radio, television and the Internet to determine how they made Americans a nation of “foodies.” In fact, we start with the debate about that word itself. Throughout, the concepts of knowledge and learning play key roles. Media distributes information, but humans must absorb and use that information to ultimately affect culture.

What is a foodie? For cognizant citizens living in the United States and Western Europe in the late twentieth century, it might have felt as though the pinnacle of cultural interest in food was at hand. Almost everyone seemed to claim themselves to be a “foodie.” That zeal has not only been sustained into the twenty-first century but has also blossomed and branched out. But what is a foodie or foodie-ism? The term was likely firstusedin1982inthe British magazine Harpers & Queen (a society-turned-fashion publication) and popularized in the 1984 (US) publication of The Official Foodie Handbook: Be Modern – Worship Food.The authors of the latter, Paul Levy and Ann Barr, describe a foodie as “apersonwhoisvery very very interested in food. Foodies are the ones talking about food in any gathering – salivating over restaurants, recipes, radicchio.”5 While this definition is open to interpretation and co-optation, it is at least commonly understood that a foodie is a member of a group with a particular set of tastes, interests and body of knowledge that sets him or herapartfromthosewithout.Thesemembershaveaninterestinfoodbeyondmerely meeting biological needs; think of living to eat versus eating to live. But what are the other characteristics? Some balk at the term foodie. Its meaning is misunderstood and controversial, and a vigorous debate has ensued. A more apt and widely agreed-upon term, however, is elusive. In the 1960s and 1970s in the United States, the equivalent may have been “gourmet.” David Strauss defines a gourmet as “a connoisseur of food and wine, skilled in recognizing good flavors and textures,” implying a knowledge-based prerequisite.6 A 1970 episode of the American TV program The French Chef, however, illustrates the elitist overtones con- noted by the word. In an episode featuring bouillabaisse, host Julia Child uses a mocking

271 K. COLLINS tone to refer to the “gourmets” who “fancy up” the inherently populist fish stew implying that this group moves the stew into the inaccessible realm of the elite.7 Indeed, the word “gourmet” has lost much of its historical connotation, now that it is used indiscriminately to describe almost any food product in the supermarket or in the name of even the most modest convenience store. The Strauss-characterized gourmets themselves might see the term as watered down and too open to admittance, the idea being that people who are not sufficiently serious or knowledgeable about food should not claim membership of such a group. There have been a handful of food-personality terms to argue about over the last century or longer, none of which seem to be acceptable or useful alternatives to the sought- after meaning of “foodie”. Candidates include gourmand, gastronome, epicure, connoisseur and, in more recent years, more specific terms with varying activist or rebellious leanings such as chowhound or locavore. What might appear to be a frivolous semantic debate is at the heart of the food class wars Western society has long fought and continues to wage. While obviously not as dire as other wars, even cultural ones, the topic of food brings to light a host of larger political, economic and social issues. In the first chapter of Foodies: Democracy and Distinction in the Gourmet Foodscape, authors Johnston and Baumann spend dozens of pages decon- structing the term “foodie,” its history, evolution and connotations, trying to arrive at a definition.8 The very fact of this is telling. Since its comparatively uncontested and light- hearted use in the early 1980s as a way to differentiate people who were interested in high quality, non-mainstream food (Johnston and Baumann), or who elevated food to the level of art (Levy and Barr), “foodie” and its connotations has evolved, or as John- ston and Baumann say, it has been “corrupted.”9 They pithily describe the term “foodie” as “[embodying] the tension between democracy and distinction.”10 What started out as an antidote to food snobbery has, on the one hand, become associated with elitism but, on the other hand, lost its social capital and might be considered by elites to now include misguided interlopers or, as Haley quotes from a 1921 New York Times article, “indifferent gullets.”11 The ubiquity of food interest results in many people now claiming foodie membership who might not have been compelled or felt entitled to call themselves a gourmet in 1970. Today, people who are exuberant eaters (in essence, people who love food) consider themselves foodies, even if they are not adventurous or knowledgeable about the foods they eat. Others describe themselves as foodies because they are proud to be on the cutting edge of who’s who in the restaurant and chef scene (a related category of knowledge) and have the means to dine at such hot spots. Still others, perhaps descendants of the natural food-loving “hippies” of the 1960s and 1970s who were devotees of Francis Moore Lappé’s Diet for a Small Planet, count themselves as foodies for their specialized interest in vegan or macrobiotic diets. As we can see, the definition can be subjective, and the heated, healthy arguments about it involve all sorts of people. Interest in food and cooking today has a social cachet that crosses demographic boundaries. While there is a common denominator of appreciating food, whatever that may entail for an individual, a foodie purist has a high degree of earnest interest in learning about and, as a result, a knowledge about food that includes, for instance, its historical origins, social history, flavor profiles and ideal wine pairing. In our current information age, the knowledge divide separates social classes as much as economic differences, and when it comes to food, knowing or not knowing – whether of something’s existence at all or of its significance – may even be the more divisive factor.

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Is it new? The practical era The life cycle of such a burdened term gives us some clue that food interest is not a late twentieth-century phenomenon, though perceiving it as a new cultural trend is a common misperception. What is relatively new, however, is the cross-demographic reach of the subject’s popularity and the way information about food is transmitted. It is likewise arguable that interest in food – particularly its prominent categorization as a leisure time subject – has reached new heights and gone mainstream in unprecedented ways. While food and cooking have been used as forms of entertainment decades before the establishment of the US television Food Network in various media formats, previous iterations have generally been confined to specific groups, usually those with financial means. In retrospect, it becomes clear that several critical events and tipping points in the twentieth century – at the time mere hints of the entertainment potential of food – contributed to a seeming zenith of food interest at the beginning of the twenty-first century. As we have seen in preceding accounts in this volume, the stage had been set in certain areas and among certain populations even earlier. The concept of conspicuous consumption12 in the nineteenth century is evidence of a gourmet movement. In the early twentieth century, a few pockets of food writers or gastronomes – Wine and Food Society founder André Simon, journalist Julian Street, publisher Alfred Knopf and others – defied a mainstream modernist, scientific, nutritionist trend. The end of prohibition in 1933 paired nicely with a more gourmet philosophy. Food columns in newspapers increased, and food writers like M.F.K. Fisher and Clementine Paddleford helped create a new genre. The rise of the upper middle class between and after the World Wars created a demographic that prized intelligence, sophistication and self-expression and that was willing to spend money on travel, cultural events and lifestyle accessories. During World War II, when many restaurants were exempt from rationing, a small dining-out boom resulted. Gourmet food gained traction as a presence in cosmopolitan and luxury lifestyle magazines such as The New Yorker, House and Garden and Vogue. Journalists who covered the gourmet movement early in the twentieth century were often society page reporters who wrote admiringly of activities of elite gourmets and emphasized exclusivity, a divide that was unfortunately easy to establish since many Americans suffered economically in the Depression. In the American post-World War II era, as many women returned to domestic duties after having served in the wartime workforce, there was a push by certain invested parties to professionalize homemaking in order to imbue women’s work with requisite prestige. There was little room or motivation to see food as a leisure activity in this climate, though there were inevitably those slices of the population for whom food was a leisure commodity. In 1941, the same year that the US government instituted the concept of recommended daily nutritional requirements, magazine publisher Earle MacAusland launched Gourmet: The Magazine of Good Living. Gourmet spoke directly to people with means for whom dining out or buying exotic ingredients was not just a possibility but considered a pleasurable activity, i.e. the foodies of the day. MacAusland could perhaps justify the awkwardly timed premiere by patriotically championing the bounty springing forth from American soil. A sixtieth anniversary issue of the magazine excerpted some exemplary quotes from the publication’s first decade: “Gloria Vanderbilt sat opposite me; General Pershing’s son to my left; Charles Boyer at my right. The famous star paid little attention to the curious females who ogled him, and much attention to his food”; “The only thing we want for Christmas this year is a boar’s head. We want it prepared in the old English way – first

273 K. COLLINS picked, then roasted, and served on a solid gold platter, its tusks gilded, a roast apple in its mouth, and the whole decked with sprigs of rosemary and bay”; “ From poet to gourmet is such a small step”;and“The man who first put a grain of salt on a lettuce leaf and then dipped it in a mixture of wine vinegar and olive oil was one of the few true benefactors of mankind.”13 For most people, however, practical and economical information was more valuable. Both philosophies existed side by side, not necessarily in harmony, but serving the needs and desires of a good swath of the public. Where the upper class may have felt dubious about combining dining with entertainment – Haley recounts elites’ reaction to the profane presence of music in middle-class restaurants in the early twentieth century–14 home economists Marshall and Frazier reported that mid-century housewives craved anything to liven up the topic on homemaking TV programs.15 Eventually and inevitably, entertainment won out in all aspects. Gourmet’s circulation increased dramatically in the decade and a half after World War II. At the risk of giving away the story, a telling parallel exists between the characteristics of Gourmet and its ilk and that of the television Food Network fifty years later. Strauss concludes that Gourmet and other magazines, restaurant reviews and gourmet cookbooks provided some familiarity with a superficial knowledge of French cuisine via the vocabulary, ingredients and preparation methods, but did not make people better or necessarily more adventurous cooks; presented paths to good living but also confirmed class and gender messages; was aspirational, presenting gourmet dining as a conduit to a higher social standing; fought against the tyranny of the revolution in convenience foods and new kitchen appliances; and made Americans more adventurous consumers of products mentioned and advertised in its pages as well as the sophisticated lifestyle presented.16 Each of these descriptors could be applied to the Food Network, but one major difference between the two time periods and media was the audience. Gourmet was generally for people who had no cooking skills because they relied on servants. The Food Network’s audience and its cooking skills will be addressed further on. This analogy serves as yet another piece of evidence – on the side of the naysayers – in the “is it new?” case. Print media played a critical role in the evolution of food interest, but it was broadcast media that began to slowly smudge the lines of class distinctions. In the 1920s, the new medium of radio in the United States offered housekeeping-oriented programming directed at women, including cooking and nutrition information (e.g. Aunt Sammy’s House- keeper’s Chat, Betty Crocker’s Magazine of the Air). Beginning in the late 1940s, TV was a convenient and especially suitable new medium for promoting home economics in a scientific light and for spreading the word about any number of topics. The rapidly adopted medium kept people at home and eating in after World War II, and yet it was TV that would, in a matter of a few decades, attempt to broaden food horizons on a grand scale. Even in the early 1950s, television helped to increase people’s acceptance of new foods, especially those endorsed by celebrities. Television cooking instruction was often initially embedded in general homemaking programs targeting housewives, just as it was on radio. With few exceptions, most of these programs were hosted by home economists or local TV personalities and consisted of nutrition information, homemaking tips and recipe instruction. They were generally sponsored by utility companies or by food or household product manufacturers. Inexpensive and simple to produce, they appeared almost simultaneously with the advent of commer- cially available television in the United States, airing locally in various cities.

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Despite variations in host personality and theme, with a handful using humor and entertainment elements (e.g. Monty Margetts’ Cook’s Corner, Chef Milani Cooks, Ernie Kovacs’ Deadline for Dinner), the teaching element on cooking segments or programs was fairly straightforward and pragmatic. A host – usually a woman – stood behind a kitchen counter and demonstrated the steps in recipe completion, verbally sharing tips on nutrition, cooking, shopping or saving money and time as she did so. “In order to appeal to the typical housewife,” writes Lynn Spigel, “the hostess would ideally speak on her level … [T]he ideal hostess was decidedly not a glamour girl, but rather a pleasingly attractive, middle-aged woman – Hollywood’s answer to the home economics teacher … [D]aytime hostesses were designed to provide a role model for ordinary housewives, educating them on the ‘good life,’ while still appearing down to earth.”17 In the early period of TV cooking instruction, this basic format existed in significant volume throughout the 1950s and in many markets into the 1960s and later. The professed purpose of such programs was teaching housewives to fulfill their roles, but the fundamental and commercial purpose revolved around a growing venue for sponsors to advertise their products. There was, however, another layer of instruction, discernible perhaps only in retrospect. As early as the 1940s, an undercurrent of identity politics can be found in television cooking shows. Given that World War II had recently ended and the Cold War was mounting, Americans were setting their sights on home and nation. A central focus was feeding and ensuring the safety and contentment of one’s family. The rise of the suburbs and a campaign of cultural conformity affected all aspects of mainstream society and were naturally reflected on television, iconically represented in sitcoms such as Father Knows Best and Leave it to Beaver. Food television followed suit as well. “Food TV’s audience (and arguably all TV audiences) are buying an identity,” writes Kimberly Joy Orlijan, “whether that be ‘American’ or ‘cook’ or both.”18 And as historian Mary McFeely argues, cookbooks (equally relevant to radio and TV cooking programs) teach ethnic groups and working- class Americans that “this is what you ought to aspire to.”19 Through cooking programs, viewers learned techniques as well as a form of cultural citizenship. And not just any kind of citizen was being fashioned, but rather one of a certain minimum class. “The good taste and aesthetic values modeled by TV chefs,” writes Tania Lewis, “can be seen as a strongly disciplinary mechanism, producing or aiming to produce a particular kind of well- mannered middle class consumer.”20 Women, especially, gathered knowledge via recipes and household tips and simultaneously guidelines about what a husband (“a nice meal for a man to come home to, wouldn’t ya say?” as 1950s TV cook Josie McCarthy rhetorically asked) and children and even a group of peers expected. Program hosts gave dinner party ideas, often suggesting the trendy canned foods of the day and recipes that would make guests think their host had slaved for hours.21 The gathering of information that shaped viewers’ behavior occurred on an individual as well as a societal level, and it is apparent that even in the early days of food television, the message content was both explicit and implicit. “[T]hrough the communication of such culinary knowledge,” writes Isabelle de Solier, “cookery programmes transmit other encoded forms of knowledge about gender, class, ethnicity and national identity, which perform particular kinds of ideological work.”22 Likewise, Naccarato and LeBesco argue that TV cooking shows “offer consumers a means of earning culinary capital through credible performances of a range of gender and class ideologies.”23 Many dishes on TV shows were chosen based on their liberal use of the sponsor’s product. Chef Milani composed a salad of Hunt’s canned vegetables and Minneapolis’ Bee

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Baxter used Softasilk cake ﬂour for baking on her show.24 Program content ranged from everyday meals for the family – beef stew, casseroles, frankfurters and sauerkraut, Jell-O salads, vanilla crumb refrigerator cake – to dishes that would be eye-catching or exotic and impressive to guests, though not necessarily more labor-intensive or complex, e.g. ham studded with pineapple and maraschino cherries. François Pope was praised by a TV critic for demonstrating a complete meal prepared in under an hour consisting of shrimp de Jonghe (a Chicago specialty using garlic, sherry and breadcrumbs), a “Pope-invented cheese and mushroom concoction,” and a German pancake for dessert.25 TV cooking show hosts around the country in the 1950s chose their favorite “something diﬀerent” recipes to contribute to a published collection called Cooking with the Experts.26 It is interesting to note that French is far from the only ethnic food considered worthy of preparing. Enlightening examples include: hot crab canapés, Tiki Toheroa soup, Pastitso, Portuguese roast pork, tripe Milanese, dolma, hot tamale pie and potato pancakes. Not incidentally, yet another level of learning was taking place in the 1940s and 1950s. As one of the earliest television program types, cooking shows were instrumental in teaching viewers – again, especially women – how to consume not only products to buy for their home but how to consume television itself, making TV watching not only a daily habit but weaving appropriately targeted programming into the typical rhythms of a household’s day.27 Magazines like Gourmet, too, were conditioning readers to purchase products and to aspire to a particular lifestyle.

Setting the scene and sowing the seeds The practical period just described did include some notable exceptions. The esteemed cookbook author and “dean of American cooking” James Beard hosted the first nationally televised cooking program, I Love to Eat, on a US television network in 1946. The following year, on another US network, European-born and -raised, Cordon Bleu-trained Dione Lucas hosted The Dione Lucas Show where she initiated audiences to the charms and challenges of French cooking. The programs are largely forgotten in American collective memory since they were not emblematic of their era. These two epicurean hosts were ahead of their time with regard to transmitting the pleasures of eating as well as cooking via the lowbrow mass medium of television. In the early part of the twentieth century then, there were segments of society where food was already a leisure pursuit as evidenced by adherents to high society dining and Gourmet. There were also anachronistic allusions to the potential of a more widespread culture of food interest as seen by the more populist attempts of Beard and Lucas. David Strauss’ book, even in its title, Setting the Table for Julia Child, suggests a scaffolding that was taking place during these years. Strauss describes a gradual movement away from the fear of sensual pleasure and Protestant ethics. Of course, even in the early twentieth century this interest was not new, and the progression was never linear. We could undoubtedly find instances of food-as-leisure in every decade, century and region of the world. Though not quite cyclical, the trend evolves and gains momentum each time it resurfaces given the new developments with which to build more virulent movements. Even in the twentieth century, is it not as if French food were the popular cuisine in the 1950s and 1960s to the exclusion of other types, as we witnessed in the TV hosts’ eclectic recipes? Soldiers who had been sent to Europe and a mid-century travel boom provided a mind- and palate- opening entrée to dishes beyond baked beans and broiled chicken. As chefs gained cultural

276 COOKING CLASS capital and television played a larger role in illuminating viewers, people embraced other ethnic foods as sophisticated and epicurean as well. The increase in written and broadcast content both in the United States and United Kingdom over the course of the twentieth century illustrates both the seriousness and the popularity of food as a cultural interest. Food writers, cookbooks, restaurant reviews, TV food programs, and now websites and podcasts are legion, complete with a deep history. Which region is more fanatical about television cooking could be the basis of its own reality show, and both Anglophone regions share a similar chronological trajectory before they literally shared programs. In the UK, Fanny Craddock had a similar influence on the culture as Julia Child did in the United States, and Delia Smith, who began cooking instruction on TV in the 1970s, and Keith Floyd in the 1980s were two other iconic British hosts. Food as entertainment is in evidence in our modern era around the world in numerous ways. From a once exclusive leisure domain of the wealthy, food itself has moved into a privileged place in first world society as plaything or art object and cooking as a hobby or an enviable profession. The current popularity of cooking and food programs around the world indicates that foodism is a global phenomenon propagated by mass media.28 While many of the programs shown in Europe, Asia and the Middle East are Western, English-language exports or adaptations (the import of Japan’s Iron Chef to the United States is a notable and definitive exception), there exists now a mixture of home-grown and foreign programming in many countries, and several have dedicated food channels.

Expanding vistas The gourmet movement gained considerable traction with the help of various media in the early twentieth century. There were an increasing number of books and essays, restaurant reviews, food columns and cookbooks along with the continued contributions of home economists and health advocates. Despite its patchy expression, food interest seemed to be a topic that was here to stay. In the latter half of the century, the most inﬂuential of the mass media on the continued evolution of food interest was television. Since foodie-ism has at its core a desire for knowledge, we will pay particular attention to what is taught and learned via mass media. In 1960, when television was still in its adolescence, cultural studies scholar Richard Hoggart had this to say about it:

[Television] will be an important general educator, an educator of manners, a way of transmitting – by implication and suggestion – attitudes and assumptions different from those many in its audience have previously held … it is bound constantly to be putting before people other ways of shaking hands, of sitting down, of wearing clothes, or reacting to strangers, of eating, of carrying on conversations.29

While this comment could be applied to any number of program types, it lends itself well to food television, especially in light of the far-reaching impact the medium has had on the topic. A confluence of factors in early 1960s America created an environment for change in television content that reflected a time of social and cultural flux. Consequently, there was a historical shift in what was taught – or learned, not always the same thing – on food TV. The combination of the youthful, glamorous Kennedy White House with its Franco- philia and French chef, Rene Verdon, a noticeable rise in international travel among the

277 K. COLLINS middle class, higher incomes and a burgeoning generation keen on questioning tradition and authority opened the doors for food and cooking to take on new roles. No longer merely practical, information offered on television became fodder for other kinds of knowledge, a transformation that is observable to a great extent today. Renowned cooking show host Julia Child happened along at just this time when she hosted The French Chef, which premiered on public television in the United States in 1963. Even fifty years on she is still considered the doyenne of television cooking (furthered by her resurgence in popular culture with the film Julie and Julia released in 2009, five years after her death). Child has long been hailed as a democratic and populist force for having brought increasingly popular French cuisine (widely considered complex and a matter for the elite) to the American populace in the 1960s. And indeed, as Alice Yaeger Kaplan writes, “Through food access to aristocracy has been democratized, because unlike the Grand Tour, food is both accessible and interpretable by varying social milieux.”30 The fact of television – and Child’s charm and popularity – only intensified the message and mass impact. Child, while not setting out to entertain, was extremely popular, and The French Chef and subsequent Child-hosted shows were public television staples throughout the 1970s and 1980s. Her public broadcasting contemporaries – including Jacques Pépin, Justin Wilson, Madeleine Kamman, Joyce Chen, Martin Yan and Nathalie Dupree – also imparted their serious cooking skills and assorted culinary themes, and, in the case of Frugal Gourmet Jeff Smith, impromptu lessons on the peoples of the countries from whence came his more far-flung dishes (Africa, Japan, etc.). In 1969, British chef Graham Kerr appeared on commercial TV in the United States as the Galloping Gourmet. Though he was a trained culinary professional, his show was decidedly entertainment-centric and of a markedly different tone than his PBS predecessors and successors. He struggled with the entertainment–teaching divide and admittedly felt something was lost in “the methodology” introduced on his show. He sincerely wanted to teach, but forces were acting against him. His wife and producer, Treena, knew that it was necessary to make audiences laugh or they would be bored and wouldn’t watch. Graham knew she was right and that having an audience was the top priority. He was still able to teach on some level, but the content – in between gags – was rich with elements such as wine-pairing and fashionable gourmet combinations more than serious technique. Treena was a clever businesswoman and a visionary and her “methodology” fairly summarizes the model of food television today.31 Kerr was somewhat of an anomaly as the male host of a traditionally female-hosted genre, but his role was soon to become less anomalous. By late 1970s and early 1980s, as men were expected to contribute to housework and not just operate the backyard grill, they took part in cooking in the kitchen, and this helped bring cooking out of the women’s pages of newspapers and more into the journalistic mainstream. Celebrities, male and female, showcased an interest in and ability to cook, appearing on talk show cooking segments. As indicated previously, and as continues to prove true, celebrities are powerful models for viewers. Through the 1980s, the US Public Broadcasting Service (PBS) was the largely unchal- lenged television teacher, and to this day there is a divide between the kind of pedagogy on public versus commercial broadcasting and cable. Because of the economics of public television, PBS producers never had to concern themselves unduly with the entertainment– teaching dilemma. The merits of shows like Lydia’s Italy, Great Chefs and America’s Test Kitchen

278 COOKING CLASS rest on the hosts’ skill or the strength of a particular theme (e.g. Cooking Naturally, Jewish Cooking in America with Joan Nathan, Holiday Entertaining with Martha Stewart), and public broadcasting cooking show audiences are likely to be considered “serious” about their cooking endeavors. Elite viewers, so conventional wisdom would say, turn to PBS for real cooking. “Hockey-fan foodies,” as Sara Moulton calls the non-elite, or “the great unwa- shed,” as Graham Kerr calls them, turn to commercial sites.32 There are pockets – the PBS “ghetto,” and the daytime Food Network lineup deemed “in the kitchen”–where audiences can go if they are intent on learning.33 Prime-time commercial TV and cable offerings (Hell’s Kitchen, Top Chef, Chopped, Cupcake Wars) generally avoid the traditional “dump and stir” format. Accordingly, they are rife with competition, interpersonal drama, music, live audiences and dazzling personalities offering little in the way of technique instruction. Today’s commercial cooking show forms generally capture two types of viewers – those who want to learn but enjoy the entertainment aspects and those who don’t care about learning and who are drawn in by the non-instructional, high production value elements. The latter group can also enjoy the fact, if it is important to them, that they are watching fare that has an element of how-to, fact-based content, where a few tips may be learned effortlessly by osmosis. Audiences began to learn by a different, perhaps more powerful, mechanism as TV cooking shows adopted more entertainment characteristics. “While written and printed words emphasize ideas,” writes Joshua Meyrowitz, “most electronic media emphasize feeling, appearance, mood … The major questions are no longer, ‘Is it true?’‘Is it false?’ Instead we more often ask, ‘How does it look?’‘How does it feel?’”34 These visual and hence more sensual and emotional factors offered by television lure and maintain audiences. As Marshall and Frazier reported on network programmers’ opinions on homemaking shows, “you can’t teach before you reach.”35 John Corner describes television as “a medium of entertainment and diversion, with its knowledge-providing role as a secondary function.”36 While cooking shows traditionally do offer formal information, the more competition-oriented and reality-show varieties stray a significant distance from that purpose in that they do not spend much, if any, time on explaining cooking processes. Nevertheless, they offer a different type of knowledge. Because many of today’s food-related programs could rightfully be cross-listed as reality shows – Hell’s Kitchen, Top Chef, Iron Chef, Next Food Network Star, Dinner: Impossible – much of the scholarship about that robust sub-genre can be applied to cooking shows, and therein we can glean information about the role of entertainment in teaching and learning. “These reality programmes encourage audiences to learn about first aid, or decorating, whilst at the same time entertaining audiences with dramatic stories of rescue operations, or reve- latory stories of DIY makeovers,” writes Annette Hill. “We can call the informative elements in such reality programmes ‘learning opportunities’, as viewers have the opportunity to learn from the advice given in the programmes, but may choose not to take up or act on such advice.”37 Whereas the informative elements were at one time foregrounded, they have increasingly receded to comprise fewer slices of the content pie. This “takeaway” effect makes up much of what Food Network executives expect their viewers to gain from their programming, and they place a high value on those information fragments.38

Is it passive? The cooking shows from the 1940s through the 1960s indicated instruction as the apparent purpose, and therefore there was an assumption that viewers (mostly housewives) would

279 K. COLLINS engage with them attentively and with an eye to gaining useful information. In other words, they were not generally consumed as a method of relaxation or form of leisure. In contrast, food and cooking shows of today have earned a reputation of passivity – people watch them purely for fun, often with no intention of learning or attempting recipes. It is a common but questionable assumption that the consumer-viewer, especially given the ubiquitous notion of the “couch potato,” is passive. Around the time that television was first introduced to the general public in the United States and the United Kingdom in the mid-twentieth century, contemporary communication theories had a rather dim view of the effects of mass media. Humans were thought to be defenseless, impressionable receptacles, highly susceptible to manipulation. While some degree of these theories continue to prevail and carry a bit of weight, it is generally believed today that viewers and consumers have more agency than originally believed and that effects vary greatly between individuals depending on a number of factors. This is not to deny the powerful force of mass media. In actuality, viewers have helped to shape the culture and television/media offerings and have a great deal of choice in the ways in which they use information. Just because someone might not be cooking while watching TV (it is all too common to hear people describing a spouse who watches the Food Network consistently but never cooks anything) nor dive into a recipe as soon as a program ends, it does not mean they are not actively learning something while watching. An analogy can be found in the 1980s US restaurant boom, when consumers took advantage of a healthy economy and began dining out more. While some might view allowing restaurants to provide dinner as lazy or passive, a more optimistic observer would see that diners broadened their horizons about foods, combinations and preparation methods available in the culinary universe. The 1980s was also the beginning of the primacy of the chef. Once a member of the working class, this figure – some to earn the descriptor “celebrity”–led consumers to care about not just what was cooking but who was cooking. When it comes to blogs and social media, it becomes even more difficult to argue that consumers are passive. Food has increasingly proven itself to be an arena where viewers and diners can express their interests, creativity, social status and desire for self-improvement.

Idea of learning Learned collectively, knowledge of food and cooking has become mainstream in society. Some programs, therefore, may be reluctant to state the obvious, tacit information they assume everyone knows, and may feel obliged to move ahead with more advanced endeavors relating to cooking, food and entertaining. Annette Hill writes “This is why the majority of viewers of reality programming talk about the ‘idea of learning’ rather than learning itself.”39 Akin to the impressionistic “idea of learning” is the idea of ideas. As mentioned above, the Food Network is a purveyor of takeaway information, perhaps more than traditionally consumed recipes. The New York Times’ food columnist Mark Bittman has published lists of ideas over the past few years that are, in eﬀect, two- or three-sentence “recipes.” Some examples: “Soak couscous in boiling water to cover until tender; top with sardines, tomatoes, parsley, olive oil and black pepper”; “Chop prosciutto and crisp it in a skillet with olive oil; add chopped not-too-ripe ﬁgs. Serve over greens dressed with oil and vinegar; top all with crumbled blue cheese”; “Sear corn kernels in olive oil with minced jalapeños and chopped onions; toss with cilantro, black beans, chopped tomatoes, chopped bell pepper and lime.”40

280 COOKING CLASS

Similarly, in 2010, Canadian home cook Maureen Evans published Eat Tweet: A Twitter Cookbook oﬀering 1,000 recipes, each relayed in fewer than 140 characters. Just as we might want to adopt a gestalt rather than speciﬁc skills from TV shows, the extreme popularity of these published lists (they are among the most emailed articles from the digital version of the New York Times) and abbreviated recipes indicate that consumers may well simply need a nudge, rather than a menu plan or instructional recipe, to get them cooking. Whether this is for time’s sake or because we are replete with culturally gleaned cooking knowledge is unclear. Another consequence of the rise of restaurants is that we are content to let others cook for us. Many people do not cook at all, but prefer to eat out or order in. In addition, media messages emphasizing the fact or myth that we don’t have time to cook is a great boon to the prepared foods industry, further pushing consumers into a perceived passive box. As a result of this cultural change, it is no longer expected that the cooking show host be a genuine expert (contrary to the Food Network’s relentless claims of being so).41 He or she no longer needs to be an authority on the subject, but rather an arbiter, delivering tips and suggestions to a receptive lay audience of self-described foodies eager to trade up. “The TV chef, through his or her focus on aesthetics,” writes Tania Lewis, “acts as a mediator and translator for a set of ‘life skills’ that is associated both with the elite world of the professional chef and with the realm of ‘women’s work’.”42 Even those who are experts – classically trained chefs like Jacques Pépin or Bobby Flay – might be forced to downplay the amount of detail or rigor they teach on television. Peter Lunt writes of the changing nature of expertise in popular television and how it has

changed from the provision of knowledge in the form of useful information to a format in which expertise and the adoption of advice is performed in programs and backed up by the accumulation of a repository of advice. The role of the expert has shifted from the authoritative provider of public information to that of therapist or coach oﬀering advice to participants in the practical accomplishment of the transformation of the self.43

Though this may be more dramatic and obvious in programs such as The Oprah Winfrey Show, we see it in cooking shows, too, as an example of lifestyle television. While a self- improvement agenda is not explicit, most cooking programs provide an underlying message that says, “If you cook well (or at all), you are a better person.” In the early days of the sub-genre this was so because target viewers – women – were in a role of serving others. From the 1960s onward, cooking was an avenue for self-fulﬁllment, increasingly for men as well as women. If you eat well, so the logical implication goes, you are a better person. This notion can be interpreted in terms of health and self-care as well, an area also linked to class. What citizens require or demand (or spend money on) dictates the nature of program content. Food interest has broadened in ways that were hinted at in the 1960s and 1970s but now receive wider attention. And so it seems that what might be required in the current day, as evidenced by the alarming rise in obesity and diet-related illness in the United States as well as increased attention on environmental crises, is the development of programs to address these issues. Tania Lewis notes how lifestyle television of late “has been marked by a shift to a more overtly educational as well as arguably more realist approach to lifestyle change, one concerned with emphasizing responsible modes of consumption and

281 K. COLLINS citizenship and with focusing on the pain and eﬀort involved in transforming oneself into an ethical consumer.”44 Despite this, the vast majority of televised food programming does not emphasize healthy eating. Some – Southern cook Paula Deen, greasy spoon hunter Guy Fieri and the British Two Fat Ladies as examples – showcase artery-clogging food, that very characteristic being the intentional hook and entertainment value of these shows. So while print media may answer the growing need and interest in health among some segments of the population, it is TV where we can all turn for a good dose of “junk viewing.” One exception and deliberate antidote to just this sort of pervasive hedonistic or careless attitude toward food is British cooking show host Jamie Oliver. Known for his Naked Chef series in the 1990s and later Jamie’s School Dinners where he hoped to transform the diets of students in England, Oliver is an apt example of what Lewis describes as “overtly educational.” With Jamie Oliver’sFoodRevolution, on the American network ABC in 2010, he brought his pedagogical methods to a West Virginia town that was deemed by media outlets based on 2007 US government data as America’s least healthy and fattest city.45 Just as he had done in the UK, Oliver spent weeks teaching citizens of Huntington, West Virginia, how to eat better, cook simple meals and to feed school children more healthfully. Oliver used cooking demonstrations, contests and games to engage the community. His presence was met with varying reactions from the town’s citizens and viewers. One faction felt that he was interfering, uninvited and imposing middle-class values. Another saw him as a hero, one man waging a desperately needed battle in Western society. “In attempting to transform the overweight and behaviourally ‘aberrant’ people featured on these shows into ideal citizens, the emphasis on health, ﬁtness and behavioural change is closely tied here to regulating people’s modes of consumption,” writes Lewis. “In particular (and somewhat ironically, given that many of these shows are aired on commercial television), these issues are often framed in terms of curbing ‘excessive’ consumption from overeating to watching too much television.”46 This type of more intentionally mallet-over-the-head citizen education in food television is ostensibly designed to improve the health and well- being of a society and therefore provide a public service. It is also a voyeuristic opportunity for those who perceive their own lifestyles as superior to those portrayed on a show like Food Revolution. As Lewis writes:

Much of lifestyle television is concerned, then, with teaching its audiences to adopt implicitly middle-class modes of “good” consumption and self-surveillance (from actively seeking out organic produce to purchasing the latest green appliances). Regulating one’s consumption and embracing the necessary inconveniences of green modes of living are oﬀered up as middle-class virtues to which we should all aspire. Linked to this aspirational focus, ethical modes of consumption are increasingly associated with social distinction, with expensive green products increasingly acquiring a degree of social cache amongst a growing urban class of “bourgeois bohemians.”47

A bird’s eye view of the evolution of teaching via food television might reveal this: We American citizen-viewers were ﬁrst taught practical advice for homemaking; then we learned how to be creative and use cooking as a means of self-expression; then we learned to spend our money on food and accoutrements, to follow trends, to indulge and treat and ﬁnd ourselves via food. After following all that advice, we are overweight and out of touch with real food and authentic cooking. Watching a program like Guy Fieri’s Diners, Drive-Ins

282 COOKING CLASS and Dives, where overeating is sport, the time has come, other programs are telling us, to scale back. We have posed the question “is it passive?” as it relates to food television and its viewers. The Jamie Oliver experiment would indicate that viewers are hopefully highly receptive to the messages. Naccarato and LeBesco write:

The upshot of food television’s popularity is the symbolic democratization of culinary capital – viewers are authorized to sit around feeling entitled and in-the- know, without really thinking about what is missing from their basis of knowledge. While we are not suggesting that viewers are inevitably passive dupes to the all- powerful media, we do recognize that sometimes the deck can be stacked in ways that constrain the possibilities for resistance … food television, in particular, is adept at curtailing resistance by giving everyday citizens less room to talk back, to read against the grain, and so on.48

In this application, resistance can be construed as challenging the power dynamic between upper and lower classes, the latter’s right to assert their own priorities instead of accepting perceived narrowly-defined, misplaced or irrelevant values. LeBesco and Naccarato, like Johnston and Baumann, also expound on the definition of a foodie specifically in comparison to a “chowhound,”49 and therein the passivity issue rears up again. Chowhounds accuse foodies of “eating where they’re told” instead of blazing trails as chowhounds pur- port to do.50 Nevertheless, the impending syllogism does not compute, i.e. chowhounds are unlikely to be considered on equal footing – by chowhounds or members of the under- class – simply because they both refuse to eat what and where they are told. This is one of many examples that illustrate the complex hierarchies that have developed in recent years, and it also reminds us of the contentious nature of “foodie” defining. Approaching food with an awareness of aesthetics or with a desire for knowledge acquisition is by definition not passive. As viewers, we have become savvier about media and its tricks. On the whole, we are aware we are being sold to, smirk at product placement, flip channels away from or fast forward through advertisements, and as consumers, we vote with our wallets. As consumer-viewers, our eyeballs are quite literally sought after. Because the development of program content depends on the intended audience and vice versa – what is driven by whom – different needs and desires emerge and are reflected on television. Changes in content from practical information to social mores to cultural capital to health and environmental information are not mutually exclusive, but as the form has advanced, various sub-sub-genres have emerged and highlight a variety of themes. Viewers’ and citizens’ need or desire to learn, as well as pedagogy, formats, content, methods, medium and ways of implementing knowledge ebb, flow and evolve.

Is it democratic? The most salient characteristic of the present food movement is that it is ostensibly mainstream and open access; anyone can participate, even though some might be accused by others of practicing behaviors or espousing knowledge incorrectly, superﬁcially or inau- thentically. Social and cultural hierarchies are inevitable outgrowths of such an open marketplace of ideas. Previous mentions of this social accessibility such as Kaplan’s and the

283 K. COLLINS efforts of Julia Child indicate an assumed democracy inherent in food and its open path- way to upward mobility, but it is not so simple. While Child’s intention was to demystify and popularize, what was ultimately being taught was more than simply the introduction of a type of international cooking. At the same time that Child was playing a small part in attempting to flatten a social class hierarchy, the awareness of trends and aesthetics as expressed via cultural trappings including gourmet savoir-faire began to create a culinary paradigm that has in many ways become more pronounced – at the same time that the currency of cultural capital has changed – in the intervening decades. “TV cooking shows not only teach pragmatic culinary knowledge in terms of cookery skills, but also play a vital role in the production and promotion of regimes of taste,” writes de Solier. “It informs viewers in matters of taste, and how to use their taste in food in projects of social distinction.”51 In the café society of the 1930s in the United States, “selectivity and publicity” were the main concerns of the anointed entertainers, writers, artists and the generally wealthy. Members enjoyed media attention and luxury consumption. Exclusivity was abated by the acceptance of some who might not meet the requirements of other elite social clubs such as Jews, Italians and women.52 In the early twentieth century, the gourmet movement’s pur- ported goal was to change American dining culture, not just to keep the knowledge and pleasure in exclusive groups but also to use their influence to spread the gospel of haute cuisine. The gap between the message and its application, however, was and is wide, for the middle and lower classes who cannot afford to partake. Today’s “café society” is not explicit, but has many of the same unwritten entrance requirements. Remember Andrew Haley’s “social Darwinism of aristocratic dining”? It has not gone far away. Mass media perpetuates the hierarchical dynamic. Niki Strange argues that cooking shows are not necessarily what meets the eye, that is, simply the delivery of cooking techniques and recipes. She provides terms for media cookery program types: cookery-educative (instruction via demonstration), personality (focusing on host/presenter/instructor), tour-educative (tra- velogue) and raw-educative (food’s transformation from raw state to finished dish often incorporating broader topics such as production-consumption processes).53 We could add to this paradigm a fifth category. While not as easily defined, it would carry the most weight and have the most profound effect on our collective psyche: culture-educative. Worth consideration are the mechanisms by which food television teaches according to its explicit agenda – recipe and technique instruction – as well as by its implicit messages, which are inextricably tied to social class and consumerism. Television made high culinary culture available to members of formerly uninvited guests who could now gain access to information about different places and practices in the world (“cultural tourism,” describes Finkelstein54) and theoretically gain access to upmarket ingredients and kitchen tools. “When the viewer of a cooking program learns what it means to ‘chiffonade’ and to ‘canel,’ to ‘deglaze’ and to ‘degorge’,” writes Orlijan, “the viewer is acquiring another language – that of the kitchen, a language that creates an imagined community … Attaining the language of cooking and purchasing an identity via acquiring products spawn communities that necessarily, by their very existence as communities, create and exclude others.”55 Compared to the early twentieth century, when standardization of products and techniques was de rigueur, the end of the century and early twenty-first century – due in large part to cable television – can boast a great diversity in cuisines represented. It seems clear that this bevy of options, the apparent welcom- ing of “everyone,” has been a strong force in creating a climate where “everyone” feels at

284 COOKING CLASS ease considering themselves foodies. There is something for everyone and niches galore. But does variety or quantity or greater choice necessarily translate to a level playing ﬁeld? The cultural capital of food knowledge allows people to take on the temporary or illusory identity of a member of a higher social class. Some argue that such capital is the central medium of exchange. “The use value of … a recipe displayed on television without accompanying text is variable at best,” writes David Goldstein.

The exchange value is all, an invitation to a voyeurism in which one sees the inside of one’s own kitchen as a potentially utopian space, perennially new and full of elegant devices; one sees oneself as a consummate performer with time on one’s hands … What [Martha Stewart] teaches in these laboratories of domestic decorousness is how to watch her teach.56

The Food Network, in order to appeal to as wide an audience as possible, does aim to be populist. Rachael Ray, for instance, uses products that can be found at any supermarket, and Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives profiles food establishments that sell the most American and accessible of dishes. The Internet is an open forum for anyone to blog or post videos about cooking, eating and restaurant reviews, thereby creating a seemingly infinite stable of amateur guides. But even that once flat playing field has become competitive with the prestigious James Beard Foundation now awarding honors not just for professional food writing and cookbooks, but for blogs and webcasts.

Lifestyle for sale While the existence of food magazines grew over the decades, starting with the 1941 arrival of Gourmet, Bon Appetit in 1956, followed later by Food & Wine, Saveur, Cook’s Illu- strated and many others, it was the launch of the Food Network in the United States in 1993 that radically altered the landscape of the cooking genre and its social position. It was not, however, an immediately noticeable change. The circumstances of the network’s origin say much about its role and the eﬀect it continues to wage almost two decades later. Food and cooking, popular consumer topics as evidenced by the number of print publications in its services in the early 1990s, were deemed by a group of media executives to be an untapped, viable TV topic. The early days of the network included the airing of old TV cooking shows – including Julia Child and Dione Lucas – and soon thereafter new shows were developed, some of which were tangential to cooking instruction, i.e. news, travel and game shows. This strategy successfully combined recipe instruction and cooking skills with cultural trappings. Finkelstein eﬃciently and richly sums up the modern age:

Cooking programmes on television, new gourmet magazines on the news-stand, and the proliferation of chic products such as bottled water, designer olive oils and balsamic vinegars signal that food is a consumer item and a form of mass entertainment. The fashions in tastes for, say, fondue, crème caramel, wine sauces, tiramisu, tagines, demiglaces, coulis, squid-ink linguine and ciabatta can be mapped on to the social cachet of the ethnic or specialized bistro, the celebrity chef, the popularity of particular cult ﬁlms, and the best-selling works of accomplished travel writers such as Peter Mayle and Jan Morris … Ambience and the

285 K. COLLINS

aestheticization of food have made eating-out into a fashionable performance, and, as such, part of the expanding, insinuating entertainment industries.57

The market-driven nature of today’s food television affects food interest in a profound way. It creates want – to possess knowledge as well as material goods – and it explicitly and aggressively teaches viewers to consume. When viewers shop for products displayed on cooking shows, whether those advertised or simply an ingredient or accoutrement used by the host, they are likely subconsciously acquiring an element of the lifestyle presented. Buying the same spatula that longtime TV host and cookbook author Sara Moulton uses, a viewer might wager, will make me a better cook. But even more implicit, buying Nigella Lawson’s robin’s egg blue dishware or mezzaluna can foster the belief that emulating a host by purchasing specific products can lead to the creation of a more desirable lifestyle. The dynamic is hardly different from how we operated as adolescents when we emulated the popular girls’ style of dress with the hope that it would bring us the same social success. It is an illusory endeavor since we intellectually know that merely copying a lifestyle is not the key to entry. “Many a social novice would try and fail to imitate the lifestyle of the well-to-do,” writes Andrew Haley of dogged middle-class attempts in the early twentieth century, “only to learn that a modicum of economic success did not necessarily entitle one to the respect and social recognition that set the American aristocrat apart from the rest of society.”58 Their failures led to the middle class striking out to forge their own class identity (we might see an echo of this with the foodie–chowhound dynamic). John Hartley’s concept of “democratainment” is relevant here. “During the second half of the twentieth century,” he writes, “television has reached and sustained a position as the foremost medium for cross-demographic communication.”59 While the Food Network claims a populist philosophy, democracy is not necessarily its true aim. By design, exclusivity reigns in the realm of food-as-lifestyle. The continued success of enterprises like the Food Network depends on a persistent yet dynamic cultural divide. Fortunately for producers and advertisers, there will always be something new – whether an ingredient, restaurant, kitchen tool or health claim – which ensures a new surge of consumerist desire. In terms of knowledge dissemination, perhaps food television is an alleged democratizer – information is still free in many cases. But in terms of obtaining the physical trappings, many aspects are out of reach for people with insufficient incomes. (To further complicate the infrastructure of cultural gaps, many foodie purists would not even deign to watch or accept information from something as plebian as the Food Network.) Again, this has echoes in modern history: Gourmet’s restaurant reviews were an effective conduit for familiarizing readers with gourmet restaurants in New York City and other regions, mostly larger cities in the United States and abroad, though of course this favored people who lived near them and people who could afford them. In point of fact, food television is less a public service than a highly effective marketing campaign. The presented content, values and aesthetics speak to a population who already has achieved a certain level of comfort. For those who do not quite see themselves reflected on the screen, it is aspirational. Food television relentlessly sends the message, “This is what you should want,” which persists as a form of teaching cultural citizenship. Sometimes that message is delivered directly, as in the case of Jamie Oliver, other times more obliquely, as in the seemingly casual showcasing of hosts’ desirable homes or kitchen gear, or, in the case of reality-style programming that can reveal the uglier side of human behavior, the message comes in the guise of a cautionary tale on how not to live.

286 COOKING CLASS

As the format, tone and aesthetics of cooking shows have evolved over past decades, viewers are learning less from a televised version of a cookbook than from a celebrity host- centric catalogue. Compared with the earlier, pre-modern, pre-Food Network cooking shows, viewers are more likely to want to live like their TV hosts rather than merely cook like them. Viewers project themselves onto the tableaux presented, and on-screen activity is performed to appear eminently do-able. We are given explicit instructions after all, in how to do something in a space that is recognizably similar to a space in our own home. Repeating the actions in our own kitchens does not seem far-fetched, the way adopting the activities of the nobility on Downton Abbey might. The seeming do-ability and have-ability is central to the success of television cooking programs. As Signe Rousseau writes,

unlike Crocker, or Ronald McDonald, or any other ﬁgure who has had an impact on how and what we eat, celebrity chefs are real people, and their personal involvement in our welfare also tells us something of the shifting boundaries between public and private in a globalized world where it has become fairly normal to add other people’s lives to the range of products we consume on a regular basis and to allow them to inﬂuence more and more of our own choices.60

This brings us back to the notion of viewer passivity or docility. In the face of pleasing images, attractive faces and surroundings, and authoritative, enviable celebrities or chefs, it is difficult to argue that the viewer is not being seduced. However, it may be that seduction that succeeds in leading a viewer to attempt a recipe, especially to try out one’s new mezzaluna. Dangling high-end, just out of reach products – both in ads and in program content – that promise an entrée to the auras portrayed on screen (those of Nigella Lawson, Martha Stewart, Ina Garten, Giada De Laurentiis or “Pioneer Woman” Ree Drummond, for example) is a large part of the allure of the programs. Presenting a privileged world attainable to some but far from a vast majority of the Food Network’s viewers61 is, in effect, fuel for capitalism. “Knowing and using the language of cuisine, including exercising one’s educated palate, separates those with cultural capital from ordinary eaters,” writes Pauline Adema. “As more people become familiar with gourmet foods, flavors, and preparation techniques the value of gourmet food and cooking as cultural capital decreases.”62 Producers and advertisers are aided by “hip elite” viewers and consumers who want to remain on the cutting edge and to leave the culturally ignorant behind.63 “By blurring ‘who knows what about whom’ and ‘who knows what compared to whom’,” writes Meyr- owitz, “television has fostered the blurring of social identities, socialization stages, and ranks of hierarchy … What people share is not identical behaviour, but a common set of options.”64 The options, for many, are purely theoretical. And while one-upmanship in terms of food knowledge and gourmet savoir-faire is not new (there was a plethora of gourmet dining clubs in the 1970s, for instance), it has become heightened with the aid of food and cooking information in a variety of media.

The big picture In the United States, cooking instruction has been a ﬁxture of American broadcast media since the ﬁrst days of radio in the 1920s. The genre has proven its virility over time by adapting to media innovation – television, video, Internet, podcasting – as well as changing cultural desires. Traditionally seen as a basic service program type (before the emergence

287 K. COLLINS of “lifestyle” television), this how-to sub-genre has evolved over the last six decades to rely on and often be associated with entertainment – and more recently and specifically, reality – programming. The relatively recent emergence of socially health-oriented programming is reminiscent of the Franklin D. Roosevelt administration when citizen nutrition was a primary concern. In other ways, too, our current food media harkens back to previous pedagogies. The countless home cooks now sharing cooking tips via blogs and home video (web-only cooking video is largely the province of amateurs) are analogous to the days of radio where geographically disparate housewives shared recipes and homemaking tips across the air- waves. The housewives are now joined by working parents, frat boys and rock stars, all seeking as well as offering instruction. The Food Network’s marketing strategies, the entertainment veneer and the popularity of food among the general public have helped to widen the audience of cooking shows. Cooking shows, despite their wide variability and divergent evolutionary characteristics, still claim common ancestors. It is useful to imagine the plethora of programs on a continuum with relatively pure entertainment at one end and pure instruction at the other. The form has shifted but the mission remains steadfast. Since their inception, cooking shows have been closely connected to issues of class and distinction, usually implicit in any given program. The program type is especially powerful in its teaching about cultural citizenship as it appeals to, and is relevant and theoretically accessible to, a wide swath of the population. Viewers learn recipes or cooking tips as well as ways of consuming (material goods, television itself and ideas) and ways of fashioning a lifestyle – all of which contribute to both personal and societal identity formation or transformation. For many, food has evolved from a means of nourishment to a form of entertainment as well. Where once food media’s purpose was instruction, it gradually took on the characteristics of a leisure pursuit. “Foodie” may be a late twentieth-century term, but food interest had been embedded in the human psyche for a long while. The table had been set piece by piece over decades with a powerful hand from electronic media. Our original three questions can be applied to the concept of foodism or food interest, no matter how it was propagated. The first question, “Is it new?” can be answered forthrightly: no, foodism is not the novelty that it might seem in our present day. The remaining two questions, “Is it passive?” and “Is it democratic?” each earn the reply, “That depends.” Consumer, viewer and citizen power depends on their varying reserves of social and economic capital. We are “buying an identity,” as Orlijan writes, but with caveats.

Notes 1 Scripps News Release, December 11, 2012. www.scrippsnetworksinteractive.com/newsroom/ company-news/Food-Network-drew-record-viewership-in-2012 (accessed March 23, 2013). 2 NPD Group, February 12, 2013. www.npd.com/wps/portal/npd/us/news/press-releases/the- npd-group-reports-annual-2012-small-appliance-sales-up-5-precent (accessed March 23, 2013). 3 Andrew Haley, Turning the Tables: Restaurants and the Rise of the American Middle Class, Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2011, p. 104. 4 Joanne Finkelstein, “Foodatainment,” Performance Research, 4, 130. 5 Ann Barr and Paul Levy, The Oﬃcial Foodie Handbook: Be Modern – Worship Food, New York: Timbre Books, 1984, p. 6. 6 David Strauss, Setting the Table for Julia Child: Gourmet Dining in America, 1934–1961, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2011, p. 132. 7 The French Chef. Series 1, show #23: Bouillabaisse, March 15, 1963.

288 COOKING CLASS

8 Josee Johnston and Shyon Baumann, Foodies: Democracy and Distinction in the Gourmet Foodscape, New York: Routledge, 2010. 9 Ibid., p. 59. 10 Ibid., p. 61. 11 Haley, Turning the Tables, p. 222, original citation: C. Rosebault, “Lost Tribe of New York Epi- cures,” New York Times, February 13, 1921, p. 5 book review. 12 American sociologist Thorstein Veblen introduced the concept to describe a person’s immodest display of wealth in his 1899 book The Theory of the Leisure Class: An Economic Study of Institutions. 13 Gourmet, September 2001, p. 75. 14 Haley, Turning the Tables, p. 87. 15 J. Marshall and L. Frazier, “The Homemakers’ View of Television” and “The Networks’ View of Homemaker Show,” Practical Home Economics, October 1952, 14–16, 46. 16 Strauss, Setting the Table for Julia Child, p. 189. 17 Lynn Spigel, Make Room for TV: Television and the Family Ideal in Postwar America, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992, p. 84. 18 Kimberly Joy Orlijan, “Consuming Subjects: Cultural Productions of Food and Eating,” Ph.D. Dissertation, University of California, Riverside, 1999, p. 188. 19 Mary McFeely, Can She Bake a Cherry Pie?: American Women and the Kitchen in the Twentieth Century, Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2000, p. 3. 20 Tania Lewis, Smart Living: Lifestyle Media and Popular Expertise, New York: Peter Lang, 2008, p. 65. 21 Kathleen Collins, Watching What We Eat: The Evolution of Television Cooking Shows, New York: Con- tinuum, 2009, p. 40. 22 Isabelle de Solier, “TV Dinners: Culinary Television, Education and Distinction,” Continuum: Journal of Media and Cultural Studies, 19(4), 2005, 469–70. 23 Peter Naccarato and Kathleen LeBesco, Culinary Capital, London: Berg, 2012, p. 42. 24 Collins, Watching What We Eat, p. 41, p. 32. 25 “François Pope: French Chef in a Business Suit,” Chicago Daily Tribune, June 12, 1960. 26 W.I. Kaufman, Cooking with the Experts, New York: Random House, 1955. 27 Spigel, Make Room for TV, p. 84. 28 de Solier, “TV Dinners,” 465. 29 Richard Hoggart, “The Uses of Television,” Encounter, 14(1), 1960, 41. 30 Alice Yaeger Kaplan, “Taste Wars: American Professions of French Culture,” Yale French Studies, 73, 1987, p. 164. 31 Collins, Watching What We Eat, pp. 106–15. 32 Ibid., p. 227, p. 115. 33 Toby Miller, “From Brahmin Julia to Working-Class Emeril: The Evolution of Television Cooking,” High-Pop: Making Culture into Popular Entertainment, ed. J. Collins, Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers, 2002, p. 85. 34 Joshua Meyrowitz, “Medium Theory,” Communication Theory Today, ed. D. Crowley and D. Mitchell, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1994, p. 58. 35 Marshall and Frazier, “The Homemakers’ View of Television,” 15. 36 John Corner, Critical Ideas in Television Studies, New York: Oxford University Press, 1999, p. 117. 37 Annette Hill, Real TV: Factual Entertainment and Television Audiences, New York: Routledge, 2005, p. 79. 38 Collins, Watching What We Eat, p. 201. 39 Annette Hill, Real TV, p. 105. 40 Mark Bittman, “101 Simple Meals Ready in 10 Minutes or Less,” New York Times, July 18, 2007, p. F1. See also Mark Bittman, “101 Fast Recipes for Grilling,” New York Times, June 30, 2010, p. D1; “101 Simple Salads for the Season,” New York Times, July 22, 2009, p. D7. 41 Collins, Watching What We Eat, p. 183, p. 200. 42 Lewis, Smart Living, p. 58. 43 Peter Lunt, “Television, Public Participation, and Public Service: From Value Consensus to the Politics of Identity,” The End of Television? Its Impact on the World (So Far), ed. E. Katz and P. Scannell, Los Angeles: Sage Publications, 2009, p. 134. 44 Tania Lewis, “Transforming Citizens? Green Politics and Ethical Consumption on Lifestyle Tel- evision,” Continuum: Journal of Media and Cultural Studies, 22(2), 2008, pp. 227–40.

289 K. COLLINS

45 Based on several measures from Centers for Disease Control and Prevention 2006 data summarized here: http://phys.org/news146064523.html (accessed March 23, 2013). 46 Lewis, “Transforming Citizens?” 233. 47 Ibid., p. 238. 48 Naccarato and LeBesco, Culinary Capital, p. 51. 49 Chowhound.com began as an online discussion forum in 1997. Naccarato and LeBesco provide an excellent characterization of the group and their relation to foodies. 50 Naccarato and LeBesco, Culinary Capital, p. 76. 51 de Solier, “TV Dinners,” 469. 52 Strauss, Setting the Table for Julia Child, p. 101. 53 Niki Strange, “Perform, Educate, Entertain: Ingredients of the Cookery Programme Genre,” The Television Studies Book, ed. C. Geraghty and D. Lusted, New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1998, p. 301. 54 Finkelstein, “Foodatainment,” 130. 55 Orlijan, “Consuming Subjects,” p. 188. 56 David Goldstein, “Recipes for Living: Martha Stewart and the New American Subject,” Ordinary Lifestyles: Popular Media, Consumption and Taste, ed. D. Bell and J. Hollows, Maidenhead: Open University Press, 2005, p. 59. 57 Finkelstein, “Foodatainment,” 131. 58 Haley, Turning the Tables, p. 49. 59 John Hartley, Uses of Television, London: Routledge, 1999, p. 155. 60 Signe Rousseau, Food Media: Celebrity Chefs and the Politics of Everyday Interference, London: Berg, 2012, p. xxxiv. 61 According to demographic and household proﬁles based on August 2008–9 Scarborough Research, 44 percent of Food Network viewers have minimum annual incomes of $75K (www. comcastspotlight.com/network/food-network) (accessed March 23, 2013). 62 Pauline Adema, “Vicarious Consumption: Food, Television and the Ambiguity of Modernity,” Journal of American and Comparative Cultures, 23(2), 2000, 117. 63 Miller, “From Brahmin Julia to Working-Class Emeril,” p. 84. 64 Meyrowitz, “Medium Theory,” 68.

290 15 TOURISM, CUISINE, AND THE CONSUMPTION OF CULTURE IN THE CARIBBEAN

Carla Guerrón Montero

Food makes places as symbolic constructs.1 It is time to forget about that ditch. Tourism will be the premier source of income of Panama in the future and cuisine is an essential part of it.2

As historians of food have argued convincingly, food is a fundamental location to study social change and to convey social messages.3 To the extent that food provides a conduit to construct and represent identities, “food and what counts as food is a signifier of belonging, cultural identity, and home.”4 Food is tightly connected to politics. By studying the movement of foodstuffs, one can understand complex geopolitical and social associations and their relation to globalization.5 Food is more than an economic commodity, “it a multidimensional cultural artifact capable of linking issues regarding the relationships between place and identity, and the material and symbolic,”6 as well as setting up boundaries between “us and them.”7 Food and tourism are intimately entwined.8 The latter is based on consumptive patterns, and food provides a particularly wide window to understand these patterns. Tourism is part of a larger and constant process of identity formation, “of seeking out and assimilating the exotic in order to avoid the trap of being caught in the mainstream.”9 In addition, tourism is not only a highly complex production that signifies a cultural phenomenon related to transnational movement, displacement, mobilities, and migration,10 but it is also a very concrete industry where the actions of mediators and so-called hosts and guests have tangible consequences. Food is one aspect of consumption in a touristic encounter, whether the tourist is actively looking for a culinary experience or simply seeing food as fuel. In other words, food can be studied “as both a destination and a vehicle in tourism.”11 Historically, food has been a central component of the touristic experience in the modern western world, and it is surprising that food did not play a significant role in tourism studies until the late 1990s.12 In spite of the ubiquitous presence of food in any touristic experience, there was limited scholarship addressing the value of studying food in association with tourism to understand social, cultural, and economic relations,13 or to acknowledge it as an essential vehicle to recognize social, economic, and political inequalities.14 Today, because we have included food, the theoretical analysis of tourism as a multisensory

291 C.GUERRÓN MONTERO experience is sophisticated. In very simple terms, understanding food is essential to understand the tourism industry. Put another way, food-and-drink-focused tourism studies “offer a fascinating lens through which to examine these more heterogeneous sensory landscapes and theorize whether they offer different ‘kinds’ of non-representable knowledge.”15 Tourism is often conceived as a sensual experience, pleasurable or otherwise; producing, consuming, and constructing the sensual category of food is basic to the overall touristic experience.16 The often-cited “tourist gaze”17 is, in fact, multisensory and embodied, incorporating tastes, smells, sounds, and touch, and visual and non-visual practices.18 In this chapter, food becomes a lens to understand the consumption of food and culture in the context of tourism, the adaptation of cuisines to tourism venues and their relationship to authenticity and nostalgia, and the construction of national versus regional identities and identity politics. I use the Caribbean nation of Panama as an illustration of these interactions. Food historians have been concerned with the role of tourism in shaping the history of particular foods with fruitful results.19 Anthropologists have always been concerned with the manifold meanings of food because of its role in social organization or as a cultural system.20 However, with some outstanding classic exceptions, as Wilk21 aptly notes, only recently has food become a legitimate topic of study in its own right.22 Tourism studies has contributed to our understanding of the intersection between food and tourism.23 In the process, this approach has effectively shifted the focus of tourism studies from the economic impacts of food in the tourism industry—which have dominated food-related tourism research24—to a more comprehensive understanding of the issues at play. Tourism studies scholars recognize the difference between studying how tourists and locals interact with food in the context of the touristic experience and studying food tourism, which can be understood as the intentional visit to primary and secondary food producers, food festivals, gourmet classes, and restaurants.25 Culinary tourism,another term commonly used to refer to food tourism, has been cast in modern times as an important attraction by the tourism industry.26 Culinary tourism is sometimes used as synonym of gastronomic and food and wine tourism;27 it has developed a growing following around the world, particularly in Europe,28 where it started in the late 1990s. As Richards states, “gastronomy has a particularly important role to play in this [competition between tourism destinations], not only because food is central to the tourist experience, but also because gastronomy has become a significant source of identity formation in postmodern societies.”29 It is worth noting that some authors distinguish culinary tourism from gastronomic tourism, as the latter refers specifically to having a gourmet experience.30 Other common synonyms include “tasting tourism,”31 “food tourism,”32 and “food pilgrimages.”33 Lucy Long (2004) proposes a more comprehensive definition of culinary tourism: “the intentional, exploratory participation in the foodways of another—participation including the consumption, preparation, and presentation of a food item, cuisine, meal system, or eating style considered to belong to a culinary system not one’sown.”34 In other words, culinary tourism refers both to geographical travel to sample foods of foreign lands and to any venture into the realm of the “exotic other” through food consumption. This approach sees culinary tourists as adventurers or explorers, and the consumption of food (whether abroad, at home learning to cook dishes from other countries, or exploring international cuisine at restaurants) becomes an expedition.35 Currently, the industry and academia use the term “culinary tourism” as an all-encompassing term.

292 TOURISM, CUISINE, AND CULTURE IN THE CARIBBEAN

Culinary tourism has deep connections with constructions of nostalgia, authenticity, memory, and otherness. Memory of and nostalgia for a long-gone past have been posited as characteristics of the modern36 and postmodern tourist or the “post-tourist,”37 embarking on a quest for the “authentic other.” Without exception, authenticity is vital to both the touristic experience and culinary tourism. Thus, understanding authenticity provides the backbone for analyzing the relationships among food, culture, and tourism. Authenti- city is a complex and recurrent process, a social construction placed within specific social, political, and economic contexts. In the anthropological literature on tourism, authenticity has been both defended and problematized, particularly in establishing who has the authority to determine it, protect it, or impose it.38 As Kirshenblatt-Gimblett notes (2004), the question of authenticity, and not authenticity itself, is essential to culinary tourism, for this question “organizes conversation, reflection, and comparison and arises as much from doubt as from confidence.”39 In the last fifteen years, tourism scholars have approached the study of tourism from the theoretical perspective of “mobilities” to encompass a larger understanding of the many meanings of “being on the move” and to recognize the long history of human engagement with traveling, moving, and displacement.40 Sally Everett argues that tourism in the postmodern era has moved from a packaged and standardized approach to one where the consumer requests à la carte experiences, thus contributing to the development of new, alternative, patterns. One such emerging touristic niche that merges agriculture and tourism is known as agritourism, agrotourism,41 or farm tourism,42 which has developed and expanded in Europe for the past several decades. Agritourism offers educational experiences on farms, production and consumption of artisanal and local products, and local cuisine.43 Because of significant changes in consumption patterns, tastes, and attitudes, there is growing interest in what the rural areas can offer to tourists in the form of wine, food, agricultural production, and rural experiences. In Italy and France, for instance, tourism figures importantly in their rural economies, and the global recognition of the strong connections of these countries with their cuisine is firmly established.44 In other words, agritourism is simply one way to package the relationship between food and place in these countries. As Craig Wight asserts, “the authentic rural culinary tourism experience is perpetuated [in agritourism] through the language of tourism marketing.”45 By studying food tourism from the mobilities paradigm,46 we recognize that the possibility of experiencing the exotic or—simply—different is not confined to those who travel or to those who migrate. By using this model, we can focus on the food consumed by migrants in their new setting who want to maintain a connection with their homeland; the tourist’s consumption of familiar foods while abroad;47 and the mobility of the tourist abroad48 and the tourist at home, where “culinary tourists can explore the exotic without leaving their own neighbourhood.”49 As Sara Gibson argues, “the practices of global cosmopolitanism can thus be triangulated through the relations of eating to both dwelling-in-traveling and traveling-in-dwelling.”50 This paradigm, when conceived from the perspective of the politics of mobility,51 recognizes the inequalities inherent in it, where the mobilities of some (the cosmopolitan, culinary tourist) rely on the immobilities of others (cooks, farmers, sellers, and waiters). Conversely, through a focus on mobilities, we recognize the reassuring role of food in postmodern times, its “capacity to hold time, place, and memory.”52 With this framework in mind, I now turn to a discussion of tourism and cuisine in the Caribbean.

293 C.GUERRÓN MONTERO

Consuming tourism in the Caribbean The Caribbean has long been constructed and represented as a sensual place par excel- lence. As Mimi Sheller states, the Caribbean is “constantly reassembled as a primeval, untouched site of luxuriant profusion. This ‘natural’ assemblage is then used as the lure for economic ‘development,’ military adventures, and tourist fantasies.”53 In this chapter, I define the Caribbean as the geographical region that encompasses the Caribbean Sea, its islands in the Greater and Lesser Antilles, and the surrounding coasts. I also include Belize, Guyana, and the Atlantic coast of Central America in this definition. My ethnographic research on tourism and constructions of identity through ethnic commodities (such as food) in the Caribbean has taken place in the Caribbean coast of Panama (Central America) and the island of Grenada (Lesser Antilles). To understand the Caribbean, one needs a framework that recognizes its history of colonialism, neocolonialism, dependency, and heterogeneity (whether we identify it as creolization, hybridity, or multiculturality); all are looming presences in the region’s history. Consequently, it is essential to recognize what postcolonial means in regards to tourism in the Caribbean. As Mathews54 proposes, what has dominated in the Caribbean is a plantation tourism economy because the industry has been a part of an overseas economy protected by the local elites and the law, and with little regulation. The search for edible and pleasurable substances was among the objectives of Eur- opeans when exploring the Caribbean. In fact, this is the first place where European colonizers settled to produce food, through coerced labor and slavery. As Sidney Mintz states succinctly, “that brutal fact is closely linked to Caribbean food. Who came to the islands, and what they ended up eating, were outcomes that turned upon the organization of the pioneer societies into which they were, for the most part, dragged.”55 This process not only brought millions of people (mostly involuntarily) from Africa, Asia, and Europe as a labor force, but it also created an economy sharply divided between domestic production and export production. Plantation economies (where domestic production was rare) have dominated the history of the region ever since. The sharp distinction between domestic and export production remains today. Additionally, because foreign interests overpower the benefit of the local populations, food imports continue to increase to the detriment of local agriculture.56 Tourism is fundamental in understanding this history because it has been a major con- tributor to social, geographic, and political transformations in the Caribbean. First, tourism replaced monocrop production as the predominant industry in the region. Second, the Caribbean is not only one of the main tourism destinations in the world but also one of the regions with the highest level of dependency on the tourism industry, a dependency that contributes to deepening structural weaknesses, high levels of income leakage, and lack of industrial diversification. Millions of tourists arrive in the Caribbean mainly to enjoy “the sun, sand, sea, and sex that is epitomized in the Caribbean holiday experience.”57 Because the Caribbean has been sold as a place for sun, sand, sea, and sex, gastronomic delights have been less identified and highlighted in the touristic experience58 even though the area offers a cornucopia of tastes, flavors, and aromas resulting from the historical fusion of peoples, cultures, and languages in the region.59 With the possible exception of Jamaica, culinary attractions have received limited attention, although exotic alcoholic beverages have continuously accompanied the Caribbean tourism industry. Likewise, from the perspective of the scholarship of food tourism, Dodman and Rhiney note that the relationship between

294 TOURISM, CUISINE, AND CULTURE IN THE CARIBBEAN tourism and food in the Caribbean has been underexplored.60 Nonetheless, a closer look at the role of food in Caribbean tourism demonstrates that both food and beverages account for a considerable share of the gross visitor spending61 and ﬁrmly contribute to the magnet- ism of the region in the imagination of the tourists. More recently, local initiatives have promoted culinary experiences in the Caribbean. For instance, agritourism enterprises have developed in Grenada and Trinidad and Tobago.62 They introduce the tourist to agricultural production, frequently focusing on production of foods that were part of the slavery system, such as cacao in Grenada and Trinidad and Tobago, or that have become quintessential representations of these countries, such as nutmeg in Grenada.

Tourism and cuisine in Panama: contested encounters in paradise Although Panama is geographically located in Central America, historically and culturally it is a Caribbean country (see Map 15.1). As a result of the economic boost that Panama received during World War II, the isthmus became closer to the Caribbean, particularly in terms of its aesthetics and cultures.63 It should be noted that only in the last two decades has Panama developed a nationwide tourism policy;64 even more recently, the tourism industry, recognizing the charm of the Caribbean as a tourist destination, has labeled the country as Caribbean. In this section, I discuss how a hegemonic idea of Panama integrates into the culinary touristic experience nationally and how a contested view of Panama integrates into the regional culinary touristic experience.

Caribbean Sea

COSTA Nombre de Dios RICA Changuinola Colón Miguel de la Borda Panama Chepo Canal ISTHMUS OF Mansucum PANAMA Panamá Volcán PANAMALa Chorerra David Cañazas Penonomé San Miguel Tolé La Palma Puerto Santiago Armuelles Yaviza Soná Chitré Gulf of Panama Tonosí Jaqué COLOMBIA

Miles 0 100 Pacific Ocean

0 140 Kilometres

Map 15.1 Map of Panama

295 C.GUERRÓN MONTERO

From being a province of Colombia (1821–1903) in colonial times to an independent republic (1903–present), Panama has emphasized its Spanish origins, and it has strived to sanction a homogenizing view of the nation-state, in line with most Latin American modern nation-states.65 In reality, however, Panama possesses great cultural and ethnic diversity, partly as a result of its historical condition as a place of transit. There are eight indigenous groups (Ngöbe, Buglé, Naso, Bokotá, Kuna, Emberá, Wounaan, and Bri-Bri), five different migration waves of peoples of African descent (connected to slavery in the sixteenth century and to voluntary migration from the British, Spanish, and French West Indies in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries), and a considerable number of immigrants from China, Greece, Spain, Italy, and India. In large part, these migrations were the result of economic need, which is one end of the continuum proposed by Burns and Novelli in their analysis of tourism and mobilities.66 As expected, this ethnic diversity has produced multiple foodways. “Panama is a melting pot of ethnicities, and its cuisine is accordingly influenced by its diverse population,” especially the indigenous and European.67 At the same time, only one cuisine (that of the rural countryside of Panama’s central provinces) has been elevated to the status of national cuisine. The cuisine of Panama’s central provinces has been influenced not only by Spanish and Colombian cuisine but also by indigenous and African cuisines. The influence of Latin American countries (particularly Mexico, Costa Rica, and Puerto Rico) can also be felt in dishes such as sancocho, patacones (fried plantains), saril or sorrel drink, and corn tortillas.68 However, the Spanish influence is normally highlighted. Primary ingredients in this cuisine are bananas (Musa acuminate) and plantains (Musa paradisiaca) consumed in a variety of ways, as well as tubers such as yucca, ñame, ñampi, otoe (Xanthosoma), and potatoes. Some of the most prominent dishes include sancocho (soup made with meat, tubers, and vegetables), arroz con pollo (rice with chicken), tamales, guacho (a thick soup made with ñame [yam, Dioscorea spp]), yucca, culantro (Eryngium foetidun L.), rice, vegetables, and meat such as beef, pig’s tail, or chicharrón (pork cracklings), and arroz con frijoles (rice and beans).69 Depending on the region, these dishes are prepared differently, thus effectively marking and determining ethnic and social ascription. For instance, the sancocho de gallina (chicken sancocho) might have fewer ingredients (if cooked among indigenous peoples) or more (if cooked among Afro-Antilleans), altering the consistency and flavor of the soup, rendering it virtually unrecognizable in different contexts. Limited historical information exists about the evolution of Panama’s cuisine. Alfredo Castillero Calvo offerssomeinsightsinhisrecentwork,Cultura Alimentaria y Globalización: Panamá: Siglos XVI a XXI. He writes that in the mid-nineteenth century the breakfast foods commonly consumed—by the lower, middle and upper classes alike—were plantains, coffee, meat, ñame, and bread.70 Breakfast practices have remained consistent over the years; some of these foods continue to be considered important parts of a common breakfast, with the addition of hojaldras or hojaldres (fried wheat flour dough), arepas (fried corn tortillas), scrambled eggs, or sautéed liver, with coffee and tropical fruit juices.71 Castillero Calvo notes that for the middle and lower socio-economic classes, lunch consisted of soup, chicken, steak, or seafood stew and rice with beans, lentils, salad, and fruit, similar to today’s menus. The upper classes delighted in imported products in addition to the aforementioned dishes. A typical dinner would be similar to lunch but with larger quantities. Snacking on fried foods was and continues to be common; some of the most popular fried foods are patacones (fried plantains), plantain chips, fried yucca, empanadas, and corn tortillas.

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Not surprisingly, the capacity of Panamanian soils to produce tropical products such as plantains, bananas, cacao, and coffee brought about large transnational companies, and with them, a long history of dependency and semi-slavery labor conditions.72 Particularly significant examples of this history are plantains and bananas, which have played a fundamental role in the culinary history of Panama. Plantains and bananas were produced in small quantities throughout the country until 1866, when Carl August Frank initiated exporting them from Colon to New York; when the French embarked in the construction of the Panama Canal in 1881, production moved to the province of Bocas del Toro, in the northwestern region. In Bocas, the plantain and banana business grew significantly, along with coconut and rubber exploitation.73 This represented the beginning of the United Fruit Company, one of the oldest and most powerful US corporations. The company was founded in 1889 and later became known in Panama as the Chiriquí Land Company.74 The arrival of the United Fruit Company (later Chiriquí Land Company) in Panama marked a transition from an economy based on agricultural work for domestic consumption to mono-crop production for commercial purposes. Panama’s economy vacillated between a very strong export of plantains, sugar cane, cacao and coffee by large transnational companies, and a very weak agricultural production for domestic consumption, requiring the importation of some products. As Castillero Calvo notes:

Panama started the twentieth century on the one hand, with completely archaic agrarian structures, dominated by a subsistence economy and far from being able to satisfy the feeding needs of its people; on the other hand, with agrarian structures oriented to the outside, that depleted labor resources and areas of harvesting for the production of food for local consumption.75

Coffee and sugar experienced transformations. Coffee was a delicacy in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, but a common daily drink by the nineteenth century. “Coffee conquered the palates of the Panamanians with a velocity that no other drink had seen, with the probable exception of beer in the beginning of the eighteenth century, or whisky, in mid-nineteenth century.”76 Sugar became important for Panamanian cuisine in the seventeenth century and essential by the early twentieth century.77 Unlike coffee and sugar, bananas and plantains were not embraced by the white elite immediately in colonial times because they were viewed as poor man’s food for most of the sixteenth century. By the seventeenth century, bananas became more common, and by the nineteenth century, rich and poor consumed bananas and plantains, which became staples in the Panamanian diet across social classes. In fact, people grew the trees in their backyards.78 Thus, during the nineteenth century, plantains and tubers (ñame, yucca, sweet potatoes, potatoes, and otoe) as well as rice, peppers, fruits and vegetables were present in every part of the country, whether the savannah, the tropical forest, or the city. Other products like maize were only found in the savannah and urban and rural areas, and meat was abundant in the tropical forest and the savannah.79 In the early twentieth century the emphasis on export production meant that some of the most basic foodstuffs in the Panamanian diet (such as onions, potatoes, beans, maize— even sugar, coffee, eggs, and salt) needed to be shipped to urban areas, mostly to Panama City, Colon, and Bocas del Toro.80 Things improved in the 1940s, when focus shifted to domestic production, partly as a result of both World War II and governmental incentives that fostered agriculture.

297 C.GUERRÓN MONTERO

Nowadays, the four main ingredients of the typical Panamanian diet are rice, beans, meat (especially beef and chicken), and plantains,81 which—along with the sabor criollo (creole or local flavor)—are assumed to produce the flavor and consistency of Panama’s national cuisine. As noted previously, the cuisine that represents Panamanian identity is the countryside cuisine of Panama’s central provinces, which are primarily agricultural areas. The cuisine and diet of indigenous populations and Afro-Panamanian populations are rarely explored in scholarly or popular contexts. Among the Kuna, some of the most common products include fresh seafood, coconut, boiled vegetables, and roots.82 The Kuna have been appropriated by Panama’s tourism industry as the quintessential “exotic Other” while also embarking on a series of tourism ventures mostly managed by the Kuna themselves in the Archipelago of San Blas. Commonly, offerings to tourists include mostly seafood (fish soups, crab meat, fresh fish), but chicken, beef, salads, vegetarian meals, and even versions of Italian food are also served in some tourism projects.83 The Ngöbe, the largest indigenous group in the country, combine agriculture with cattle, chicken, and pig raising. Their diet is mostly composed of pixbae, corn, rice, and beans. The Wounaan indigenous peoples have based their lifestyle around sustainable activities such as hunting, farming, and fishing; part of their diet results from jungle plants, fruits, hearts of palms, roots, and seafood. The Emberá indigenous peoples have experienced influences and interchange from African and Spanish populations since colonial times; these are evident in their technology and ingredients, which include rice, maize, banana, and sugar, and dishes such as bollos (maize dumplings) and tamales. As tourism (particularly ethnic and ecotourism) is expanding in the Darien region that they inhabit, there is increased interest to offer culinary options to the visitors. Emberá cuisine is characterized by rice, beans, green peas, yucca, sugar cane, ñame, otoe, and fruit—such as bananas, lime, orange, cacao, breadfruit, avocado, and mango—as well as maize,84 and meats such as chicken, pork, fish, deer, rabbit, birds, iguanas, peccaries, and monkey. Maize is ground, mixed with water and wrapped in the leaf of the nahuala palm (Carludovica palmata) to make bollos or tamales stuffed with fish or chicken. Panama’s historical condition of ‘place of transit’ brought about two distinctive groups from the African Diaspora: Afro-Colonials, descendants of black slaves who arrived in Panama in the sixteenth century to work in the mining industry, and Afro-Antilleans (West Indians, criollos,orantillanos), descendants of Antillean workers who migrated involuntarily or voluntarily to build the Panamanian railroad, the French-led Panama Canal, and to work in banana plantations in the nineteenth century. The second largest city in Panama, Colon, is home to both. Its cuisine is influenced by Spanish Colonial, Afro-Colonial, Afro- Caribbean, European/North American, and Asian cultures. Some of the most common dishes include chicken, pork, beef, octopus in coconut sauce, and other types of seafood dishes, as well as turtle meat and eggs. The Chinese presence in Panama’s cuisine is also noteworthy; the ingredients contributed by the Chinese—who first arrived in 1848 as a result of the California Gold Rush and later from 1850 to 1855 for the construction of the Panamanian Railroad—include rice, tea, cinnamon, cloves, garlic, coriander, basil, oregano, mustard, lentils, and ginger, among others.85 Other contributions came from Jewish, Indian, and Middle Eastern dia- sporas, all supplying dishes and practices such as kosher food. These populations, like the Chinese and the Afro-Antilleans, arrived as a result of the California Gold Rush and the construction of the Panamanian Railroad. Food in Panama is a means to create, construct, and reconstruct ethnic identities through the “invention, standardization, or valorization” of national cuisines,86 versus

298 TOURISM, CUISINE, AND CULTURE IN THE CARIBBEAN regional cuisines.87 By studying the plate, the pot, and the glass that is offered to the tourist, we can understand identity construction, memory, and otherness. Panama has become home to many ethnic groups, who have brought their own customs and culture with them. Although as early as the nineteenth century, some of these groups opened restaurants—typically as part of hotel enterprises—with international cuisine for upper-class tourists, or small eating places (such as fondas offering Chinese food or fried snacks) for local consumption, the first ethnic restaurants (Italian, Spanish, sophisticated Chinese, and “national” Panamanian food) were not opened until the 1960s and 1970s.88 Therefore, during the nineteenth and most of the twentieth century, as a regular practice, Panama’s tourists were rarely offered local food, and international cuisine was served to upper-class tourists as the ideal selection. Today, an impressive diversity of international cuisine is offered alongside Panamanian cuisine. A culinary tourist can experience Argentinian, Australian, Brazilian, Chilean, Chinese, Colombian, French, Greek, Indian, Indonesian, Italian, Japanese, Korean, Mex- ican, Middle Eastern, North American (United States and Canada), Peruvian, Portuguese, and Vietnamese cuisine, just to name a few. There are also new millennium fusion restaurants, as well as vegetarian, vegan, and macrobiotic restaurants. In spite of this range of choices, only recently has there been an interest in selling Panama as a gastronomic destination. The first gastronomic column in a newspaper appeared in 1998, and the first International Gastronomy Fair, Panamá Gastronómica, took place in Panama City in 2010. Public events and festivals where food is a central theme are not organized, and tours that include specific gastronomic routes have only been offered as such in the last few years. However, Panama has previously capitalized on the visibility of its culinary diversity to some degree, by suggesting its condition of a cosmopolitan culinary place in tourism guides since the 1990s.89 The regional cuisines that are available are more commonly presented as links to the cosmopolitan whole rather than on their own. This cosmopolitan whole gives marginal attention to Afro-Antillean cuisine, and even less so to indigenous cuisine. In this context, through my ethnographic research in Panama since 1996 I have studied how some regional cuisines have become powerful vehicles to exert an ethnic group’s identities and to contest the national trope. In the Caribbean Archipelago of Bocas del Toro (located in the northwestern area of Panama, see Map 15.2) cuisine and gastronomy have marked the lives of Afro-Antillean populations settling there since the mid-nineteenth century. They are descendants of enslaved peoples from the British West Indies, who arrived in the early 1800s to work under the rule of Scottish, English, and Irish families who had migrated from Jamaica and Barba- dos. Their migration to work on the banana plantations of the United Fruit Company in Bocas del Toro caused subsequent moves. Others moved from Panama City to Bocas after participating in the construction of the Panamanian Railroad (1850–5), the French efforts to build a canal (1880–90), and the US-built Panama Canal (1904–14). The National Census of 2010 estimates that 12,300 Afro-Antilleans live in the province of Bocas del Toro,90 while the total number of people in the Archipelago is 18,000 inhabitants. In addition to Afro- Antilleans, the Archipelago is composed of Chinese-Panamanians, indigenous groups (particularly Ngöbe and some Kuna), Panamanian Latinos and, more recently, permanent and semi-permanent foreigners from Europe and North and South America. As noted earlier, the role of bananas and plantains was even more important in the province of Bocas del Toro than in the rest of the country because some of the most profitable plantations in Panama were located there from 1890 until the 1920s. This

299 C.GUERRÓN MONTERO

Swan Cay Drago Changulnola Isla Old Bank Caribbean Sea Colón First Beach Red Frog Beach Long Beach Bocas Town

Almirante Isla Bastimentos

Kraal Cay Zapatilla Cays Darkland Cusapín Escudo de Isla Veraguas Popa

Cayo de Agua Tobebé

Chiriqui Lagoon

Miles 0 20 Chirigui 0 25 Kilometres Grande

Map 15.2 Map of Bocas del Toro, Panama produced an economic and social boom, transforming it into one of the most prosperous regions in Panama (yet still neglected by the central government) and attracting large numbers of migrant workers, mostly of Afro-Antillean origin.91 In the 1920s, a soil-borne fungus known as Panama disease affected the plantations. This, coupled with the effects of the Great Depression, forced the United Fruit Company to close its plantations, reduce its payroll, and promote Afro-Antilleans to replace US citizens as clerks and supervisors. While the withdrawal of the UFC headquarters from Bocas caused a dramatic economic downturn in the region, it also allowed a considerable number of Afro-Antillean families to buy parcels of land and establish small- and medium-sized family farms. By the mid-1950s, a black rural middle class developed, producing a complete turnaround of the impact of the export boom in other regions.92 The Afro-Antillean experience in the banana zones is significantly different from that of black workers elsewhere in Latin America because they capitalized on their opportunity and became a rural bourgeoisie. As a result, Afro- Antilleans in Bocas del Toro have had the upper hand in politics and economic development until the onset of uncontrolled tourism in the mid-1990s. The tourism industry in Bocas del Toro is a highly gendered and racialized experience “that exemplifies how the globalizing phenomenon of tourism interacts with and encoura- ges a local experience,” while at the same time facilitating the internationalization of localized traditions.93 Men mostly work as tour guides, boat and taxi drivers, and construction workers; in addition, some men work as waiters and bartenders. There are also several well-known and respected male cooks in the Archipelago. However, there are more women working in the tourism industry as cooks in their own restaurant, or for an

300 TOURISM, CUISINE, AND CULTURE IN THE CARIBBEAN employer; women also work as maids, and occasionally as tour guides and taxi drivers, and much less often as boat drivers. For most women in Bocas del Toro, knowing how to cook grants them power and prestige; thus, some choose to keep their recipes a secret, while others choose to learn as much as possible about cooking from their relatives and share their knowledge. In Bocas del Toro, knowing the secret flavors to a perfect sauce or a particularly elaborate Afro-Antillean dish might mean the difference between being respected in the community or not, and more importantly, on being employed or not. Many women have learned cooking strategies from the waves of expatriates and tourists who visit Bocas or from cooking courses taught by the Tourism Authority of Panama (Autoridad de Turismo de Panama, ATP; formerly known as Panamanian Bureau of Tourism, IPAT). Some local women have taken advantage of these courses and now teach cooking courses themselves, using some of the standard international practices they learn and adding their own Afro-Antillean taste to the courses. The main Afro-Antillean products in Bocas del Toro include coconut, breadfruit, banana, plantain, rice, along with the following: garlic, onions, curry, cilantro, coconut milk, ginger, and hot peppers. Garlic holds a particularly important role in Afro-Antillean food. According to a famous Bocatorenean chef, every dish that contains seafood cooked with garlic (al ajillo) should be considered Caribbean food.94 These seasonings assist the masterful cooks in making dishes such as rice and beans with coconut milk, rondón (fish soup with coconut milk and tubers),95 bragadá (fried codfish cake made with flour), ackee with codfish,96 ackee with eggs, pig’s tail, sauce our souse (pig’s feet cooked with cucumber and vinegar), pescado en escabeche (pickled fish), pati (turnover of spicy meat), cucú (corn flour prepared with ocra), janny cake (baked bread made with flour and coconut milk), and vieks (wheat flower dumplings). Among the most desired desserts are coconut pies, plantintat (plantain tart), a turnover with filling of mature banana; yucca, uyama (a type of squash), otoe pudding, and Bastimentos or Bocas sweet bon (sweet bread).97 The most well-known beverages are icing glass (a drink made with seaweed, condensed milk, evaporated milk, cinnamon, and an alcoholic beverage such as vodka, rum, brandy, or wine and ice), michilá (boiled ripe plantain with coconut milk), chicheme (boiled hominy with coconut milk, condensed milk and spices), muogó (green banana with coconut milk), and a saril drink (saril chicha, Hibiscus sabdariffa), generally made with ginger. As Higman aptly notes in his book Jamaican Food: History, Biology, Culture, many of these dishes are desired and perceived as characteristically Caribbean, yet in reality they are rarely consumed.98 That is the case of ackee and codfish, which were transplanted from Jamaica to Panama. Although highly praised as a culinary delicacy and advertised to tourists, it is rarely consumed for two reasons: there are almost no ackee trees left in Bocas del Toro (some are found in Almir- ante, in the mainland), and the cost of codfish is too high to render this dish practical. Likewise, and although Afro-Antillean dishes are essential markers of cultural identity, in everyday life Afro-Antilleans choose foods based on their economic resources and time. Their choices are also based on their openness to taste, smell, and experience of international cuisine that is available nowadays in Bocas. Afro-Antillean food refers as much to the ingredients and methods used to cook as to specific dishes. These ingredients make Afro-Antillean food characteristic and attractive to tourists. Although most Afro-Antilleans would argue that their food is hearty, filling, spicy, and hot, and even though gastronomic mobility has produced a demand for international “Caribbean cuisine” that is assumed to be quintessentially hot and spicy, many cooks know not to spice some of their dishes too strongly, or not to use too much ginger in the soups or

301 C.GUERRÓN MONTERO

fish because an excess of these ingredients renders the dishes too spicy for most Afro- Antillean palates. Thus, while most tourists expect (and some tourists seek) very hot and spicy food, there are significant gradients of preferences for hotness and spiciness among locals. The expectation presented to tourists, however, is that all Afro-Antillean food will be particularly hot and spicy; in effect, Afro-Antillean food in restaurants catering to tourists is offered with a relative mild flavor, with the option of adding hot and spicy sauces to suit the preferences of individual clients. Additionally, there are different types of hotness and spiciness that are preferred or disliked by Afro-Antilleans. For instance, Caroline, a North American expatriate who had lived in Bocas for five years, planned to open a Mexican restaurant in the Archipelago. She was certain her customers would be tourists and other expatriates, not only because of the potential lack of cultural capital and purchasing power, but also because the hotness of Mexican food was not a desirable local taste.99 Some Afro-Antillean women have developed creative ways to sell home-made products to tourists and resident expatriates, combining the traditional spiciness of Afro- Antillean food with the desire for hot condiments in the North American taste, thus producing savory sauces to accompany Afro-Antillean or international food.100 As I noted in previous work, Afro-Antilleans emphasize their cultural identities through the consumption of certain dishes.101 The quintessential rice and beans provides an excellent example: the way in which this apparently simple dish is prepared signals ascription to a “national” Panamanian cuisine, or loyalty to a regional ethnic identity. When rice and beans are made in local restaurants as a menestra (a kind of vegetable stew) with rice, they are considered a simple, daily meal typical of Panama. When the same dish is made with coconut milk and offered to national and international tourists and locals alike, it becomes what Afro-Antilleans call “the natural dish,” a given and expected combination, and a treasured symbol of Afro-Antillean’s complex identities as Panamanian, Antillean, and Caribbean.

Rice and beans in Bocas del Toro is simultaneously an everyday dish (and certainly not a luxury) and a special dish in the sense that it so strongly represents Afro- Antillean culture for Bocatoreneans and other Panamanians that it becomes the dish of choice when cooking a special meal for national and international guests. Within the very elaborate cuisine etiquette of Bocatoreneans (which calls for rice with chicken, potato or noodle salad, or roasted meat for special occasions, festivities, and celebrations), rice and beans are widely accepted alternatives.102

A product that is especially relevant in the lives of Afro-Antilleans but currently only consumed clandestinely is turtle meat. Turtle meat is also consumed among the Ngöbe indigenous peoples. Historically, Afro-Antilleans were consumers of turtles. Since the 1980s, certain species [leatherback (Dermochelys coriacea), hawskbill (Eretmochelys imbricata), and green (Chelonia midias) turtles] have been listed as endangered species, so it is illegal to catch and sell them for consumption. Ironically, it was only with the onset of tourism in the mid- 1990s that the pressure for turtle consumption relaxed.103 In Bocas del Toro, turtles became ﬂagship species, that is, species that capture the attention and imagination of the public and bring tourists to observe and protect them.104 In fact, turtle tourism has attracted tourists in Bocas del Toro, where they have participated in turtle monitoring, visits to turtle nests, and scientiﬁc tourism.105 The turtle continues to be consumed, but clandestinely, and turtle dishes have become even more of a delicacy. A turtle weighs

302 TOURISM, CUISINE, AND CULTURE IN THE CARIBBEAN between 100 and 200 pounds, so in order to avoid waste, the procedure is to catch it and keep it alive and hidden, inform the usual customers that a turtle is available, and then kill it to sell specific required quantities to customers with complete discretion. The most common dishes made with turtle meat are turtle stew, breaded turtle, and turtle’s flipper soup or flippers with rice and plantain. The meat is generally marinated with rum and cooking wine for a day before cooking to make a stew or roasted turtle with rice and coconut milk and ripe bananas. Turtle eggs can accompany the meat or can be made into egg punch with rum, dry gin, or triple sec. A roasted turtle or a turtle stew would always come first over roasted or fried chicken in the culinary desires of those Afro-Antilleans for whom the condition of endangered species of the turtles is not relevant. Therefore, the turtle continues to be consumed at home, but it is completely absent from restaurant menus that cater to tourists. While indigenous peoples in the region have been involved in the tourism economy alongside Afro-Antilleans, they have fewer options and opportunities. The Ngöbe indigenous peoples have engaged in ecotourism ventures with the support of the Peace Corps and non-governmental organizations. These efforts have not been marketed as ethnic or agritourism venues, and cuisine is not highlighted in these visits; ecotourism is the niche that has been carved out. Although agritourism is listed as a tourism strategy in the national management plan for 2007–20,106 there is no reference to engaging Bocas del Toro in this undertaking. Therefore, although cuisine has been incorporated as part of the touristic encounters in Panama, it has not become a vehicle for elevating local gastronomic experiences.

A few words about restaurants Restaurants do not simply feed people; instead, they are a total consumption package of food, drinks and experiences.107 Eating at restaurants has become an expected aspect of traveling; thus restaurants oﬀer an excellent framework for a comparative study of cooking, cuisines, and tourism.108 Rebecca Spang reminds us that restaurants are “neither spread uniformly across the planet nor encountered regularly throughout history.”109 In Panama, most restaurants were founded by resident expatriates, particularly since the nineteenth century, and were aimed at foreigners and tourists, the hypermobile of the period. In 1849 there were eleven restaurants (and seven hotels) and this number grew until 1855, when the Panamanian railroad was completed and the Gold Rush ended.110 By the twentieth century, there were more options, including North American food, but still most restaurants were aimed at the palate of foreigners and the Panamanian elite.

None of this was part of the culinary culture of the country. This was a world virtually prohibited for the majority of the population and very little or none of the dishes that were served in these restaurants aﬀected culinary traditions. Eating at restaurants was not part—contrary to our times—of the quotidian traditions, and were only frequented by a minimal number of wealthy people, important business men, posh politicians, and especially tourists.111

The poor consumed dishes at cafeterias or small and modest places where they could eat Chinese food, hot dogs, sandwiches, or juices, in a format similar to the fast food approach.112 The ﬁrst fast food chain, McDonald’s, arrived in Panama in 1971; it was the

303 C.GUERRÓN MONTERO second such restaurant to open in Latin America after Costa Rica.113 The US influence on Panamanian cuisine is noteworthy, particularly but not exclusively in the Canal Zone, primarily beginning with the construction of the Panama Canal starting in 1903. As Oviero and Prado note, canned and preserved foods, soda, fast foods, and items such as pancakes, peanut butter, nuts, corn flakes, or eggs with bacon were common staples in the Canal Zone. Today, the US influence continues and is evident in national celebrations such as Christmas, when the consumption of turkey, apples, grapes, peaches, and pears is commonplace.114 The separation between food served in the private sphere and food consumed in public is important in the Archipelago of Bocas del Toro, because nostalgia and longing for a pre- touristic Caribbean, a time when food was obtained through fishing and some agriculture,115 is part of the touristic experience. Most of the restaurants that offer Afro-Antillean food in the Archipelago present their location and the food consumed as an extension of the private sphere, as home or comfort food. This is partly resulting from a lack of economic resources for investment, but it also coincides with the strategy used by Caribbean restaurants in large cities in the United States. Prior to the tourism boom in the 1990s, the small restaurants that catered to tourists did not have dishes à la carte and did not charge a service tax. When the tourism boom developed, even the most traditional and established restaurants started to charge service taxes, take-out fees, or to offer the option of dishes à la carte. To no one’s surprise, these changes have not been well received by the local customers. There is a degree of gustatory nostalgia that produces this reaction, but it is also the case that—since eating out is a common practice in Bocas—a large portion of the population relies on these restaurants for constant and consistent provision of fast, daily meals. Although these meals would not be considered traditional fast food, they do tend to be fried and consumed rather quickly. Additionally, the consumption of packaged food is more common in Panama than in other Latin American countries because of the long presence of the United States in Panamanian territory. Thus, eating the Panamanian version of fast food (fried patacones, arepas, or yuccas) at local restaurants is a traditional practice among Bocatoreneans and Panamanians in general. However, the common perception in Bocas del Toro is ambivalent: new ways of eating resulting from tourism are producing cultural decay while simultaneously bringing Afro-Antilleans squarely into the modern world. In contrast, the restaurants that offer international food in Bocas del Toro, or the few Afro-Antillean restaurants in business in the city of Panama, do not rely on the imagery of home food for business purposes. Currently, there are about five restaurants that offer Afro-Antillean cuisine in Panama City, although the term used to refer to it is Caribbean food. In 2002, I visited one of the most well-known and highly recommended Afro- Antillean restaurants in Panama, owned by a Bocatorenean.116 It was a colorful house with several levels. The waitresses and waiters were dressed in black with vests that displayed ethnic appliqués with African motifs and South African hats. In what looked like a combination of a restaurant and a museum, this business coupled restaurant themes from the west with its owner’s version of a Caribbean marine environment: plastered in the walls diners could find turtle shells, fishing nets, shells, swordfish swords, and other marine life- related objects. The menu included only rice and beans and icing as the two main items that were particularly Afro-Antillean. The rest of the menu was the same as any other generic Panamanian or North American restaurant: surf-n-turf, spaghetti, filet mignon, and even paella.117 Other restaurants in Panama City do offer more options that are part of Afro-Antillean cuisine, ranging from small cafeterias and dives on the Afro-Antillean

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Sidewalk in Rio Abajo (a neighborhood traditionally inhabited by Afro-Antilleans) to restaurants with a few more options scattered throughout the city. Because of the location of many of these places, most of these restaurants cater to Panamanians and resident expatriates, with only occasional tourists. Afro-Antillean restaurants in Bocas del Toro compete with international offerings as varied as a raw sushi and martini bar, Thai, Mediterranean, Moroccan, Greek, Lebanese, French, Italian, Indian, Spanish, fusion, Salvadoran, Mexican, US, plus vegetarian and organic options at several restaurants. There are about ten restaurants that serve Afro-Antillean fare in the Archipelago today. Some of these restaurants have chosen to diversify their offerings by adding dishes that would be considered sophisticated and appealing to international culinary tourists. For instance, in some restaurants, clams with ginger and wine sauce is offered side by side with rondón soup, fried fish, rice with beans or guandú with beans, thus producing the commodification of tradition entangled with the cosmopolitan. The politics of food are fundamental in the Caribbean, where many of the ingredients are shipped to the islands, as they either do not grow those products or produce them at a price higher than the cost of subsidized imported foods. A similar situation takes place in the Archipelago of Bocas del Toro, where very little food is grown on the island, with the exception of cacao and bananas. Most products come from the central provinces or the city of Changuinola on the mainland. Some Afro-Antillean families, particularly in Bastimentos, have small gardens for home consumption; the same is true for some indigenous peoples. In islands more distant from the capital of the Archipelago, indigenous peoples have larger gardens producing yucca, banana, plantain, uyama, pixbae,orpiva (peach palm fruit) and ñampi, and fruits such as lemon and papaya. It is more common for households to grow small herb gardens with rosemary, oregano, mint, basil, and different varieties of bull nose hot pepper. The vast majority, however, are brought to Colon Island. Likewise, even though there was some cattle production in Bocas del Toro since the nineteenth century118—and specifically in the colonia santeña in the island of Bocas del Toro—the island no longer has a slaughterhouse and meat is brought from the city of David (Chiriqui) or Bocatorito in the Archipelago. Pork is raised by the Ngöbe on the islands of Bocatorito, San Cristóbal, Bahia Honda, and Cayo de Agua, and sold in Colon Island. This situation raises the cost of living, and creates a greater dependence on the tourism industry. Although limited production has characterized the islands for most of their history, the tourism industry brought about a high demand for produce, meat, and seafood that could not be met internally. Contrary to world trends toward the consumption and support of local produce and cuisines and, more generally, of “local food,”119 in Bocas del Toro, the food that is consumed is mostly shipped to the island and prepared as international cuisine.

Conclusions As Urry asserts, the post-tourist engages in a negotiation of the exotic and the familiar while occupied in a touristic experience.120 This notion applies well to the relationship of tourists with food. Culinary tourism involves exploration and adventure, which in the case of culinary tourism in Bocas is represented by visiting a restaurant that serves Afro-Antil- lean food either in the Archipelago of Bocas del Toro or in Panama City. Culinary tourism can also mean sampling the familiar. In a cosmopolitan world, the familiar (regardless of place of origin) are Thai, Indian, Italian, Chinese, Mexican, or Mediterranean restaurants;

305 C.GUERRÓN MONTERO these cuisines have been placed in the side of the customary because of their ubiquitous presence in any urban (and often rural) area in the west. As Hitchcok et al. affirm about the Caribbean, “[although] large numbers of tourists may be attracted to the region by its perceived ‘differentness,’ lured by the images of culture and landscape which are vividly portrayed in the promotional literature, few are able or willing to tolerate a great deal of novelty.”121 Thus, in Bocas del Toro, the restaurant that was once owned by Kuna indigenous peoples and offered breakfast that included Spanish tortilla, omelet, hojaldre, pancakes, lobster, seafood mix, shrimps, crab, conch, fish fillets, rice with seafood, or squid for lunch and dinner, has been replaced by a restaurant that offers Indian food, with pancakes, granola, cereal, yogurt, bagels, along with vindaloo omelet, chicken masala, or vegetarian paneer. In Bocas del Toro, a restaurant that promises prototypical Indian food offers a reassuring option to the tourist who might wish to take a break from the extraordinary. For Holtzman (2006) this desire to consume ethnic foods is a kind of false colonial nostalgia that can be equated to eating the Other.122 In Bocas del Toro, Afro-Antilleans might be too ethnic to consume. Cuisine is a window to understand the role of the state in constructing a touristic culture alongside a national culture. In the case of Panama, the government has focused on standardizing service, while also internationalizing local food. During the job training and cooking classes—offered by the ATP that I attended while conducting ethnographic research—the emphasis was on learning international standards and menus (sirloin, Cesar salad, seafood bisque, among others), with occasional references to dishes such as rice and beans, cod fritters or bragadá, or banana or yucca pudding. Additionally, there was considerable information on how to open and run a restaurant. Through these classes and general assumptions about tourism expectations based on encounters with tourists and the presence of resident expatriates, the Caribbean experience is sold in Bocas del Toro, when ingredients are mixed to offer this experience. A piña colada, for instance, is a ubiquitously Caribbean cocktail found in almost every restaurant in Bocas, even if the restaurant does not offer Caribbean food. However, an icing glass can only be bought in the restaurants that offer Afro-Antillean food. In Bocas del Toro, consuming traditional Afro-Antillean food has become an important aspect of the touristic experience, but it has become more significant for what it represents for Afro-Antillean identity formation. Bocatoreneans have customarily used food to assert a distinctive regional identity in the multicultural context where they live. Thus, they differentiate between what they call mountain food, by implication cooked and consumed by indigenous peoples (simple, without any condiments other than salt), Afro-Antillean food (thick, spicy, heavy, and complete), and tourist food (more complex than mountain food in the use of condiments, but lighter than Afro-Antillean food).123 Tourist consumption of Afro-Antillean food has brought both a renewal of regional culinary pride (as is the case of the re-emergence of quintessential dishes such as rondón as well as its elevation from daily food to delicacy), and a reduction of practices considered traditional, such as the consumption of Panamanian fast food in local restaurants, due to price increases and formalization of the restaurant process. Likewise, this brings a degree of gustatory nostalgia for the time when Afro-Antillean and Panamanian food was readily available and at accessible prices; it brings gustatory nostalgia for the time when Afro-Antillean food followed the regimented codes of confection set up by the elders, when hearths were used instead of electric ovens to make Johnny cakes, or when red plantains were used instead of food colorant to make brightly red colored plantintats. These more elaborate cooking

306 TOURISM, CUISINE, AND CULTURE IN THE CARIBBEAN processes are presented to the tourists as demonstrations of authenticity, as the seals of authenticity. However, when they do not take place (that is, when the Johnny cakes are made in electric ovens or the plantintats contain food colorant) the discussion shifts from preparation to final product. What matters is that the final product is representative of an Afro-Antillean culture. The study of food and cuisine in Panama, as elsewhere in the Caribbean, has been addressed only sparingly. Panama’s history of cuisine tourism offers an interesting case, in which “national” cuisine along with indigenous and Afro-Antillean cuisine has not been at the center of the touristic encounter until recently. Nonetheless, local cuisine is offered to tourists, and this has fostered governmental efforts to standardize offerings and procedures. In these instances, such as the case of the Archipelago of Bocas del Toro, the phenomenon that results can be both described as the internationalization of local food (e.g. the modification of hearty food to appeal to the tourists in Afro-Antillean restaurants) and the localization of international food (e.g. the incorporation of “Caribbean” drinks into Afro- Antillean restaurants).

Notes 1 Ian Cook and Phillip Crang, “The World on a Plate: Culinary Culture, Displacement and Geographical Knowledges,” Journal of Material Culture 1, 1996, 140. 2 Panamanian chef at a cooking workshop in Archipelago of Bocas del Toro, 2000. 3 Arjun Appadurai, “Gastro-Politics in Hindu South Asia,” American Ethnologist 8.3, 1981, 494–511; John Holtzman, “Food and Memory,” Annual Review of Anthropology 35, 2006, 361–78; Paul Freedman, ed., Food: The History of Taste, first edn. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007. 4 Sara Gibson, “Traveling, Dwelling, and Eating Cultures,” Space and Culture 10.1, 2007, 16. 5 Lynne Phillips, “Food and Globalization,” Annual Review of Anthropology 35, 2006, 37–57. 6 Sally Everett, “Beyond the Tourist Gaze? The Pursuit of an Embodied Experience through Food Tourism,” Tourist Studies 8, 2009, 338. 7 Gibson, “Traveling, Dwelling, and Eating Cultures,” p. 16. 8 Jennie Germann Molz, “Guilty Pleasures of the Golden Arches: Mapping McDonald’sin narratives of Round-the-World Travel,” in Emotional Geographies, edited by Joyce Davidson, Mick Smith and Liz Bondi, Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005, pp. 63–76. 9 Sun-Ki Chai, “Book Review: Lucy M. Long (Ed), Culinary Tourism,” Gastronomica: The Journal of Food and Culture 5.4, 2005, 121–2. 10 C. Michael Hall and Hazel Tucker, “Tourism and Postcolonialism: An Introduction,” in Tourism and Postcolonialism: Contested Discourses, Identities and Representations, edited by C. Michael Hall and Hazel Tucker, London and New York: Routledge, 2004, pp. 1–24. 11 Lucy M. Long, Culinary Tourism, edited by Simon J. Bronner, first edn. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2004, p. 2. 12 Lucy M. Long, “Food in Tourism Studies,” in Routledge International Handbook of Food Studies, edited by Ken Albala, London and New York: Routledge, 2013, pp. 342–51. 13 Everett, “Beyond the Tourist Gaze? The Pursuit of an Embodied Experience through Food Tourism,” p. 339. 14 Richard R. Wilk, Home Cooking in the Global Village: Caribbean Food from Buccaneers to Ecotourists, English ed. Oxford; New York: Berg, 2006. 15 Everett, “Beyond the Tourist Gaze?” p. 352. 16 David Sutton, Remembrance of Repasts: An Anthropology of Food and Memory, London: Berg, 2001; “Whole Foods: Revitalization through Everyday Synesthetic Experience,” Anthropology and Humanism 25.2, 2000, 120–30. 17 John Urry, The Tourist Gaze: Leisure and Travel in Contemporary Societies, first edn. Thousand Oaks: Sage Publications, 1990; John Urry and Jonas Larsen, The Tourist Gaze 3.0, third edn. London and Thousand Oaks: Sage Publications, 2011.

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18 Adrian Franklin, “The Tourist Gaze and Beyond: An Interview with John Urry,” Tourist Studies 1.2, 2001, 123. 19 For instance, as Helstosky notes, tourism contributed to the consolidation of pizza (a dish born in Naples that spread throughout Italy and was significant in the unification of the nation) as an internationally known dish and a representation of Italian and Italian-American identities. Carol Helstosky, Pizza: A Global History, London: Reaktion Books, 2008. 20 The anthropology of food and of tourism have approached the study of food and tourism from different perspectives, including the study of motivations, impacts of tourism and globalization on food and vice versa, the meanings of tourism as it relates to food, and tourism as an experience based on curiosity and perception of otherness in food. Some classic works on the study of the anthropology of food include; Claude Lévi-Strauss, “The Culinary Triangle,” The Partisan Review 33, 1966, 586–96; Mary Douglas, “Deciphering a Meal,” Daedalus 101.1, 1972, 61–81; Stephen Mennell, All Matters of Food, Oxford: Blackwell, 1985; Sidney Mintz and Christine M. Du Bois, “The Anthropology of Food and Eating,” Annual Review of Anthropology 31, 2002, 99–119. Please also see Robert Dirks and Gina Hunter, “The Anthropology of Food,” in Routledge International Encyclopedia of Food Studies, edited by Ken Albala, New York: Routledge, pp. 3–13. 21 In Hanna Garth, ed., Food and Identity in the Caribbean, first edn. London and New York: Blooms- bury Academic, 2013. 22 Franz Boas, Ethnology of the Kwakiutl, Washington, DC: 35th Annual Report of the Bureau of American Ethnology, US GPO, 1921; Cora DuBois, “Attitudes toward Food and Hunger in Alor,” in Language, Culture, and Personality: Essays in Memory of Edward Sapir, edited by Leslie Spier, Menasha: Sapir Memorial Publication Fund, 1941, pp. 272–81; Jack Goody, Cooking, Cuisine and Class: A Study in Comparative Sociology, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982; Sidney W. Mintz, Sweetness and Power: The Place of Sugar in Modern History, New York: Penguin Group, 1985; Sidney Mintz, Tasting Food, Tasting Freedom, Boston: Beacon Press, 1996; Audrey Richards, Hunger and Work in a Savage Tribe: A Functional Study of Nutrition among the Southern Bantu, London: Routledge, 1932; Audrey Richards, Land, Labour and Diet in Northern Rhodesia: An Economic Study of the Bemba Tribe, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1939. 23 Priscilla Boniface, Tasting Tourism: Travelling for Food and Drink, first edn. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003; C. Michael Hall, Liz Sharples, Richard Mitchell, Niki Macionis, and Brock Cambourne, eds, Food Tourism Around the World: Development, Management and Markets, first edn. Oxford: Butterworth- Heinemann, 2003; Anne-Mette Hjalager and Gregg Richards, eds, Tourism and Gastronomy, first edn. London: Routledge, 2002; Long, Culinary Tourism. 24 Everett, “Beyond the Tourist Gaze?” p. 352. 25 Hall et al., Food Tourism Around the World. 26 Long, “Food in Tourism Studies.” 27 Jack Carlsen and Steve Charters, eds, Global Wine Tourism: Research, Management, and Marketing, Oxfordshire, UK and Cambridge, MA: CABI International, 2006; Hall et al., Food Tourism Around the World; C. Michael Hall, “Culinary Tourism and Regional Development: From Slow Food to Slow Tourism?” Tourism Review International 9.4, 2006, 303–6; Hjalager and Richards, Tourism and Gastronomy. 28 Claudio Visentin, “Food, Agri-Culture, and Tourism,” in Food, Agri-Culture, and Tourism: Linking Local Gastronomy and Rural Tourism: Interdisciplinary Perspectives, edited by Katia Laura Sidali, Achim Schiller, and Birgit Schulze. First edn. Berlin and Heidelberg: Springer, 2011, pp. xiii–xv. It should be noted that wine tourism has also developed in California, United States, starting in the 1930s after the end of Prohibition and growing steadily since the 1950s. Gmelch and Gmelch note that most wineries in Napa Valley were reluctant to engage in the business of tourism in the 1950s, discouraging tour buses, offering tours by appointment only and limiting their wine tast- ings to a few people per day. By the twenty-first century, however, there were more than five million tourists per year engaging in wine tourism in the area. George Gmelch and Sharon Bohn Gmelch, Tasting the Good Life: Wine Tourism in the Napa Valley, Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2011, pp. 21–2. 29 Greg Richards, “Gastronomy: An Essential Ingredient in Tourism Production and Consump- tion?” in Hjalager and Richards, Tourism and Gastronomy,p.3. 30 Wilbur Zelinksy, “The Roving Palate: North America’s Ethnic Restaurant Cuisines,” Geoforum 16.1, 1985, 51–72.

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31 Boniface, Tasting Tourism. 32 Hall et al., Food Tourism Around the World. 33 Long, Culinary Tourism. 34 Lucy M. Long, “Culinary Tourism: A Folkloristic Perspective on Eating and Otherness,” in Long, Culinary Tourism, p. 21. Cf. Craig Wight, “Reengineering ‘Authenticity’: Tourism Encoun- ters with Cuisine in Rural Great Britain,” in Food for Thought: Essays on Eating and Culture, edited by Lawrence C. Rubin, Jefferson and London: McFarland & Company Publishers, 2008, pp. 153– 65. 35 Lisa Heldke, Exotic Appetites: Ruminations of a Food Adventurer, London: Routledge, 2003. 36 Dean MacCannell, The Tourist: A New Theory of the Leisure Class, second edn. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1999. 37 Richard Sharpley, Tourism, Tourists and Society, Huntingdon: Elm Publications, 1994; Ian Munt, “The ‘Other’ Postmodern Tourism: Culture, Travel and the New Middle Classes,” Theory, Culture & Society 11.3, August 1994, 101–23; Maxine Feifer, Going Places, London: Macmillan, 1985; Urry, The Tourist Gaze. 38 Edward M. Bruner, Culture on Tour: Ethnographies of Travel, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005; Erik Cohen, “Contemporary Tourism – Trends and Challenges: Sustainable Authenticity Or Contrived Post-Modernity?” in Change in Tourism: People, Places, Processes, edited by Richard Butler and Douglas G. Pearce, London: Routledge, 1995, pp. 12–29; Davydd J. Greenwood, “‘Culture by the Pound:’ An Anthropological Perspective on Tourism as Cultural Commoditi- zation,” in Hosts and Guests, edited by Valene L. Smith, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1977, pp. 129–39; Peter van den Berghe, The Quest for the Other: Ethnic Tourism in San Cris- tobal, Mexico, Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1994. 39 In Long, “Culinary Tourism,” pp. xii. 40 Peter Burns and Marina Novelli, Tourism and Mobilities: Local-Global Connections, Wallingford, UK and Cambridge, MA: Cabi, 2008; Noel B. Salazar, “Towards an Anthropology of Cultural Mobilities,” Crossings: Journal of Migration and Culture 1, 2010, 53–68; Mimi Sheller and John Urry, “Places to Play, Places in Play,” in Tourism Mobilities: Places to Play, Places in Play, edited by Mimi Sheller and John Urry, London and New York: Routledge, 2004, pp. 1–10. 41 Visentin, “Food, Agri-Culture, and Tourism”; Rebecca Maria Torres and Janet Hensall Momsen, eds, Tourism and Agriculture: New Geographies of Consumption, Production and Rural Restructuring, first edn, London and New York: Routledge, 2011. 42 Katia Laura Sidali, “A Sideways Look at Farm Tourism in Germany and in Italy,” in Food, Agri- Culture and Tourism: Linking Local Gastronomy and Rural Tourism: Interdisciplinary Perspectives, first edn. Berlin and Heidelberg: Springer, 2011, pp. 2–14. 43 Gianluca Brunori and Adanella Rossi, “Synergy and Coherence through Collective Action: Some Insights from Wine Routes in Tuscany,” Sociologia Ruralis 40.4, 2000, 481–96. 44 Roberta Sonnino, “The Power of Place: Embeddedness and Local Food Systems in Italy and the UK,” Anthropology of Food [Online] S2, no. March, 2007; Amy Trubek, The Taste of Place: A Cultural Journey into Terroir, Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009. 45 Craig Wight, “Reengineering ‘Authenticity’: Tourism Encounters with Cuisine in Rural Great Britain,” in Food for Thought: Essays on Eating and Culture, edited by Lawrence C. Rubin, Jefferson and London: McFarland & Company Publishers, 2008, p. 157. Agritourism is the prime example of the relevance of food as representing the authentic in tourism experiences. While agriculture is one of the oldest and most basic parts of the global economy, agritourism is one of the newest forms of tourism in the Americas and Europe. Its popularity may be seen as one way to preserve threatened subsistence strategies (H.G. Mathews, International Tourism: A Political and Social Analysis, Cambridge, MA: Schenkman Publishing Company, 1978; Rosie Cox, Lewis Holloway, Laura Venn, Moya Kneafsey, and Elizabeth Dowler, “Adopting a Sheep in Abruzzo: Agritourism and the Preservation of Transhumance Agriculture in Central Italy,” in Tourism and Agriculture: New Geographies of Consumption, Production and Rural Restructuring, edited by Rebecca Maria Torres and Janet H. Momsem, London and New York: Routledge, 2011, pp. 151–62). However, it should be noted, as Wilk states, that there is nothing inherently conservative or progressive about the issues of better quality food, preserving rural livelihoods and foodways, or even better wages and treatment for farm workers; thus, one should not assume that agritourism is necessarily a panacea for the rural world. Likewise, agritourism has been criticized for being an option that tends to be

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available only to the upper echelons of the “new rurality” (Luis Llambí, Globalización, Ajuste y Nueva Ruralidad: Una Agenda Para La Investigación y El Desarrollo Rural, Caracas: Laboratorio de Estudios Rurales y Agrarios, 1995). Other problems include the impacts of rural restructuring, new geographies of consumption and production, diversification, and new forms of production and consumption. 46 Tim Cresswell, “The Production of Mobilities,” New Formations 43, 2001, 11–25; Tim Cresswell, On the Move: Mobility in the Modern Western World, London and New York: Routledge, 2006; Ever- ett, “Beyond the Tourist Gaze?” 47 Germann Molz, “Guilty Pleasures of the Golden Arches.” 48 Gibson, “Traveling, Dwelling, and Eating Cultures.” 49 Jennie Germann Molz, “Tasting an Imagined Thailand,” in Long, p. 53; Cook and Crang, “The World on a Plate.” 50 Gibson, “Traveling, Dwelling, and Eating Cultures,” p. 15. 51 Cresswell, “The Production of Mobilities.” 52 Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblet, “Foreword,” in Long, Culinary Tourism, p. xiii. 53 Sheller and Urry, “Places to Play, Places in Play.” 54 Mathews, International Tourism. 55 Sidney Mintz, “Food Enigmas, Colonial and Postcolonial,” Gastronomica: The Journal of Food and Culture, 10.1, 2010, p. 149. 56 David Dodman and Kevon Rhiney, “‘We Nyammin?’ Food Supply, Authenticity, and the Tourist Experience in Negril, Jamaica,” in New Perspectives in Caribbean Tourism, edited by Marcella Daye, Donna Chambers, and Sherma Roberts, New York: Routledge, 2008, p. 117. 57 Daye et al., New Perspectives on Caribbean Tourism,p.1. 58 Cf. Mintz, “Food Enigmas, Colonial and Postcolonial,” p. 149. 59 Richard Wilk, “‘Real Belizean Food’: Building Local Identity in the Transnational Caribbean,” American Anthropologist 101.2, 1999, 244–55. 60 This limited attention is partly due to the myopic view of authorities and tourism mediators, who rely on stereotypical notions of the region’s attractions. 61 Dodman and Rhiney, “‘We Nyammin?’,” p. 117. 62 Darra Goldstein, “A Taste of Paradise,” Gastronomica: The Journal of Food and Culture 12.1, 2012, 1– 2. 63 Peter Szok, Wolf Tracks: Popular Art and Re-Africanization in Twentieth-Century Panama, Jackson: Uni- versity Press of Mississippi, 2012. 64 IPAT, Instituto Panameño de Turismo. Plan Maestro De Desarrollo Turístico 1993–2002. Ciudad de Panamá: Instituto Panameño de Turismo, 1993; IPAT, Instituto Panameño de Tur- ismo. Executive Synthesis Panama Sustainable Tourism Master Plan 2007–2020. Panama: Insti- tuto Panameño de Turismo and Tourism and Leisure Europraxis Consulting, 2008. 65 Steffan Igor Ayora-Diaz, Foodscapes, Foodfields and Identitites in Yucatán, CEDLA Latin American Studies, edited by Michiel Baud, New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2012. 66 Burns and Novelli, “Introduction,” in Tourism and Mobilities: Local-Global Connections, p. xviii. 67 Nilsa Lasso-von Lang and Jiwanda Gale Rogers, Flavors of Panama, first edn. Baltimore: Publish- America, 2012, p. 20, p. 25. 68 Lasso-von Lang and Rogers, Flavors of Panama, p. 19. 69 Carla Guerrón Montero, “All in One Pot: The Place of Rice and Beans in Panama’s Regional and National Cuisine,” in Rice and Beans: A Unique Dish in a Hundred Places, edited by Livia Barbosa and Richard Wilk, first edn. London: Berg, 2012, pp. 161–80; Carla Guerrón Montero, “On Tourism and the Constructions of ‘Paradise Islands’ in Central America and the Caribbean,” Special Issue Island Tourism in the Americas, ed. Carla Guerrón Montero, Bulletin of Latin American Research 30.1, 2011, 21–34. 70 Alfredo Castillero Calvo, Cultura Alimentaria y Globalización: Panamá: Siglos XVI a XXI, first edn. Panamá: Imprenta Editora Novo Art, 2010, p. 329. 71 Lasso-von Lang and Rogers, Flavors of Panama, p. 20. 72 Phillipe Bourgois, Banano, Etnia y Lucha Social en Centroamérica, San José: Departamento Ecuménico de Investigaciones, 1994; Carla Guerrón Montero, “Movimientos Laborales Antillanos y La Chiriquí Land Company En Bocas Del Toro, Panamá, 1890–1940,” Istmo: Revista Virtual De Estudios Literarios y Culturales Centroamericanos 16, 2008.

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73 Castillero Calvo, Cultura Alimentaria y Globalización, p. 354. 74 The Chiriquí Land Company is a subsidiary of the United Fruit Company. As noted previously, the United Fruit Company was formed on March 30, 1899 as a result of the fusion of the Boston Fruit Company (formed informally in 1885 and presided by Andrew W. Preston) and the companies controlled by Minor C. Keith (United Statian entrepeneur and pioneer in the production of banana in Central America) in Limón [Costa Rica], Bocas del Toro [Panamá] and Santa Marta [Colombia]. Clyde Stephens, “Bosquejo Histórico del Cultivo del Banano en la Provincia de Bocas del Toro (1880–1980),” in Publicaciones Especiales Revista Panameña de Antropología, ed. Stanley Heckadon Moreno, Panamá, 1987, p. 8; Frederick Upham Adams, Conquest of the Tropics: The Story of the Creative Enterprises Conducted by the United Fruit Com- pany, Garden City: Doubleday, Page and Company, 1914, p. 68, p. 78. Adams proposes that the legal formation of the United Fruit Company generated something beyond the birth of a corporation: it marked the origin of the plantain and banana industries in the world (Upham Adams, Conquest of the Tropics,p.85). 75 Castillero Calvo, Cultura Alimentaria y Globalización, p. 360. Other exports included tagua (vegetable ivory), cow and deer skin, fine wood, pearl oysters, carey (tortoise shell), and rubber (p. 352). 76 Castillero Calvo, Cultura Alimentaria y Globalización, p. 332. 77 Castillero Calvo, Cultura Alimentaria y Globalización, p. 359. 78 Castillero Calvo, Cultura Alimentaria y Globalización, pp. 139–40, p. 147. 79 Castillero Calvo, Cultura Alimentaria y Globalización, p. 334. 80 Castillero Calvo, Cultura Alimentaria y Globalización, p. 361. 81 Castillero Calvo, Cultura Alimentaria y Globalización, p. 383. 82 Lasso-von Lang and Rogers, Flavors of Panama,p.8. 83 Pereiro Pérez, Xeraldo Cebaldo de León, Mónica Martínez Mauri, Jorge Ventocilla, and Yadixa del Valle, “Estudio Estratégico del Turismo en Kuna Yala,” Panama City: CETRAD and SENESCYT, 2011, p. 550. 84 Pérez et al., “Estudio Estratégico del Turismo en Kuna Yala,” p. 10. 85 Lasso-von Lang and Rogers, Flavors of Panama, p. 16. 86 Holtzman, “Food and Memory,” p. 368. 87 Guerrón Montero, “Afro-Antillean Cuisine and Global Tourism,” Food, Culture, and Society 7.2, 2004, 29–47; Carla Guerrón Montero, “Panama,” in Food Cultures of the World Encyclopedia, edited by Ken Albala, first edn. Santa Barbara: ABC-Clio, 2010, pp. 249–52; Guerrón Montero, “All in One Pot.” 88 Castillero Calvo, Cultura Alimentaria y Globalización, p. 384. 89 Scott Doggett, Panama, Hawthorn: Lonely Planet, 1998. 90 Instituto Nacional de Estadística y Censos. Censos Nacionales 2010: XI De Población y VII De Vivienda.” Instituto Nacional de Estadística y Censo. http://estadisticas.contraloria.gob.pa/Resultados2010/default.aspx (accessed October 14, 2012). 91 Stanley Heckadon Moreno, Memorias de un Criollo Bocatoreño, Panamá: Litho-Impresora Panamá, 1980, pp. 10–11. 92 George Reid Andrews, “Black Workers in the Export Years: Latin America, 1880–1930,” Inter- national Labor and Working Class, 1977, 17. 93 Guerrón Montero, “Afro-Antillean Cuisine and Global Tourism,” p. 29. 94 Interview M.L., March 25, 2000. 95 The Bocatorenean rondón is called fufú in Colon, tapao in the Darien region, bao in the Archipelago of San Blas, and tulemaci in the coastal areas adjacent to the Archipelago of Bocas del Toro. It refers to a fish soup with coconut milk (interview P.W., October 9, 2013). 96 Ackee is the flower of a tree brought from Jamaica to Bocas del Toro, and a very common ingredient in Jamaican and Bocatorenean dishes. It has become highly scarce because the flower is only edible once it is picked up after it has flourished and opened up by itself. 97 Guerrón Montero, “Afro-Antillean Cuisine and Global Tourism,” pp. 34–5. 98 Barry Higman, Jamaican Food: History, Biology, Culture, first edn. Jamaica, Barbados, Trinidad and Tobago: University of West Indies Press, 2008. 99 Interview M.L., June 20, 2002. 100 The sauces have inventive names, such as “I’ll Be a Bitch Sauce” or “Killing me Man Sauce.”

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101 Guerrón Montero, “Afro-Antillean Cuisine and Global Tourism.” 102 Guerrón Montero, “All in One Pot,” p. 168. 103 Guerrón Montero, “Panama,” in Albala, Food Cultures of the World Encyclopedia. 104 Clem A. Tisdell and Clevo Wilson, “Does Tourism Contribute to Sea Turtle Conservation? Is the Flagship Status of Turtles Advantageous?” Journal of Maritime Studies 3.2, 2005, 145–67. 105 Carla Guerrón Montero, “Turtle Islands: Endangered Species as Tourism Attractions in Latin America,” Évora, Portugal, Green Lines Institute for Sustainable Development, June 22–26, 2010, p. 1327. 106 IPAT, Instituto Panameño de Turismo. Executive Synthesis Panama Sustainable Tourism Master Plan 2007–2020. Panama: Instituto Panameño de Turismo and Tourism and Leisure Europraxis Consulting, 2008. 107 David Bell and Gill Valentine, Consuming Geographies: We are Where we Eat, New York: Routledge, 1997, p. 125. 108 Rebecca Spang, “All the World is a Restaurant: On Gobal Gastronomics of Tourism and Travel,” in Food in Global History, edited by Raymond Grew, Boulder: Westview Press,1999, p. 80. 109 Spang, “All the World is a Restaurant,” p. 81. 110 Castillero Calvo, Cultura Alimentaria y Globalización, p. 376. 111 Castillero Calvo, Cultura Alimentaria y Globalización, pp. 380–1. 112 Castillero Calvo, Cultura Alimentaria y Globalización, p. 381. 113 Castillero Calvo, Cultura Alimentaria y Globalización, p. 382. 114 Ramón Oviero, Maritza Rivera, and Pedro Prado, “Nuestras Comidas: Panamá,” in Nuestras Comidas, edited by Giselle Chang, first edn, Vol. 4. San José: Coordinación Educativa y Cultural Centroamericana (CECC), 2001, p. 119. 115 Holtzman, “Food and Memory.” 116 The restaurant is no longer in operation. 117 There is also a cafeteria (“Variedades de las Antillas”) at the Municipal Tourism Center “Mis Pueblitos” (Centro Turístico Municipal Mis Pueblitos). The food offered in this location is more connected to Afro-Antillean cuisine than what is offered at more elaborate restaurants (code fritters, saril drinks, escabeche fish, rice and beans with coconut milk, among others). 118 Castillero Calvo, Cultura Alimentaria y Globalización, p. 351. 119 Rebecca Sims, “Food, Place and Authenticity: Local Food and the Sustainable Tourism Experience,” in Taking Food Public: Redefining Foodways in a Changing World, edited by Psyche Wil- liams-Forson and Carole Counihan, New York and London: Routledge, 2012, pp. 475–90. 120 John Urry, Consuming Places, London: Routledge, 1995. 121 Hall and Tucker, “Tourism and Postcolonialism: An Introduction,” in Tourism and Post- colonialism: Contested Discourses, Identities and Representations,p.8. 122 Holtzman, “Food and Memory,” p. 368. 123 Guerrón Montero, “All in One Pot,” p. 167.

312 16 FOOD AND MIGRATION IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY

Laresh Jayasanker

In one of Vertigo’s pivotal scenes, Jimmy Stewart could not take his eyes off Kim Novak as she strolled through Ernie’s in an emerald green gown. Director Alfred Hitchcock set this scene in his 1958 film in San Francisco’s most important restaurant. This psychological thriller follows Stewart’s spiraling obsession with Novak. Hitchcock deliberately dressed Novak in green to contrast her against Ernie’s famous maroon Scalamandre silk brocade interior. The quintessential San Francisco movie was naturally set in that city’smost important restaurant.1 In 1958, Ernie’s, like many of the finest restaurants in the major cities of the Western Hemisphere, served French cuisine. The menu also had a smattering of Italian dishes, referencing the restaurant’s history. Brothers Roland and Victor Gotti ran Ernie’sinSan Francisco, making it the place to eat in the 1950s and 1960s. Ernie Carlesso opened the restaurant in 1931, and the Gotti brothers’ father, Ambrogio, joined as a partner in 1934. On the edge of the Barbary Coast, a popular nightlife area in San Francisco, the restaurant was originally an Italian trattoria run by Italian immigrants. They had taken over a building occupied by the “notorious Frisco Dance Hall,” in a neighborhood overrun with “wickedness and pollution unparalleled.”2 The brothers assumed management of the restaurant in 1947 following Carlesso’s death, and shifted the restaurant’s focus. They added French dishes and rescued antiques when “the wrecking ball was assigned to San Francisco’s Victorian mansions,” to beautify the dining room.3 At that time, a high-class restaurant had to serve French or “continental” cuisine. Premier restaurants rarely served only Italian food, so the brothers kept French food on Ernie’s menu for decades.4 Over the years, Ernie’s diners paid great sums for their tarts and tournedos; the restaurant was a destination, not an afterthought. One tour guide suggested a trip to Ernie’s for a “status-seeker’s soiree,” advising readers that they would eat one of the “finest dinners in the world” there.5 Another said it was “among the three or four greatest … restaurants in the country.”6 As Hitchcock knew, the restaurant was celebrated as much for its atmosphere as its food. The owners deliberately spaced tables generously so that waiters had room for rolling carts upon which they could flame crepes suzette.7 Over time, Ernie’s faded from the collective consciousness. By the 1980s, French cuisine was no longer the epitome of upscale restaurants. Instead, it was possible to find high-class restaurants serving Italian, Asian, or Latin American cuisines, which had previously been tagged as “ethnic” foods.

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Ernie’s had not adapted to these changes, seeming more staid than traditional.8 Inter- viewed for a 1990 San Francisco Chronicle story, Pierre Salinger, the former press secretary to President John F. Kennedy, waxed nostalgic about Ernie’s, thinking it was still the gathering spot for the city’s movers and shakers. “San Francisco hasn’t changed that much in 34 years,” said Salinger. On hearing this, the Chronicle’s reporter said Salinger was “out of touch” and had become a “visitor in his native city.” Just five years later, Ernie’s closed; its heyday had long passed.9 The Slanted Door filled the void. By the late 1990s, it was among the most celebrated restaurants in San Francisco, serving high-priced Vietnamese cuisine. In the early 1960s, Salinger and President Kennedy could hardly have imagined a Vietnamese restaurant at the height of the San Francisco food scene; they were too busy trying to maintain Amer- ican control over South Vietnam. But by 2000, over a million Vietnamese immigrants and their children lived in the United States, largely as a result of the Vietnam War.10 In April of 2000, President Bill Clinton ate at The Slanted Door just months before a diplomatic mission to Vietnam, the first by an American president since the war. While promoting his memoir a few years later, Clinton employed the restaurant to cater a gathering of Demo- cratic Party hobnobbers.11 A Vietnamese refugee, Charles Phan, founded The Slanted Door in 1995. After attending high school in San Francisco and college at the University of California at Berkeley, he opened The Slanted Door’s first location in San Francisco’s Mission District. He moved the restaurant twice, strategically locating the third iteration on San Francisco’s downtown waterfront. The restaurant was an “anchor” for both the Mission and downtown locations, drawing patrons to each neighborhood. By the time it occupied the downtown location, its reservation stafffielded thousands of phone calls a day. In 2004, Phan won a prestigious James Beard award for “Best California Chef” and a few years later Gourmet magazine called Slanted Door the best Vietnamese restaurant in the country (see Figure 16.1).12 National acclaim for this Vietnamese restaurant signaled both that Americans had reordered their palates toward Asian and Latin American cuisines and that they were willing to give something other than French cuisine high marks. Charles Phan’s spring rolls were photographed on the cover of a 2005 Food & Wine issue with the headline, “Everyone loves Asian.” The Slanted Door’s popularity was in part a result of its good food, but its acclaim also marked a change in American society; it was a Vietnamese restaurant occu- pying a prime location and charging high prices. Phan originally opened his restaurant because he couldn’t find any Vietnamese restaurants with “ambience.” Most Vietnamese restaurants theretofore featured dingy, non-descript surroundings. In the Ferry Building location, Phan combined sleek décor with a stunning view of San Francisco Bay. Like Ernie’s, the restaurant succeeded on both levels – with food and ambience. But at The Slanted Door patrons ate lemongrass, fermented fish sauce, and bok choy instead of the butter and hollandaise sauce at Ernie’s.13 The Gotti’s, Phan, and their respective restaurants demonstrate the creolization of food culture resulting from mass migration in the twentieth century. Roland and Victor Gottis’ father Ambrogio was among the estimated 26 million who left Italy in the large wave of migration from 1876 to 1976.14 In America, as in Argentina, Brazil, Australia, and other Italian destinations, migrants adapted, hybridized, and reinvented their homeland’s foods. Italians were the largest immigrant group in the United States in the early twentieth century. A large contingent settled in the San Francisco area, including baseball star Joe Dimaggio and his family. By 1920, Italians comprised San Francisco’s largest immigrant

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Figure 16.1 Photograph of Charles Phan, founder of The Slanted Door, 2010. © Michael Macor/San Francisco Chronicle/Corbis group.15 Italian restaurateurs in San Francisco, New York, and elsewhere hybridized their food over time, nationalizing their regional cuisines in their new American home. They took elements of Italian cuisine from the homeland, but also adapted their restaurants to an American clientele by offering Americanized Italian food such as spaghetti and meatballs.16 As immigrant restaurateurs such as the Gottis assimilated into the broader Amer- ican culture, they frequently offered haute versions of their cuisine. At Ernie’s, the Gottis preserved some of the elements of an Italian trattoria but added French flourishes.17 This process of change, while not new to the twentieth century, accelerated with mass migration and the speed of globalization, creating creolized versions of foods in new locales. This fusion is common when different cultures come in contact. The concept of creolization is said to have its origins in the contact among people from different language groups in the Americas, where African, Native American, and European peoples came into contact after Christopher Columbus’ voyage and created new vernacular pidgin languages to communicate. As Robert Baron and Ana C. Cara have argued, “creole forms are never static [or] fully formed,” and are “often improvising as they adjust.”18 The “creole metaphor is able to encapsulate the increasing complexity and fluidity of the world system,” according to another scholar.19 As with language, other parts of culture can be creolized, and food is one of the most important cultural forms that changes as people migrate. Like the Gottis, Charles Phan and his restaurant represent creolization too, but of a more recent sort. As Phan himself has noted, China and France alternately controlled much of Vietnam for years, meaning each influenced the cuisine. Though Phan emigrated to the United States from Vietnam, his father was born in China, and both Chinese and French influences appear in his restaurants.20 While the Gottis represented a mass

315 L. JAYASANKER migration in the early twentieth century rooted in the upheaval of industrialization, the Phans left Vietnam as part of the anti-colonial movements that rumbled through Asia and Africa in the latter half of the century. The creolized foods resulting from those movements represent not just empires fracturing, but the transformative technologies of recent globalization – airplanes, the computer, and the mobile phone. All of these technologies have made both human migration and cultural exchanges easier. Restaurants provide a window onto the changing food cultures of the twentieth century. As populations urbanized in the twentieth century, people ate out more. In the United States, for example, Americans ate only 17 percent of their meals away from home in 1929, but by 2011 took 48 percent of those meals outside the home.21 As more people ate out, restaurants functioned as a place where cultures came into contact. People tried unfamiliar foods in restaurants, bridging divides and forging new connections. Restaurant owners creolized foods and sought ways to explain unfamiliar foods to new audiences. We can see this process through both Vietnamese and Indian foods, both in and out of their homelands. The Slanted Door, and its takeout sister, Out the Door, have introduced many people to Vietnamese foods. At Out the Door, Phan serves bánh mì, the Vietnamese sandwich that hybridizes French, Vietnamese and Chinese influences. The sandwich is served on crusty French bread and is usually slathered with mayonnaise. But the sandwich contains pickled vegetables, meats flavored with fish or soy sauce, and other Vietnamese flavorings. Phan’s regular breakfast features another Vietnamese standard – a bowl of phở each morning. Both foods represent cultural mixes; bánh mì is a French-Vietnamese creation and phở is a Chinese-French-Vietnamese hybrid.22 Phở’s origin probably lies in Hanoi in the early twentieth century, where Cantonese noodle soups were already common fare. French colonists in Vietnam desired beef for their dishes, but the Vietnamese did not consume much of this meat. Chinese and Viet- namese butchers provisioned French consumers but there were several “scrap” cuts that the French would not buy. Butchers put the scraps in their soups and, by the early twentieth century, many Hanoi vendors sold phở. The soup spread south as a result of the 1954 Geneva Accords, as thousands fled Ho Chi Minh’s rule. Later, as an American army replaced a French one, phở slowly became a symbol of Vietnamese cuisine.23 And as nearly a million Vietnamese immigrants moved to the United States, they changed phở once again. In the primary areas of early settlement, such as California and the Gulf Coast, their phở stuck more closely to its Vietnamese origins. But as Vietnamese food moved across the country, it changed. New York restaurateur Fred Hua said he could “never get away” with his combination bánh mì phở sandwich in San Jose, California, but in New York, where people are “open to creative ideas,” he could fuse the two dishes.24 Like Vietnamese and Italian cuisines, Indian food traversed the globe over the twentieth century, resulting in new hybrid dishes that illustrate the changes resulting from mass migration. Without the movement of peoples across regions, nations, and oceans, the creolization of cuisines is not possible.

Mass migration in the twentieth century Migrants from the Indian subcontinent were among the several hundred million people who left their home countries in the twentieth century. One estimate has somewhere between two and three percent of the world’s population living away from their home country. In 1910,

316 FOOD AND MIGRATION there were approximately 35 million such migrants in the world, and by 2000 there were over 175 million, reﬂecting both a growing population and slightly more migration.25 Three trends during the twentieth century produced mass migration – industrialization and urbanization; war (World Wars I and II, the Cold War, and wars for independence); and colonization/de-colonization. Industrialization produced the massive movement out of Europe to the Americas and Australia in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Between 1846 and 1924, over 48 million migrants left Europe, or some 12 percent of the continent’s population.26 Migration also transformed Asia, as laborers and merchants moved to work in mining, agriculture, and textile production. Between 1840 and 1940, 30 million people left India and 51 million departed China to other parts of Asia. A smaller contingent left Asia for Europe or the Americas. Many of those migrants returned home, but others stayed in new destinations permanently.27 War produced migration of another sort. World War I dismantled the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian empires and World War II shrank British and French power. The Cold War and corresponding upheavals for independence meant conﬂict in many parts of Asia, Africa, and Latin America. Though political strife pushed many away from home, economic circumstances probably caused more to migrate. For some that meant crossing borders to richer nations – the United States, Australia, or the United Arab Emirates. For others that meant moving from the country to the city – urbanization took hold in the largest of the poor countries – China, India, Nigeria, Brazil, and Mexico. As people moved from country to city or between nations they brought food cultures from place to place, reordering eating habits along the way.

Indian migration and creolized Indian food The migration in, around, and away from India reflected all of these themes. India has long been central to the migration of foods and peoples. In the Middle Ages, travelers and traders from Europe, Africa, the Middle East, and China all brought foods – particularly spices – from India. They also brought new food traditions. Most notably, from 1206 to 1707, Muslim rulers in Northern India introduced a wide variety of fruits, sweets, and breads to Indian cuisine.28 In the 1400s, Europeans consumed Indian spices brought by Arab traders. Columbus sought another route to those spices on his voyage to the Amer- icas, bringing a series of new foods back and forth across the Atlantic in the process. Vasco da Gama strengthened the European spice route via his travels to the Southwestern coast of India; Portuguese traders returned with thousands of tons of pepper.29 Later, the British sought and established power over much of India, consolidating and reaffirming that control in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. In the process, Britons moved to India for business or politics, and Indians moved to Britain or other parts of the commonwealth as soldiers and laborers. Many migrated to plantations within the British Empire, often for food production, whether to harvest tea in Assam or sugar in Malaysia and Trinidad.30 Those Britons serving in India as officials of the East India Company or British government accommodated some aspects of Indian culture. Many smoked tobacco from the hookah, adopted Indian dress, drank arrack (liquor made from the palm tree) and married or consorted with Indian women. And they ate “curry.” Indeed, the British basically invented curry. Indians had referred to specific dishes flavored by specific spice combinations as “masalas.” Masalas vary by dish and by cook, used in meat and vegetable combinations. The British lumped all these Indian dishes together as curry, meaning any spicy dish with a thick sauce.31 This did not mean the dish was invariable or inviolable; curry

317 L. JAYASANKER took on many variations in many eras. Over the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, English households could find recipes for curry chicken and purchase curry powder for their larders. The availability of such powder meant a housewife or servant could curry up virtually anything with just a teaspoon of the spice mixture.32 Though Britons consumed curry for many years, just a few restaurants served “Indian” food in the early years of Britain’s imperial ascent. By the end of the twentieth century much had changed. Robin Cook, Britain’s Foreign Secretary, proclaimed one of those curries, chicken tikka masala, a “true British national dish.”33 Britons ate chicken tikka masala and other curries in the thousands of Indian restaurants and even a good many of the old pubs around the British Isles. How did curry and chicken tikka masala become British standards? The Sylhetis, a group from one region of Bengal (now part of Bangladesh), bear some responsibility for this development. Many Sylhetis worked as boatmen on British ships in the middle 1800s. They did the nastiest jobs, frequently in the engine rooms, earning one-fifth a white man’s wage. Consequently, many jumped ship and found work in major ports as kitchen help in restaurants and hotels. Among them was Bir Bahadur who labored in several British restaurants including Kohinoor, a London training ground for many Bangladeshis. He went on to open his own Bahadur Taj Mahal restaurants just after World War II in Brighton, Oxford, Cambridge, Manchester and Northampton. After World War II, many Sylhetis like Bahadur bought up fish-and-chip shops or old Chinese restaurants, renovating them and adding curry to the menu. Their restaurants took advantage of the late-night void after the pubs closed. Revelers could get a filling, cheap meal at the curry shops. Eventually, many of those shops ditched fish and chips and added more curries.34 One estimate had 90 percent of the 9,000 or so Indian restaurants in Britain run by Bangladeshis in the twenty-first century, and 52 percent of employed Bangladeshi men in Britain working in Indian restaurants.35 The Sylhetis opening restaurants in the British Isles kept an eye on the dramatic transformation in their homeland just after World War II. The end of British rule in India produced the violent upheaval of partition and the creation of India and Pakistan. An astonishing 14.5 million people migrated across the new borders of these two nations as a result of partition – mostly Hindus fleeing to India and Muslims to Pakistan. The Punjab region, split in two, saw over a fifth of its population move.36 Another 200,000 to two million people were murdered in violence resulting from the subcontinent’s religious fissure (see Map 16.1).37 Partition produced terrible violence and discord, but it also gave rise to new food cultures. One Punjabi, Kundan Lal Gujral, moved from Peshawar to Delhi during partition, bringing a tandoor oven with him. Gujral had learned to cook meats in the tandoor, a dugout clay oven, when working at a stall in Peshawar. He opened the Moti Mahal restaurant in Delhi in 1947, and it soon became a sensation for its tandoor meats and breads, butter chicken, and dal makhani. He built an elevated tandoor oven for his restaurant, mitigating the back-breaking labor for his cooks. Lal was “portly, florid, somewhat dainty in manner and careful in dress, and possessed of splendid moustaches,” and known to list “the names of ministers and heads of state who regularly arrived in his restaurant’s quite unwholesome purlieus.”38 Gujral may or may not have invented tandoori and butter chicken, but he certainly helped popularize these dishes.39 For butter chicken, which is thought to be the precursor to chicken tikka, Gujral marinated chicken pieces in yogurt, ground coriander seeds, and black and red peppers.40 He cooked the chicken in the tandoor, which runs at a very high heat –

318 FOOD AND MIGRATION

KASHMIR International boundary State boundary Cease-fire line Srinagar AFGHANISTAN International boundary Peshawar between India and Pakistan Sialkot Lahore Amritsar Multan TIBET

WEST Delhi NEPAL IRAN PAKISTAN Aligarh BHUTAN Lucknow

EAST PAKISTAN Karachi (Bangladesh from 1971) Ahmedabad Dacca Calcutta BURMA Arabian Sea INDIA

Bombay Bay of Bengal Hyderabad

Indian Ocean Madras

CEYLON 0 Miles 600 Indian Ocean 0 Kilometres 1000

Map 16.1 Map of India following the 1947 partition somewhere between 700 and 900 degrees Fahrenheit.41 He repurposed leftover tandoori pieces as butter chicken to which he added a creamy sauce of butter, cream, tomatoes, and spices. His dal makhani contained the same sauce with the addition of black lentils.42 Before partition, most of Delhi’s residents had not tasted these dishes. The cookbook author Madhur Jaﬀrey, who lived in the city at the time, called Gujral’s creations “food with a new attitude.”43 Gujral’s business was helped along by the fact that Prime Ministers Jawarhalal Nehru and Indira Gandhi frequently contracted Moti Mahal for oﬃcial dinners.44 Tandoor foods became what were associated with Indian cuisine for many years to come. Most Indians had not been familiar with tandoor foods before the 1940s, but the grilled meats and butter chicken became the dishes most served in Indian restaurants outside India.45 After seeing Gujral’s success, Indian migrants followed suit and opened restaurants in Delhi and beyond with tandoori specialties and dishes evoking the Mughal reign of power

319 L. JAYASANKER in India. Punjabi, Bengali, and Gujarati migrants in particular opened restaurants and ethnic grocery stores in Great Britain, Africa, and the United States. Though India has great linguistic, religious, and regional diversity, most of the early Indian restaurants abroad offered homogeneous curries. In Britain, “going for an Indian” became a cultural marker over time, correspondent to the rising South Asian population there, growing from 43,000 in 1951 to over two million by 2001.46 About one million South Asians hailed from India and another million from Pakistan and Bangladesh (formerly East Pakistan, but independent after 1971). The curry house was no marker of respectability in Britain, however. Curry marked the foreign for many Britons despite its semi-British origins, and Britons frequently greeted South Asians with xenophobic disdain. In the 1960s and 1970s, many Britons complained publicly about South Asian immigrants; in one case residents of a Birmingham neighborhood wanted their rents reduced because of the supposedly offensive curry odors emanating from neighbors’ kitchens. A headline in the Yorkshire Post read “The Danger of Too Much Chapatti.”47 The xenophobic response to curry slowly waned, at least as far as the food was concerned. Tandoori Nights, a British television program running from 1985 to 1987, featured a plotline with two rival restaurants, the Jewel in the Crown and the Far Pavilion. A character from the show summarized the appeal of Indian culture in Britain, saying, “apart from the Kama Sutra, the Indian restaurant is the most celebrated export of the Indian subcontinent.”48 The 1980s featured the most rapid expansion of Indian restaurants in Britain, even if they were sometimes mocked. Commentators derided the “red flock wallpaper, the identical standard menu, and the hot curries cooked in axle grease” at these places.49 Many of these restaurants indeed cooked from a standard sauce (sometimes poured from a jar), and put other elements into the mix for variation, to create a korma, vindaloo, or other “curry.” No matter the mockery, curry was popular – a 1997 Gallup poll declared curry the favorite food of Britons, and chicken tikka masala was the most popular “curry” type.50 The earlier introduction of curry, and the subsequent flowering of “authentic” high-end Indian restaurants in Britain, was thought responsible for a renaissance in British food beginning in the 1990s. One New York Times reporter commented that Indian food had saved Britons from the “bland boiled nursery yuck that generations … had little choice but to swill.”51

Translating the foreign: Indian food in the United States How then does a cuisine transition from foreign and suspicious to domestic and familiar? The adaptation of Indian food in the United States gives a sense of this change. It can also show how foods creolize differently based on the nature of the migration and the host country. While curry and chicken tikka hold a central place today in British society, Indian food is less well-known in America. Furthermore, American diners viewed Indian food through a different lens over the course of the late twentieth century, making reference to it via Britain and Mexico in different decades. Indian restaurants were rather rare in the United States before the 1970s, limited to a handful in large metropolitan areas such as New York, Chicago, and San Francisco. This was not surprising – racist and restrictive immigration laws had cut off Indian immigration between 1917 and 1965.52 Only 40,796 Indians migrated to the United States between 1820 and 1970. But the law was repealed in 1965, opening the door to South Asian

320 FOOD AND MIGRATION migrants; by 2000, about 1.6 million people of Indian origin lived in the United States as well as over 200,000 people hailing from Pakistan, Bangladesh, and Sri Lanka. Many clustered in the urban centers of New York/New Jersey, Chicago, Los Angeles, Dallas, Houston, and the San Francisco Bay Area.53 A number of Indian migrants opened restaurants in the United States, serving variations on their home cuisine. Because this cuisine was new to most Americans, Indian migrants needed to explain the cuisine. This process was one of translation – making a foreign culture inviting, understandable, and, eventually, familiar to a new audience. Efforts to explain Indian cuisine to American diners moved through three distinct phases between the 1950s and the beginning of the twenty-first century. In the 1950s and 1960s, Indian restaurants in America typically referenced Britain and its colonial legacy in India, replete with images of Bengal Lancers, hunt clubs for British officers, and that familiar word to both British and American diners, “curry.” Unlike Italian or Chinese food, most Americans had not eaten Indian food in 1960, save their occasional use of curry powder.54 By the 1970s and 1980s, Mughal food and tandoor cooking had come of age, whether in India or beyond. Restaurants in the United States began alluding to India’s Mughal Empire, when Muslim kings had ruled over much of the subcontinent, from the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries. Referencing the Mughal rather than the British Empire was partly a result of Indians asserting their independence, both in India and abroad. No longer having to speak of the British power in India, Indian restaurant owners could celebrate their own great past and civilization – the rule of the Mughals. That was not the only reason for the shift, however. Just as curries had been an easy reference point for Americans who were otherwise unfamiliar with Indian cuisine, Mughal cuisine was especially suited to the American palate. Replete with grilled meats and breads, it was not a culinary stretch for American consumers. Over the years, Indian food in the United States diversified. By the 1990s, Indian cuisine in America had jettisoned the British past and had combined elements of the Mughal tradition with other properties of the cuisine from the Indian subcontinent. Because non- European cuisines were becoming more popular overall, Indian restaurant owners could use examples from those widely known ethnic cuisines, such as Mexican and Chinese, to help diners understand what they had in store for them. No longer confined to tandoori chicken and endless variations of meat curries, Indian restaurant owners could offer vegetarian dishes and foods from the Southern regions of India without scaring off some customers. Diversity was translated anew for American consumers by using examples from Latin American and other Asian cuisines, and indeed, many new Indian restaurateurs used those foods to created hybrid menus. The changing cuisine served at Indian restaurants in and around San Francisco between the 1960s and 1990s offers insight about the shifting translation process. In 1965, the San Francisco telephone directory listed only three Indian restaurants, and just two, Taj of India and India House, were regularly featured in restaurant or tour guides.55 Founded in 1947, India House was the Indian restaurant that San Francisco guidebooks mentioned most until the 1960s. Typical of the time, it featured Indian food by way of Britain. A British couple, David Brown and his “handsome blonde” wife, Patricia, founded the restaurant just a month after India had secured independence from Great Britain.56 The Browns had learned the “art of curry making” in both India and England.57 One review said David Brown was “as authentically British as Winston Churchill,” noting that he paused in his regular rounds about the restaurant “only long enough to commiserate over the loss of India, still a prime

321 L. JAYASANKER conversational topic among his English regulars” (see Figure 16.2).58 That atmosphere made it fit for the “Colorful, Amusing, Exotic” section of the restaurant guide.59 To give the restaurant its exotic air, the Browns hired local Indian and Pakistani students to wait tables and serve drinks. The restaurant’s short, simple menu echoed India and Britain. Entrées consisted of several curries, distinguished only by a main ingredient, such as chicken, crab, lamb, or prawns. Each curry entrée was accompanied by rice, sambals (pickled fruits or vegetables), and Major Grey’s chutney, itself a British invention.60 Acknowledging that curry was a hybrid British/Indian dish, one review testified that the curry at India House was prepared in “true Indian style,” rather than British style, for it cooked the “curry flavor” through the meats.61 Another review explained the nuances of curry for the prospective diner, noting that “authentic curry is, of course, not just one seasoning, but a carefully considered mixture designed to complement the particular food.” The menu featured steak and kidney pie for those diners wary of curry.62 Though in India House’s first few years it did not sell cocktails, over time the bar became the selling point of the restaurant, for it contributed to both its exotic feel and its British colonial atmosphere. By 1963, one guidebook proclaimed that the restaurant had a “GREAT bar,” next to a drawing of a turbaned Indian barman pouring drinks. Behind him loomed the stuffed head of a Bengal tiger to finish the British colonial scene (see Figure 16.3).63 Acon- temporary Holiday magazine photo did the same, showing David Brown in front of the bar next to his employee in native Indian garb, both backed by a wall upon which dozens of pewter mugs hung.64 Consistent with the touristy feel of the restaurant, its menu advised that

Figure 16.2 Photograph of David Brown inside India House, 1961. From the San Francisco History Center, San Francisco Public Library © Holiday Magazine / Curtis Publishing Company. Photographer: Fred Lyon

322 Figure 16.3 Advertisement and menu for India House. From Leonce Picot (ed.), Gourmet International’s Recommended Restaurants of San Francisco (Fort Lauderdale: Gourmet International, 1963). Illustrator: Al Kocab L. JAYASANKER the British mugs and Indian goblets could be “had through your waiter.”65 To confirm the Britishness of the dining experience at India House, Pimm’s cocktails were its signature drinks. The restaurant boasted in one press release that it served the greatest number of these liba- tions of any location in the United States, in what was “a cross between English pub and English club,” replete with Indians serving the drinks.66 Other Indian restaurants in San Francisco during this era referenced the British legacy in India, including one lined with cos- tumes of the Bengal Lancers, perhaps reminding diners of the popular film, The Lives of a Bengal Lancer,starringGaryCooper.67 India House and other restaurants then had every reason to reference British or Mughal rule before the 1970s, for diners would be able to make connections to those elements that celebrated the exotic or triumphant past of India rather than the nuances of the food itself. In the case of Muslim foods, although many of the early Punjabi restaurateurs in the United States were Sikh or Hindu, they still cooked a heavy dose of Muslim-influenced dishes, which featured meats and breads. This was in good part because even though many Hindus in India eat meat, they were invariably associated with vegetarianism – something not quite attractive in the pre-1960s meat and potatoes era.68 In 1968, three Indian immigrants who had started as waiters and barmen at India House bought it from the previous owners, the Browns. They decided to keep some of the spot’s British elements while adding distinguishing features to the preparation of the Indian foods. To highlight the change, they informed newspaper writers through a press release that curries were not all the same and that each type was flavored differently. They didn’t make wholesale changes, though, keeping a page-long description about the glories of Pimm’s Cups. One key change was the addition of a tandoor oven, which was slowly becoming a standard feature on menus in many Indian restaurants. One of the new owners, Sarwan Gill, came from the Punjab region of Northwest India in the 1950s and worked as a waiter at India House for ten years before becoming an owner. Like many of the small number of Indian immigrants of his era, he had come to the United States for school, eventually graduating from the University of California at Berkeley. He and his co- owners opened another restaurant in Berkeley in 1972.69 Indian restaurateurs in America increasingly shunned their British past and instead evoked a grand Indian empire, the Mughal one, for translatable foods. If the Indo-British version of Indian food had created a certain sameness of cuisine, with curry after curry varied only by the meat within, the Mughal version was simply a shift to another sameness of sorts. Those menus had to reference the familiar as well, so they kept the curries of the previous restaurants, but added grilled meats and bread from the tandoor. Even by the 1990s, when some restaurants were beginning to stray from the tandoori and curry formula, one San Francisco Chronicle article asked why the region’s Indian restaurants served formula food of little distinction. It concluded that the “standardized” and familiar form of “tandoor, tandoor, tandoor” was what most non-Indian customers desired, making it “risky” to offer other types of Indian cuisine.70 It did not help that in many restaurants, the uninitiated “got little help from most waiters in deciphering the bill of fare,” so introducing new foods would have been a lost cause for those establishments.71 Even as many restaurants seemed to “cook from a central kitchen,” Indian restaurants became more common all over the United States, partly because of globalization. Indian immigrants came in great numbers to the United States, but they did not present the old image of India as a poverty-addled nation. This was in part because India itself was changing – the Indian middle class began to grow, and the nation was no longer young –

324 FOOD AND MIGRATION the memory of British rule was beginning to fade.72 In the United States, immigrants from India were much richer and better educated than those from most other nations, and median income for Indian households was 62 percent higher than that of the general population.73 Many initially went to the United States on special visas to work in the electronics and medical industries or to complete graduate or professional degrees. Those immigrants also created vibrant business connections between the United States and India – ones that went beyond the old First World–Third World construct. Instead, professionals in each nation were connecting on business prospects.74 One of those connections came in the form of restaurants. In the 1980s and 1990s, Indian corporations opened restaurants in the United States, some with several branches in India, Britain, or Canada as well. Some of these chains, such as Gaylord’s, served tandoori fare, and in some branches they toned down the spices resulting in many dishes tasting the same.75 Gaylord’s had begun in India in 1946 and independently owned versions opened in Chicago, New York, and Washington, DC during the 1950s and 1960s.76 In the 1970s, the New York iteration even employed a chef who had previously cooked at Delhi’sMoti Mahal.77 Kishore Kripalani opened his first Gaylord India Restaurant in San Francisco in 1976, and by 2007, he had seven locations, including five in California.78 Chains like Gaylord’s were also sustained in part because Indian migration accelerated after the 1960s. Immigration from India slowly included many more immigrants from the Southern regions where tandoor foods were not commonplace, causing many Indian restaurants in America to take on a new cast. These immigrants were accustomed to more vegetable and lentil dishes and a profusion of breads made from chickpea and fermented rice flour, as served in the stalls, restaurants, and homes in the Southern states of Tamil Nadu, Karna- taka, and Kerala.79 In many restaurants, however, these dishes were still served alongside the standby trifecta of chicken curry, chicken tikka, and tandoori chicken. They served the string of meat curries and tandoor items together with South Indian and vegetarian dishes so that both Indians and non-Indians could find something on the menu. In 1989, the two Indian restaurants listed in one East Bay guidebook illuminated this shift. The first, Sabina Indian Cuisine, served precisely the curries and kebobs that had been offered in Indian restaurants ever since India House and Gaylord’s installed tandoor ovens.80 The largest section of the Sabina menu was “Tandoori specialties.” Like many Indian restaurants, it made its mark with a lunch buffet, attracting office workers in Oakland’s downtown.81 A Berkeley restaurant, Sujatha’s, instead gave diners both tandoor meats and “Madras” specials. The guide said the restaurant’s specialties were as “varied as India” with an emphasis on Bombay in the North and Madras in the South.82 At about the same time Sujatha’swas serving a combination of Indian regional fare, Vik’s Chaat House was founded as a spot to serve “street” food from a wide range of Indian regions. It soon became one of the most popular inexpensive restaurants in Berkeley.83 The owner’s son said they served a variety of non-tandoor specialties because Indians “don’t crave naan or tandoori chicken. [They] want to eat the zippy, zesty food.”84 Just over a decade later, Vik’s was still thriving and the number of South Indian restaurants had increased, partly to serve Indian immigrants flocking to work in the booming technology industry.85 Branches of the successful Woodlands restaurant chain from India had opened in the United States by then, including one in Newark, a suburb of San Francisco where many Indian immigrants lived. More non-Indians had become acquainted with the food, but restaurant reviews still required fairly detailed explanations of the intricacies of the vegetarian cuisine. Utthapams, made of fermented rice flour, were “thick, puffy pancakes topped like pizzas,” in one review of Woodlands.86

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While Indian immigrants craved “zippy” and “zesty” food, so too did the wider Amer- ican public. In order to explain the new Indian foods for an American audience, many menus and restaurant reviews referenced other cuisines, as in the description of utthapams as hybrid pancake/pizzas. “Dungeness crab Punjabi enchiladas” and “curried tender chicken breast Punjabi tostadas” were served at one restaurant in Sausalito, just north of San Francisco. The same restaurant started a Punjabi burrito takeout service in a nearby town, capitalizing on the popularity of burritos in the Bay Area, but also seeking to distinguish its offerings from competitors.87 This hybrid actually had a long legacy. During the first two decades of the twentieth century, many Punjabi men migrated to the United States as laborers, but were unable to marry white women under California state law. Many married Mexican women, introducing a hybrid Mexican-Indian cuisine to the region. Some restaurants in the farming valleys of California during this era served chicken curry and rotis alongside enchiladas.88 Though the Punjabi enchilada was not common in American restaurants, the general combination of elements from a number of “spicy” or “hot” cuisines was. Mexican food had been widely available for decades in the United States, but its popularity surged in the 1980s and 1990s. The heat and spice factors in Mexican and other cuisines became attractions rather than put-offs over these decades, as more and more Americans sought these foods. And because Mexican food was so widely eaten, other ethnic cuisines that featured similarly spicy or hot dishes could reference that cuisine as a way to explain their dishes, or better yet, attract those who craved these elements. As early as 1979, the large Mexican fast food chain, Del Taco, created a marketing campaign titled “Hot stuff” to introduce itself to Dallas, Houston, and Atlanta residents, where it was building new stores. The theme was chosen because spicy or hot food was a “positive expectation” that consumers had when they thought about Mexican food, according to the National Restaurant Association.89 One review of an Indian restaurant in the East Bay suburb of Union City began by advising readers, “If you like spicy food, but are tired of the same Mexican and Szechuan restaurants, then head for Union City for some Indian heat at a small restaurant called Ganesh.”90 By 2000, the San Francisco telephone directory listed sixteen Indian restaurants as opposed to the three or four it had in the 1960s. The wider Bay Area had many more; 133 Indian restaurants showed up on a Bay Area online directory in 2007.91 Migration of both foods and people over the twentieth century certainly produced some interesting hybrids. The resulting creolization produced Punjabi burritos in California, chicken tikka in London’s pubs, and bánh mì phở sandwiches in New York. As millions crossed borders and regions, restaurateurs, home cooks, and food manufacturers invented new hybrids, constantly changing the food cultures of both their old and new homes. It remains to be seen what new creole foods will appear in Hanoi, Delhi, or Los Angeles in the next century, as globalization shows no sign of slowing.

Notes 1 The scene was actually ﬁlmed on a set in Hollywood made to look like the restaurant. T.J. Jacobberger, “Inside Scoop SF: The Story Behind Ernie’s Restaurant and Vertigo,” http:// insidescoopsf.sfgate.com/blog/2011/02/11/the-strory-behind-ernies-restaurant-and-alfred- hitchcocks-vertigo/ (accessed May 21, 2013). Vertigo, Collector’s Edition (1958), Alfred Hitchcock, Director, DVD reissue, 1998. Virginia Wright Wexman, “The Critic as Consumer: Film Study in the University, ‘Vertigo’, and the Film Canon,” Film Quarterly, 39.3, Spring 1986, 32–41;

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Jim Emerson, “Vertigo,” February 6, 1996, at http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/ article?AID=/19960206/EDITOR/41009001 (accessed February 26, 2007). 2 Roy Andries de Groot, In Search of the Perfect Meal, selected by Lorna J. Sass, New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1986, p. 241. 3 Ibid., pp. 241–2. Quote from Ernie’s “Fact Sheet” press release, c. 1988, Vertical File, S.F. Restaurants, Ernie’s, San Francisco History Center, San Francisco Public Library (hereafter SFHC). Blake Green, “An S.F. Institution Called Ernie’s,” San Francisco Chronicle, April 11, 1978. 4 For a definition of “continental,” Oxford English Dictionary, 2nd edn, 1989, online edition. Various restaurant guidebooks from the 1950s and 1960s speak to the primacy of French cuisine. See also, Josh Ozersky, “French Food is Dead: Long Live La Cuisine Classique,” Time Ideas, August 29, 2012, http://ideas.time.com/2012/08/29/french-food-is-dead-long-live-la-cuisine-classique/ (accessed September 6, 2013). 5 Robert K. Gardner, The Collegiate Guide to San Francisco, revised expanded edition, Hillsborough: Collegiate Visitor’s Guides, 1966, in Vertical File, S.F. Guides, 1964, SFHC. 6 de Groot, In Search of a Perfect Meal, p. 241. 7 See also the San Francisco Hotel Greeters Guide, Vol. XLVI, August 1963, No. 8, VF, SF Guides – 1963, SFHC; Ivan Paul, “The San Francisco Examiner 6th Annual Official Dining & Wine Review,” San Francisco Examiner, October 7, 1963; Leonce Picot, ed., Gourmet International’s Recommended Restaurants of San Francisco, Ft. Lauderdale: Gourmet International, 1963. 8 Michael Bauer, “Venerable Ernie’s Keeps Its Style, But Lightens Up,” San Francisco Chronicle, August 31, 1990; Steve Rubenstein, “Ernie’s Restaurant Saying Good-by,” and Pat Steger, “Ernie’s Owners Surprised by Farewell Dinner,” San Francisco Chronicle, September 29, 1995; Nina Weinshenker, “My Dinner at Ernie’s,” San Francisco Chronicle, April 15, 1998. 9 Carl Nolte, “Salinger Comes Home,” San Francisco Chronicle, May 23, 1990. 10 About 1.12 million people identified as Vietnamese on the 2000 Census and 988,174 people born in Vietnam lived in the United States as of 2000. Jessica S. Barnes and Claudette E. Bennett, The Asian Population: 2000, Washington, DC: U.S. Census Bureau, 2002, at www.census.gov/prod/ 2002pubs/c2kbr01-16.pdf (accessed February 9, 2008), 9; Alejandra Lopez, “The Foreign Born in California: Place of Origin, Region, Residence, Race, Time of Entry, and Citizenship,” CCSRE Race and Ethnicity in California: Demographics Report Series No. 15, June 2003, www.stanford. edu/dept/csre/reports/report_15.pdf (accessed June 5, 2013), 12. 11 Frederick Z. Brown, “President Clinton’s Visit to Vietnam,” Asia Society, November 2000, at www. asiasociety.org/publications/clintoninvietnam.html (accessed February 14, 2007); John Wildermuth, “President Spends Sunday in S.F. with Daughter,” San Francisco Chronicle, www.sfgate.com/politics/ article/President-Spends-Sunday-in-S-F-With-Daughter-3304963.php (accessed February 14, 2007). 12 Michael Bauer, “A Revolving Door: Wildly Popular New Slanted Door has a Few Kinks to Work Out,” San Francisco Chronicle, June 20, 2004, www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2004/ 06/20/CMG8S5TMTO1.DTL& type = food (accessed August 14, 2006); Laurie Winer, “Viet- nam á la cart,” Food & Wine, September 2005; Theresa Di Masi, “Chef Profile: Charles Phan,” http://epicurious.com/features/chefs/phan (accessed February 14, 2007). 13 Winer, “Vietnam á la cart,” Food & Wine, September 2005; Alan J. Liddle, “Demand up for San Francisco’s The Slanted Door,” Nation’s Restaurant News, May 3, 2004, pp. 5–6, p. 72. 14 Rudolph J. Vecoli, “The Italian Diaspora, 1876–1976,” in Robin Cohen, ed., The Cambridge Survey of World Migration, New York: Cambridge University Press, 1995, pp. 114–16. As with many other groups, many Italians returned to their home country, either temporarily or permanently. 15 Dino Cinel, From Italy to San Francisco: The Immigrant Experience, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1982, pp. 18–19. Bruce Adams, “Joe Dimaggio’s San Francisco,” San Francisco Chronicle, May 17, 2009. 16 Audrey Russek, “Appetites Without Prejudice, U.S. Foreign Restaurants and the Globalization of American Food Between the Wars,” Food and Foodways: Explorations in the History and Culture of Human Nourishment, 19.1–2, 2011, 47–9. 17 Picot, Gourmet International’s Recommended Restaurants of San Francisco, pp. 13–14. 18 Robert Baron and Ana C. Cara, “Introduction: Creolization and Folklore: Cultural Creativity in Process,” The Journal of American Folklore, 116.459, Creolization, Winter 2003, p. 4. 19 Robin Cohen and Paola Toninato, “The Creolization Debate: Analysing Mixed Identities and Cultures,” in The Creolization Reader: Studies in Mixed Identities and Cultures, ed. Robin Cohen and Paola Toninato, New York: Routledge, 2010, p. 11.

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20 Menus, The Slanted Door, March 18, 1997, and September 22, 2010, Vertical File, S.F. Menus, Slanted Door, SFHC; Richard Leong, “World Chefs: Phan Shares Food, Journey from Viet- nam,” Reuters Africa, October 9, 2012, http://af.reuters.com/article/commoditiesNews/idA- FL3E8L55FE20121009?sp=true (accessed October 10, 2012); Esther Sung, “A Conversation with Charles Phan,” www.epicurious.com/articlesguides/chefsexperts/interviews/charles-phan-interview-recipes (accessed June 6, 2013). On the shifting landscape of Vietnamese cuisine, see Erica J. Peters, Appetites and Aspirations in Vietnam: Food and Drink in the Long Nineteenth Century, Lanham: AltaMira, 2012. 21 Economic Research Service, United States Department of Agriculture, “Table 10: Food Away from Home as a Share of Food Expenditures,” www.ers.usda.gov/data-products/food-expenditures.aspx#. UoFYOxaIBXU (last updated October 1, 2012, accessed November 11, 2013). 22 Judy Hevrdejs, “Vietnamese Phở,” Chicago Tribune, April 3, 2013, http://articles.chicagotribune. com/2013-04-03/features/sc-food-0329-pho-20130403_1_charles-phan-beef-pho-noodle-soup (accessed October 12, 2013); Julia Moskin, “Building on Layers of Tradition,” New York Times, April 7, 2009. 23 Peters, Appetites and Aspirations, pp. 126–9; Erica J. Peters, “Defusing Phở: Soup Stories and Ethnic Erasures, 1919–2009,” Contemporary French and Francophone Studies, 14.2, March 2010, 159–67. 24 Moskin, “Building on Layers of Tradition.” 25 Adam McKeown, “Global Migration, 1846–1940,” Journal of World History, 15.2, 2004, 155–89. These numbers are estimates and reﬂect only permanent migrants – not tourists or travelers. 26 Douglas S. Massey, “Patterns and Processes of International Migration in the 21st Century,” paper presented at the Conference on African Migration in Comparative Perspective, Johannes- burg, South Africa, June 4–7, 2003, http://time.dufe.edu.cn/wencong/africanmigration/ 1massey.pdf (accessed June 5, 2013). 27 Patrick Manning, Migration in World History, 2nd edn, New York: Routledge, 2013, pp. 151–2; Adam M. McKeown, Melancholy Order: Asian Migration and the Globalization of Borders, New York: Columbia University Press, 2008, pp. 47–61. 28 K.T. Achaya, Indian Food: A Historical Companion, Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1994, pp. 154–62. 29 Ibid., p. 164. 30 Jose C. Moya and Adam McKeown, “World Migration in the Long Twentieth Century,” in Michael Adas, ed., Essays on Twentieth-Century History, Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2010, pp. 14–18; Jan Lucassen, Leo Lucassen, and Patrick Manning, “Migration History: Multi- disciplinary Approaches,” in Migration in World History: Multidisciplinary Approaches, ed. Jan Lucas- sen, Leo Lucassen, and Patrick Manning, Boston: Brill, 2011, pp. 3–35. 31 Lizzie Collingham, Curry: A Tale of Cooks and Conquerors, New York: Oxford University Press, 2006, pp. 115–16. 32 Stephanie R. Maroney, “‘To Make a Curry the Indian Way’: Tracking the Meaning of Curry Across Eighteenth-Century Communities,” Food and Foodways: Explorations in the History and Culture of Human Nourishment, 19.1–2, 122–34. 33 “Robin Cook’s Chicken Tikka Masala Speech,” Guardian, April 19, 2001, www.theguardian.com/ world/2001/apr/19/race.britishidentity (accessed September 13, 2013). 34 Collingham, Curry, pp. 215–27. The wage ﬁgure is for the 1930s. 35 Elizabeth Buettner, “Chicken Tikka Masala, Flock Wallpaper, and ‘Real’ Home Cooking: Assessing Britain’s ‘Indian’ Restaurant Traditions,” Food & History, 7.2, 2009, 207–8. 36 As with any of these statistics, the numbers are estimates. Prashant Bharadwaj, Asim Khwaja, and Atif Mian, “The Big March: Migratory Flows after the Partition of India,” Economic and Political Weekly, 43.35, Aug. 30–Sep. 5, 2008, 39–49. 37 Ian Talbot and Gurharpal Singh, The Partition of India, New York: Cambridge University Press, 2009, pp. 2–3. Another 100,000 or more women were kidnapped in the process. 38 Quote from James Traub, “Fare of the Country: Tandoori Artistry in Delhi,” New York Times, January 8, 1984. Also see Colleen Taylor Sen, Food Culture in India, Westport: Greenwood Press, 2004, pp. 133–6. 39 The origin of chicken tikka masala is disputed, but some argue that it is really a derivation of the butter chicken created by Kundan Lal Gujral. See Colleen Taylor Sen, “Kundan Lal Gujral,” in Alice Arndt, ed., Culinary Biographies, Houston: Yes Press, 2006, pp. 193–4. Sen agrees that Gujral basically invented butter chicken and popularized tandoori cooking. The BBC calls the

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provenance of chicken tikka masala “hazy” but suggests it may have been introduced by Ban- gladeshi chefs in Glasgow in the 1950s. No matter if this happened, Gujral had popularized butter chicken by that time. “Chicken Tikka Masala: Spice and Easy Does it,” BBC News, April 20, 2001, http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/special_report/1999/02/99/e-cyclopedia/1285804.stm (accessed November 2, 2007). 40 Sen, Food Culture in India, pp. 133–6. 41 As described by Madhur Jaffrey in “Taking High-Heat Tandoor Techniques to the Backyard Grill,” National Public Radio, July 1, 2013 at www.npr.org/blogs/thesalt/2013/07/01/197652733/ taking-high-heat-tandoor-techniques-to-the-backyard-grill (accessed July 5 2013). 42 “Moti Mahal: Delhi’s Gastronomic Pearl,” Wall Street Journal, December 22, 2011. 43 Madhur Jaffrey, Climbing the Mango Trees: A Memoir of Childhood in India, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2006, pp. 191–2. 44 Monish Gujral, Moti Mahal’s Tandoori Trail, New Delhi: Thomson Press, 2004, p. 8, pp. 14–15. 45 Madhur Jaffrey said tandoori items are “what everyone associates with India,” in Debbie Elliott, “In the Kitchen with Madhur Jaffrey,” All Things Considered, National Public Radio, November 25, 2006, www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=6525257 (accessed October 26, 2007); Sen, “Kundan Lal Gujral,” in Arndt, Culinary Biographies, pp. 193–4. 46 Buettner, “Chicken Tikka Masala,” pp. 203–9. 47 Elizabeth Buettner, “‘Going for an Indian’: South Asian Restaurants and the Limits of Multi- culturalism in Britain,” Journal of Modern History, 80.4, December 2008, 874–7, quote on 875. Chappati is a round, unleavened wheat bread cooked on a fire or griddle, much like a tortilla. 48 Buettner, “Chicken Tikka Masala,” 204–5, quote on 205. Racism against South Asians in Britain, of course, persists today, but its prevalence is lower than during the 1950s or 1960s. 49 Ibid., p. 211. 50 Shrabani Basu, Curry in the Crown: The Story of Britain’s Favourite Dish, Delhi: HarperCollins, 1999, pp. xv–xvii, p. 185. 51 Henry Shukman, “Where Indian Cuisine Reaches for the Stars,” New York Times, March 4, 2007. 52 Karen Isaksen Leonard, The South Asian Americans, Westport: Greenwood Press, 1997, pp. 40–105. David M. Reimers, Still the Golden Door: The Third World Comes to America, 2nd edn, New York: Columbia University Press, 1992, p. 15, pp. 61–91. 53 Immigration and Naturalization Service, 2001 Statistical Yearbook of the Immigration and Naturalization Service: Tables Only, www.ins.gov/graphics/aboutins/statistics/immigs.htm (accessed December 10, 2002), 6–9. There were 41,428 Bangladeshis, 155,509 Pakistanis, and 19,708 Sri Lankans in the United States. The Asian Databook, Millerton: Grey House Publishing, 2005, p. 1. 54 Curry powder had been a regular feature of recipes in the United States and Britain for over a century. Typically, the powder was added as one of the flavorings among many – not really as a unique dish. In the 1960s, one recipe for leftover Thanksgiving turkey used a teaspoon of curry powder to brighten an otherwise run-of-the-mill dish. “Home Hints,” Safeway News, December 1965, p. 8. For a nineteenth-century cookbook containing several curry recipes and a formula for curry powder, see Eliza Acton, Modern Cookery, Philadelphia: Lea and Blanchard, 1858, pp. 221– 5. It had long been a common item in American pantries by the early 1900s, Kristin L. Hogan- son Consumer’s Imperium: The Global Production of American Domesticity, 1865–1920, Chapel Hill: Uni- versity of North Carolina Press, 2007, p. 110, p. 114. 55 Yellow Pages, San Francisco: Pacific Telephone, 1965, pp. 759–76. I counted those restaurants that had identifiably Indian names or referenced Indian landmarks or foods in their titles. India House was often the lone Indian restaurant listed in San Francisco guidebooks. See Raymond Ewell, Dining Out in San Francisco and the Bay Area, 2nd edn, Berkeley: Epicurean Press, 1948, p. 33. Both India House and Taj of India were profiled in Doris Muscatine, A Cook’s Tour of San Francisco, New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1963, pp. 306–16. She counted four Indian restaurants in 1963, including a Curry Bowl restaurant not listed in the 1965 directory. See also San Francisco Restaurants, San Francisco: San Francisco Convention and Visitor’s Bureau, 1969, Alice Statler Library, City College of San Francisco, San Francisco, CA (hereafter CCSF), Folder-Calif-SF-S-T. 56 Quote from press release, “India House Restaurant on Historic Jackson Square,” undated, circa 1975, Vertical File, Restaurants, S.F. Restaurants (Misc.), SFHC; on the restaurant’s origins, see Ewell, Dining Out in San Francisco, p. 33.

329 L. JAYASANKER

57 Ewell, Dining Out in San Francisco, p. 33. 58 Holiday, April 1961, p. 167. 59 Ibid. 60 Menu (no date, circa 1950s), India House, San Francisco, CA, Folder, Calif – San Francisco, H- L, CCSF. Major Grey’s Chutney is thought to have been developed by a British officer who had traveled in India. The formula was eventually sold to Crosse and Blackwell, a major British food manufacturer, probably in the early 1800s. See Mimi Sheraton, “De Gustibus; Tea and Chutney: 2Different Greys,” New York Times, July 10, 1982; John Ayto, ed., “Chutney,” An A–Z of Food and Drink, Oxford Reference Online, New York: Oxford University Press, 2002, www.oxfordreference. com/views/ENTRY.html?subview=Main& entry = t134.e285 (accessed February 27, 2007). On the adoption, changes to, and popularity of Indian chutneys in Britain, see Collingham, Curry, p. 147. 61 Ewell, Dining Out, p. 33. 62 Muscatine, A Cook’s Tour of San Francisco, p. 308. 63 Leonce Picot, ed., Gourmet International’s Recommended Restaurants of San Francisco, Ft. Lauderdale: Gourmet International, 1963, p. 8, emphasis in the original. 64 Holiday, April 1961, p. 167. 65 Menu, India House (no date – circa 1950s), Folder, Calif-San Francisco, H-L, CCSF. The date on this menu is derived from comparison to a partial menu listed in Menu Magazine, Fall 1961, SFHC. That menu lists slightly higher prices for some menu items. 66 Press Release, “India House Restaurant on Historic Jackson Square,” undated, circa 1975, VF, Restaurants, S.F. Restaurants (Misc.), SFHC. Quote from Muscatine, A Cook’s Tour of San Fran- cisco, p. 307. 67 “The Lancers’ Glamour: Gone with the War,” San Francisco Examiner, November 6, 1968. The Gray Line Tours, San Francisco Bay Area Welcome Map (San Francisco, 1962), Vertical File, SF Guides, 1962, SFHC; Pamphlet, Citibook: San Francisco, published by the American Automobile Association, 1968, Vertical File, San Francisco County – 1951-(I), Oakland History Room, Oakland Public Library, Oakland, CA (hereafter OAK). 68 Andrew J. Rotter, Comrades at Odds: The United States and India, 1947–1964, Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2000, p. 196. 69 Notes, Sarwan S. Gill, accompanying Press Release (undated, circa 1970s), “India House Restaurant on Historic Jackson Square,” Vertical File, Restaurants, Folder “Misc” SFHC. Gill’s co-owners were Abdul Rhman and Shanti Patel. Much of the press release was quite similar to Doris Muscatine’s section on India House in A Cook’s Tour, published in 1963 but the handwritten notes added new information about Gill. Indian immigrants between 1952 and 1965 were mostly professionals or students, Reimers, Still the Golden Door, p. 31. See also Leonard, The South Asian Americans, pp. 67–71. 70 First two quotes from unidentified local Indian immigrants, and “risky” from Julie Sahni, New York- based cookbook author, in Maria Cianci, “Why so Many Menus Look so Much Alike,” San Francisco Chronicle, April 12, 1995. The food served to New Yorkers was also quite similar among Indian restaurants. The four restaurants listed in one Manhattan guidebook in 1983 had the standard tandoori and curry items. One, Raga, featured a few more regional specialties, including dishes from Goa and Hyderabad, but it still had a tandoori mixed grill on the bill of fare. The restaurants were Akbar, Bombay Palace, Gaylord, and Raga, all in Manhattan. Manhattan Menus: The Great Restaurant Guide, New York: s.n., 1983, pp. 103–4, pp. 127–8, pp. 177–8, pp. 237–8. See also Menu, Bengal Tiger, Los Angeles, reprinted in Robert C. Mortimer and Charles C. Mortimer, eds, The Menu Guide of Los Angeles, Pacific Palisades: Corm Enterprises, 1976, pp. 14–15. 71 Susan Spedalle, “Once Exotic Indian Cuisine Gaining Momentum in the U.S.,” Nation’s Restau- rant News, August 27, 1984. 72 On the Indian middle class and its role in globalization, see Tulasi Srinivas, “‘A Tryst with Des- tiny’: The Indian Case of Cultural Globalization,” in Peter L. Berger and Samuel P. Huntington, eds, Many Globalizations: Cultural Diversity in the Contemporary World, New York: Oxford University Press, 2002, pp. 89–116. 73 This figure is from Mike Swift, “Illegal Immigration from India Growing,” Contra Costa Times, February 20, 2008. Household income for Asian Indians in 1999 was $70,708, second only to Japanese Americans among Asians (at $70,849). Indians had the highest education levels among

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Asian Americans, with 63.9 percent of adults 25 and older having a bachelor’s degree or higher, compared to 24.4 percent of the overall population and 44.1 percent of the Asian population. The high education levels of Asians in general likely contributed to the overall impression that Indian immigrants were not from the teeming immigrant masses. See Terrance J. Reeves and Claudette E. Bennett, We the People: Asians in the United States, Washington, DC: Census Bureau, 2004, p. 12, p. 16, p. 20. 74 On the professional nature of the new immigrants and the vibrant business connections, see David W. Lyon, Global California: The Connection to Asia, San Francisco: Public Policy Institute of California, 2003, pp. 1–4; AnnaLee Saxenian, Silicon Valley’s New Immigrant Entrepreneurs, San Francisco: Public Policy Institute of California, 1999, p. viii. Saxenian estimated that in 1990, around 15 percent of the engineers in Silicon Valley were Indian or Chinese. 75 John Canaday, “Dining: Off to India by the Short Route,” New York Times, April 26, 1974; Menu, Gaylord (India) Restaurant, in Manhattan Menus, pp. 176–7. 76 “About Gaylord India Restaurants,” Gaylord India Restaurants corporate website, www.gay- lords.com/history.html (accessed November 9, 2007). 77 Craig Claiborne, “A Rare Thing: Indian Restaurant With Food to Get Excited About,” New York Times, September 26, 1974. 78 Jing Zhou, “Gaylord India Restaurant Keeps Standards High as it Expands,” Nation’s Restaurant News, August 6, 2007; Myra MacPherson, “Embassy Chefs Transfer their Allegiance,” New York Times, August 21, 1968. 79 On the varieties of foods eaten in the regions of India, see Taylor Sen, Food Culture in India, pp. 81–138. 80 India House installed its tandoor oven in the 1970s, and one reviewer said its menu had “evolved very little” over time. It closed in 1995. See also Menu, Gaylord India Restaurant, San Francisco, CA, in Mara Theresa Caen, San Francisco Epicure: A Menu Guide to the San Francisco Area’s Finest Restaurants, Seattle: Peanut Butter Publishing, 1986, pp. 58–9. 81 Menu and review of Sabina Indian Cuisine, Oakland, CA, in Cityguide 1989/90: Alameda & Contra Costa Counties, Danville: Shandra Publications, 1989, p. 138. 82 Ibid. 83 Amanda Berne, “Master of Spices,” San Francisco Chronicle, April 19, 2006. Vik’s opened in 1989 but expanded after that to a different, warehouse location to serve a larger customer base. 84 Ibid. Quote from Amod Chopra. 85 Lyon, Global California, pp. 1–4; Saxenian, Silicon Valley’s New Immigrant Entrepreneurs. See also Arijit Sen, “Curry Mahals to Chaat Cafés: Spatialities of the South Asian Culinary Landscape,” in Krishnendu Ray and Tulasi Srinivas, eds, Curried Cultures: Globalization, Food, and South Asia, Ber- keley: University of California Press, 2012, pp. 196–218. 86 Aleta Watson, “Fresh Vegetarian Eating: Popular Chain in India Comes to Newark,” San Jose Mercury News, October 18, 2002. 87 The restaurant also featured Jamaican-Indian and Cajun-Indian combinations, owing to the similar spices and ingredients used in those cuisines. David Sason, “Avatar’s,” North Bay Bohemian, August 16–22, 2006, www.metroactive.com/bohemian/08.16.06/bite-0633.htm (accessed Octo- ber 29, 2007); Keith Power, “Sausalito Spot offers Indian with Something Extra,” San Francisco Chronicle, August 7, 1998. 88 Collingham, Curry, pp. 218–21. 89 “Promotions are your Lifeblood,” NRA News, March 1983, 18–19. 90 Stephen Wright, “Ganesh will Warm You Through and Through,” San Jose Mercury News, February 1, 1984. 91 Pacific Bell Smart Yellow Pages, San Francisco: Pacific Bell, 2000, pp. 1372–405. This directory had two restaurant listings. One was simply an alphabetical listing of restaurants. In that listing, I counted 16 Indian restaurants. There could have been more that did not possess either Indian names or landmarks. The second section listed restaurants by cuisine. That section had 13 Indian restaurants for San Francisco; “South Asian Restaurants in San Francisco Bay Area,” at www. thimmakka.org/Activities/Restaurants/restaurants.html (accessed April 6, 2007).

331 17 QUICK RICE International development and the Green Revolution in Sierra Leone, 1960–1976

Zachary D. Poppel

After the global upheaval of World War II, the desire for more staple foods was a shared theme in two competing visions for the future—one involving the reconsolidation of imperial control, the other gradual independence from empire.1 American, Russian and European development organizations, fearing the loss of imperial order within the global system, promoted massive expansions of their international agriculture and food aid programs. Anti- colonial nationalists in Africa, Asia, the Caribbean, and Latin America organized a global effort to free the production of wheat, rice and other staple foods from what they saw as exploitative imperial agendas and practices. Emerging nations, they argued, would have to wrest control over food research from imperial governments in order to reconfigure the production and improvement of staple foods. Their calls to reorder the global food system and develop agricultural technologies to support anti-imperial ambitions mobilized researchers, farmers and politicians around the globe. In a world destabilized by war and empire, both the leaders of imperial powers and those of emerging nations scrambled to reform agricultural production and increase annual yields. Exactly how these reforms would translate into improvements in the diet of billions, however, was unclear. The Green Revolution formed out of tensions between independence movements and the expansion of international development programs. It was first used as a slogan to support the expansion of modified, high-yield seeds dependent on higher doses of fertilizer, tighter water control, and more precise labor regimens. These micro “organic-machines”2 grew larger grains faster, and in the case of some staples like rice, could be harvested multiple times per season. Seeds which were spread from American-operated wheat laboratories in Mexico and rice laboratories in the Philippines to farms and research stations around the world, came packaged with operating instructions. Massive amounts of earth and water would have to be moved to accommodate the irrigation needs of new, thirstier seeds. Expensive fertilizer was also needed, as were new roads and trade agreements. Within the uneven world of international relations these seeds were as much political tools as they were a technological device. The ensemble of scientists and advocates supporting the spread of the improved seeds claimed the seeds could reduce hunger and increase economic opportunity. Despite this conviction, the success of their campaign was far from guaranteed. The makers of agricultural technologies and ideologies associated with the Green Revolution, in fact, were far from certain that they could transform the

332 QUICK RICE production and politics of food as they desired.3 As we will see in the case of postcolonial Sierra Leone, other competing desires and techniques threatened and eventually out- maneuvered the Green Revolution. As a historical period, the Green Revolution generally refers to an era that stretches from the 1940s to the 1980s. As a phrase, however, Green Revolution was not coined until 1968. The phrase was used then to narrate a history of the preceding decades, retro- actively granting food and policy experiments a new dramatic meaning. In a Washington, DC hotel auditorium, United States Agency for International Development (USAID) administrator William Gaud sold the prophecy of Green Revolution in the same speech in which the phrase had its debut. “The story of the Green Revolution is not a story of failure,” he told members of the Society of International Development, “it is a story of success.”4 In the late 1960s American governmental and corporate officials were engrossed in a worldwide campaign to secure the use of high-yield rice and wheat seeds. However, initiatives for popularizing the use of these seeds within the food programs of the United Nations, the World Bank, and countries ranging from India to Sierra Leone to the Phi- lippines rarely developed as planned. This is due partly to the fact that the technological and political meanings of the Green Revolution have never been stable. There are many ways to tell the story of the Green Revolution. After the phrase was coined, its meaning was subject to reinterpretation, and its usage proliferated through countless vernacular filters. Farmers in India, for instance, selectively integrated the phrase into pre-existing debates about land-use and the growing of food. Social scientists have adopted the phrase as a way to speak in very general terms about spikes in agricultural productivity across historical periods. University administrators in West Africa claimed their students and campuses would “generate the Green Revolution.”5 Politicians in the Philippines claimed a Green Revolution would trump any Red Revolution. The Marcos government printed My Little Green Book in 1970 to rally support, and shortly after printed Green Revolution: Easy Methods to Vegetable Growing. The book does not proclaim the future to be one of high-yield seeds, but rather focuses on the intensification of “backyard production.”6 These proliferations offer a prologue to the abundant use we see today of green and “greening” operating as politicized keywords in everything from glossy ad-campaigns to environmentalist social movements. Despite its multiple meanings, the phrase marked a shift in how food was produced and imagined. The Green Revolution was defined by attempts to fuse food and global politics together through innovative responses to threats posed by seasonal hunger and food shortages. Political relations to food during the Green Revolution changed as a result of experimental interventions into the production and consumption of food. These interventions grew out of an unstable political landscape and were subject to setbacks and surprises. This story may sound familiar. As demonstrated in other chapters in this volume, food can be as dramatic as it is routine, as much political substance as it is physical substance. In an attempt to open up the dynamics of food history this chapter will address the following questions about the Green Revolution: Where did the Green Revolution come from, and what explains its global attributes? What happens to the history of the Green Revolution when it is not seen from the perspective of North American and Asian history, as it most often is, but rather seen from within the history of Africa? Further, how did Sierra Leo- neans in particular modify the official intentions of the Green Revolution? Was there resistance or indifference to the Revolution’s development plans? And lastly, how were

333 Z.D. POPPEL

Green Revolution projects superimposed over pre-existing initiatives for agricultural development in postcolonial Sierra Leone? What follows is a critical introduction to the Green Revolution using Sierra Leone as a case study. We begin by examining how elite crop scientists and policy-makers built a network of agricultural research projects within an uneven world. By focusing on the structural limitations and imbalanced social relations of this network, we will first examine the global and local texture of international agriculture. The chapter then turns to the politics of interventions in rice production in 1960s and 1970s Sierra Leone in order to examine the social life of rice, and to see the Green Revolution from the perspective of those people and places affected by the implementation of international agricultural development policies. The second half of the chapter analyzes the political tensions before, after, and during the development of swampland projects, specifically, the nature of the tensions between proponents and opponents of high-yield swampland rice projects. The problems were the pace and scale of the projects, and the inclusion of elites and exclusion of non-elites. To understand the contexts of international interventions in food production, this chapter looks at which Sierra Leonean rice farmers actually benefitted from interventions criticized for being too fast and too large.7 This chapter’sanalysis expands on existing scholarship that has demonstrated how Sierra Leonean rice farmers and their knowledge of rice were excluded from international food projects.8 Sierra Leonean rice researchers, along with their knowledge of decades of rice experiments, were also marginalized. Their appreciation for ideas of how to improve rice production, as well as their critiques of rapid, large-scale projects, connect to important questions about interpretations of the history and future of food in general, and rice in particular. Rice is a staple food in Sierra Leone. It is eaten daily by the majority of Sierra Leo- neans and farmed annually by nearly 88 percent of Sierra Leonean families. During the 1960s and 1970s this meant that one might eat between three-quarters of a pound and onehalf-poundofriceperday.9 Therolethatriceplaysasthefoundationofthedaily diet of Sierra Leoneans (as well as a base for diverse meals of oil- and protein-rich sauces) has gradually expanded since national independence in 1961. The rise in consumption, however,hasalwaysbeenatoddswithriceproductioninSierraLeone,andecological and economic limitations historically have prevented national self-sufficiency in rice production. For example, the chaotic escalation in mineral and diamond mining after World War II pulled laborers away from the rice fields. By the mid-1950s there was a gap between what Sierra Leonean rice farmers could grow and the amount of rice Sierra Leoneans wanted to eat. As a result, rice was (and remains to this day) imported into Sierra Leone. The situation has led to cycle of international interventions that aimed to reform rice production. In the 1970s, the World Bank and the United Nations sponsored large-scale projects to introduce high-yield swampland rice and rapidly alter the agricultural landscape to accommodate the construction of more swampland areas. In order to accommodate the very thirsty Green Revolution high-yield variety rice seeds, project designers prioritized swampland production over more popular and less intensive forms of growing rice.10 Understanding how the contradictions and limitations of the Green Revolution played out in specific localities is essential for a critical awareness of our contemporary world of food, not least because debates about the Green Revolution preceded current debates over

334 QUICK RICE resource-intensive and mass-produced foods. The study of rice in West Africa is also necessary to balance current efforts to revive the Green Revolution through claims that it is an unfinished revolution. This chapter will help readers anticipate what is left out of current campaigns to revive the Green Revolution in Africa.11 Contemporary proponents of bringing the Green Revolution to Africa claim that it never really came to Africa. Their claims are aided by the dominant Green Revolution history, one that is deceptively linear and tells a simplified story of technology leaping from one continent to another. These versions consistently place Africa at the end of a chain of events that started in North America, spread to Latin America, then to Asia and will presumably arrive in Africa. The Green Revolution did indeed cross continents and tie them together, but not in any predetermined or linear fashion. Furthermore, despite the existence of anthropological studies of the Green Revolution era in Sierra Leone, recent historical accounts offer little in terms of considering of what histories of Africa tell us about the Green Revolution.12 What is overlooked is how Africa and African agriculture were present throughout the emergence and expansion of the Green Revolution. While it is true that large experiments with high- yield seeds and rapid intensifications of food production were more common in Asia than in Africa, there is no basis for any assumption that farmers and governments in Africa have yet to participate in Green Revolution projects. The case of postcolonial Sierra Leonean rice farming allows the dominant Asia-to- Africa narrative to be questioned and upsets any assumption about how revolutionary agriculture has yet to arrive in Africa. But before we examine rice in Sierra Leone, and analyze how international agricultural interventions met resistance, we begin by asking a simple question. Where exactly did the Green Revolution come from? After answering this question, and attending to the global politics of seed science and food aid, the remainder of the chapter will analyze what the Green Revolution meant in postcolonial Sierra Leone.

The many origins of the Green Revolution The Green Revolution was rooted in the agricultural dimensions of war. During the period between the 1940s and the 1970s, agricultural innovations—rice and wheat seeds, fertilizer, and blueprints for model farms—were carried around the globe in order to win hearts, minds and stomachs both inside and outside of warzones. After World War II, many wheat ﬁelds in the United States looked odd and unhealthy. The stalks that held up the wheat were broken. As a result of too much fertilizer, the wheat had grown too heavy and too high and the stalks collapsed under the unprecedented weight. This unbalanced wheat resembles many other features of postwar disorientation and experimentation. A surplus of the key ingredient in fertilizer, nitrogen, was no longer needed in the manufacturing of bombs and munitions, and was dumped into the fertilizer market. Cheap nitrogen meant that farmers could treat their crops as they had never before. The grains on the head of wheat grew rapidly and disproportionately, and gravity pulled them back down to the ground.13 American agronomists working within an expanding domestic and overseas network of laboratories latched onto this problem and reframed it as an opportunity for an increase in food production. Along with growers and distributors of wheat they shaped the demand for a shorter wheat stock that could support a heavier and more valuable head of grain. The breakthrough came when an experimental specimen was taken from Taiwan and sent

335 Z.D. POPPEL to Japan. It was then sent to Washington State University, where it was forwarded to American researchers working in Mexico. Wheat production in Mexico had been severely downsized during the war years as a result of the transformation of the Mexican agricultural economy to supply raw materials to the booming wartime economy of the United States. The wheat shortage in Mexico during and after the war supported American claims that heavy doses of nitrogen fertilizer were needed to prevent the shortage from getting worse. The combination of cheaper, more readily available fertilizer, and new high-yield dwarf wheat seeds, met the demand for faster growing and more abundant food. The development of high-yield wheat and rice was made possible by the US postwar occupation of Japan. In the early years of the occupation American scientists took inventory of wheat and rice research done by Japanese scientists during the war years. They found hybrid wheat and rice seeds, and sent the wheat to the United States, while rice specimens from Taiwan were sent to researchers in the Philippines. The wheat was forwarded to laboratories in Mexico, where it was quickly integrated into efforts to create a hybrid dwarf variety. The rice sent to the Philippines formed the basis of IR-5 and IR-8, the rice varieties that eventually became hallmarks of the Green Revolution. Despite the speed with which the US government claimed these seeds to be foreign policy instruments of their own making, experimental breakthroughs in seed science were the products of decades of research. The origins of the high-yield rice seeds came from another occupation. Between the 1910s and the 1940s Japan held colonial control of Taiwan. One of the many Japanese colonial interests was exploring the possibility of increasing rice production in Taiwan to support the expansion of the Japanese military. Japanese control of Taiwan represented a defeat for Taiwanese food production. Prior to the colonial occupation Taiwanese rice farmers and researchers attempted to develop high-yield rice in order to allow greater autonomy and economic security. Their efforts, however, were commandeered by Japanese scientists and later expanded through American programs. The rice from Taiwan arrived in the Philippines while anti-colonial peasant revolts in Asia were succeeding. The French were losing ground and legitimacy in Vietnam, as were the British in Malaysia. The effects of revolution in China also permeated the region. The United States launched an occupation of southern Korea while they doubled down on counter-revolution efforts in southwest Asia. American public and private agencies conducting international rural development programs throughout Asia abandoned projects deemed slow-moving in favor of faster moving ones. The Ford and Rockefeller Founda- tions, each heavily invested in agricultural development projects, assumed that such acceleration could be bolstered through faster growing, higher yielding seeds. After the Taiwanese hybrid seed research was made available, Ford and Rockefeller representatives searched for a place to build a rice research station. Building on land and power acquired during the US colonial period in the Philippines, the foundations expanded their operations in a nation that had just celebrated its independence. The foundations began to slowly build a research station southeast of Manila at Los Baños nearby the University of the Philippines College of Agriculture. There, between 1953 and 1961, farmers and researchers worked on high-yield rice.14 Fast-growing seeds were in high demand. In 1961, the USAID was formed through a massive overhaul of the US foreign aid system. One of USAID’s first foreign research stations were the rice field labs at Los Baños. The reformed USAID and its newly acquired research stations were quickly made part of the US government’seffort to win the so-called “war without guns” in Vietnam.15 International development programs in southern

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Vietnam, led by USAID and US universities, eagerly intervened in agricultural institutions, trying to win sympathy for the expanding presence of the US military. The high-yield rice derived from the Taiwanese specimens, eventually known as IR-5 and IR-8, were soon used in concert with guns. Leaflets proclaiming the high-yield IR varieties as “miracle rice” were dropped from US warplanes over northern Vietnam. In southern Vietnam USAID officials encouraged farmers to grow IR-8, and use the new fertilizer that came packaged with it. The new seeds, according to the US government officials, offered a quick path to an abundance of rice, and would increase the number of wealthier farmers who might be less interested in revolution.16 A faster moving agriculture was needed to speed up American global projects. Rapid growth, by the mid-1960s, was the theme that held together US military and agricultural programs. This was true in an infamous act of bio-chemical warfare, one that illustrates how agricultural and anti-agricultural technologies developed together. The origins of Agent Orange, the toxic agent deployed in the agriculturally-inspired “Operation Ranch Hand,” were rooted in a desire to control the speed of plant growth. The University of Illinois research that provided the basis for the development of Agent Orange was intended to discover new ways to stimulate plant flowering and increase agricultural productivity. An Illinois graduate student found that if a plant flowered too quickly, the leaves grew at a pace that the plant could not withstand. The defoliation commonly associated with Agent Orange comes from accelerated hormonal activity that forces the sick plant to shed its leaves in an attempt to survive.17 In addition to the leafy camouflage that Agent Orange attacked, the rice fields suspected of supplying Vietnamese soldiers were also targeted. The durable rice plant that came into contact with Agent Orange received a toxic overdose that caused the molecular structure of the rice plant to speed out of control. Agent Blue was developed to target small-leaf, hard-to-kill plants like rice. Unlike the death by rapid growth of Agent Orange, this herbicide caused rapid desiccation and polluted the rice swamps for generations.18 In war and agriculture, governments discovered the means to rapid crop growth at the same time they discovered the means to rapid crop death. The Green Revolution and the agricultural features of US counter- revolution strategy, in many ways, originate from a desire to control the speed at which foodcanbemadeorunmade. While the war in Vietnam expanded, the advocates of the Green Revolution developed new infrastructure for global food research. The Rockefeller Foundation, the World Bank, and United Nations members joined forces to create the Consultative Group for Interna- tional Agricultural Research (CGIAR). The World Bank was put in charge of funding three international agricultural stations. The Consultative Group managed the expansion of the number of stations in the CGIAR network, and coordinated relations between the stations. The CGIAR acted like a board of trustees for the Green Revolution. It focused on expanding the base of investors, as well as on setting the research and agricultural priorities at the stations. By 1971 there were three stations: the International Rice Research Institute in the Philippines; a wheat and maize station nearby Mexico City; and a third station in Colombia. In 1972 an elaborate fourth station was added at the edge of Ibadan, Nigeria. A basic selling point espoused by those guiding the expansion of Green Revolution projects was that any country affiliated with CGIAR would experience an unprecedented period of increased agricultural productivity. To support their claims, promoters pointed to the rapid spread of high-yield seeds in Mexico and the Philippines, and the doubling (sometimes tripling) of yields of wheat and rice in Pakistan and India.19

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However, the push for higher yields and more CGIAR stations was often contradicted by the reality of agricultural development in these nations.20 In Pakistan the rapid increase in crop yield, combined with vast capital investments on behalf of the government and farmers, quickly drove up the value of land. The spike in value resulted in a large wave of farmers who could not afford to keep their farmland; the further centralization of landholding; and the inaccessibility of small capital loans to small-scale farmers.21 In the Philippines the government chose to conceal the fact that high-yield seeds did not meet the goal of national self-sufficiency in rice production. The gap was closed through secretive imports of rice run through Hong Kong.22 In the early 1970s the push to expand the CGIAR network and to sell Green Revolution projects was succeeding as a global campaign. On the ground, however, it was compounding pre-existing social inequalities. One consequence of the push to rapidly expand the Green Revolution was the new forms of oversight and critique it became subject to. The United Nations Research Insti- tute for Social Development (UNRISD) initiated a review of the Green Revolution in 1970. For four years, members of the research team studied the countries where CGIAR and affiliated organizations operated Green Revolution projects. Their findings on the “social and economic implications of large-scale introduction of new varieties of foodgrain” were controversial and confirmed many suspicions. The authors questioned the basic technological and political premises of the Green Revolution, and argued that it was limited by “the lack of precise knowledge regarding the social and economic consequences of technological change.”23 They claimed the UN and its members were misled into under- estimating the short- and long-term risk of rapidly replacing existing agricultural practices. The report’s authors concluded that the introduction of agricultural projects designed to break harvest records would compound social hierarchies rather than reform them, and result in a “de-landing” of food producers.24 The authors of the report extended this argument to claim that those profiting or expecting to profit from high yields and new agricultural inputs were already disappointed by a loss of autonomy and loss of control over the significantly uneven terms of international trade. The report was denied the status of official UN recommendations to its members, and only circulated at lower levels as a set of policy pamphlets and case studies. It would be another six years before a full analysis was published.25 Many of the problems addressed in the report had been anticipated by skeptics of the Green Revolution. And only five years after the term was coined, and the networked base of the Green Revolution was expanded, the economic and social limitations of the Green Revolution were more than apparent. A range of oppositional campaigns and definitions of the Green Revolution emerged in the early 1970s. In rural India a wave of populist politics fanned out in opposition to the social and economic hardships brought by Green Revolution-inspired projects. The 1970–1 harvest of hybrid, Green Revolution wheat broke all previous national records. However, the gulf between the winners and losers of this rapid growth gave rise to a counter-movement against all things associated with the Green Revolution. In these struggles the intended meanings of the Green Revolution were hollowed out, and political groups inserted their own oppositional meanings. Agrarian populist movements rebranded the Green Revolution as a threat to the possibility of a more equitable production of food and distribution of agricultural resources.26 The idea of the Green Revolution worked differently in the Philippines. There the government broadened the meaning of the Green Revolution into a national community development program. In the early 1970s the Marcos regime

338 QUICK RICE claimed to be institutionalizing the Green Revolution throughout the Philippines. Target- ing women, adolescents and the unemployed, the government released a vegetable gardening book designed to stimulate “backyard production” and the utilization of all available labor.27 A global campaign for scaling up agricultural production was thus scaled down into a campaign for revolutionary gardening. Efforts to counter or redefine the Green Revolution did not look the same in two locations, as is evident in the cases of 1970s India and the Philippines. Yet Green Revolution projects appeared to critics as imperfect projects vulnerable to contestation and alternative agendas. As will be shown in the subsequent section, this was the case in Sierra Leone. Green Revolution projects in Africa and Asia developed in a highly complex and competitive world of food aid programs. The so-called developed countries expected to find markets for their surplus food and raw materials in developing countries, while at the same time assist in the intensification of developing countries’ food and raw material production. According to this model, developing countries were expected to increase imports of foreign-grown food and expand the scales of home-grown food simultaneously. This often resulted in highly politicized food aid packages slowing agricultural productivity in developing countries, and led to a massive influx of crops that had been selected for local, experimental development. The US government’sinfluential Agricultural Trade Development and Assistance Act, known as PL-480, was often at odds with the promises associated with the CGIAR network. Conceived as a “Marshall Plan for the Third World,” the 1954 act helped unload surplus crops from the United States into the markets of newly formed nations.28 India, for instance, had one-third of its cash economy locked into PL-480 agreements, and was occasionally coerced to import PL-480 crops when they were actually not needed in India.29 The imports of US surplus wheat into India, for example, drove the cost of wheat down so low that small-scale farmers were priced out of the market, and only large landholders had the wealth to survive the shift in market conditions.30 From the perspective of the majority of farmers in India, the Green Revolution was extremely expensive, requiring heavy capital investment and access to productive resources necessary for infrastructure improvement projects. Furthermore, any attempt to increase the scale of production would have to immediately compete with the circulation of cheap, foreign wheat in India. By the time Green Revolution projects designed to rapidly boost staple food production had spread through India, the PL-480 trade agreements had already dramatically altered the staple food market. Contradictions between growing and importing more of the same thing benefitted some nations. Through the “Marshall Plan for the Third World” and the Green Revolution, American politicians and American corporations fashioned a disproportionate role in the management of the global food economy. The sheer complexity of PL-480 crop agreements led to confusion and scandals. Sierra Leone received cotton and rice through PL-480. Both the cotton and rice imports were sold by the Sierra Leone government in order to generate funds for public institutions. The importation of cotton grown in the United States and processed in Japan proved to be difficult and erratic. The government of Sierra Leone, as result, expended precious resources on the oversight of the complicated importation of cheap foreign crops. In 1967, for example, the Sierra Leone government requested five tons of PL-480 rice from the United States. The shipment arrived in stages, and the last shipment was allegedly hundreds of bags short. The PL-480 rice was to be sold for a profit to support government programs. Shortages or mismanagement of PL-480 rice meant a decrease in the

339 Z.D. POPPEL availability of funds for schools and universities.31 In Sierra Leone there is no shortage of theories and evidence that suggest the misuse of PL-480 rice. Some attribute the trau- matic food crisis and “rice riots” intheearly1980stoadependenceonPL-480riceand the misappropriation of proﬁt derived from rice imports. The collision of international development and rice production in Sierra Leone, however, has never been just about rice itself.

The politics of rice research and development in postcolonial Sierra Leone According to governmental and intergovernmental accounts, the Green Revolution failed in Sierra Leone.32 The failure is attributed to the inability of post-independence swampland rice projects to overcome social and ecological limitations. The labor required for expanding swampland production was too great and too time-sensitive. Additionally, the budget requirements were too high for a country that has historically suffered from the destabilizing and exploitative extraction of raw materials. The rice seeds, although they came with a promise of twice as many harvests, required too much water and too much fertilizer that was too difficult to move over a rugged, sparsely populated country. These problems also stemmed from the way policy-makers in Sierra Leone and international donors imagined how rapid agricultural development might occur. Growing more rice at a faster rate, they claimed, required two choices: one between irrigated swampland production and non-irrigated upland production; and another between a so-called pure, standardized seed and a more flexible mix of seeds adaptable to a spectrum of rice-producing environs. From our perspective today, and from the perspective of many Sierra Leonean critics of the Green Revolution, we can see that these choices were false and often misled project designers and participants. The majority of rice producers in Sierra Leone were unwilling, and in many ways unable, to abandon rain-fed, seasonal upland rice for permanent irrigated high-yield rice.33 Importing and reproducing a single seed designed for high yields was also unappealing to rice farmers who had self-made knowledge of seed performance. It might be more accurate to say that the Green Revolution did not fail, but that it was rejected. What follows is an attempt to explain why this was the case. Rice is central to social life and economic activity in Sierra Leone. In the 1960s Sierra Leonean rice production and consumption made it an integral part of the “rice belt” region of West Africa. Together with Nigeria, farmers from Sierra Leone produced half of all the rice grown in the region. When compared to other West African countries rice was consumed in Sierra Leone at one of the highest per capita rates. In addition to having one of the region’s highest concentrations of rice consumers, Sierra Leone had one of the region’s highest concentrations of rice producers. In the mid-1960s it was estimated that 88 percent of all farmers grew rice in one way or another.34 This included growing rice on large or small plots, on rain-fed upland areas, in swampy areas, and in areas between upland and swampland zones. In the 1960s and 1970s nearly two-thirds of all rice farmers grew their rice in upland areas.35 Compared to swampland areas, rice production in upland areas tended to grow more slowly and yield less. Upland areas were controlled by a more mobile agricultural strategy of shifting cultivation. This strategy was based on farming plots of land more slowly, while previously farmed plots gradually redeveloped. Greater dietary diversity came with upland farming, as rain-fed fields (rather than water-logged swamp fields) enabled

340 QUICK RICE nutritious legumes and tubers to be grown alongside rice. Upland farming was essential to the efficient usage of human and natural inputs into the rice economy. It allowed greater flexibility in labor requirements and demanded lower amounts of water and fertilizer. The popularity of upland rice farming, overall, represented a durable strategy for securing rice for families and local markets.36 Prioritizing swampland over upland production on a national level, Sierra Leonean rice researchers argued, risked imposing an unnecessary bias against upland rice farming. “The improved upland rice farming system,” one of the leading Sierra Leonean rice researchers explained, “has greater potential for minimizing rural-urban income differences while increasing rural incomes.”37 The popularity of upland farming led Sierra Leonean rice researchers to argue that it was the more egalitarian and more durable form of rice production. Government and international investment in upland rice, they argued, would help the most people and offer long-term security to Sierra Leone’s position in the West African “rice belt.” Advocacy for upland farming in Sierra Leone, however, was complicated by rice grown in Asia and North America.38 Despite an abundance of rice and rice farmland in Sierra Leone, the government still imported rice. Importing Asian and North American rice was needed to meet a rising demand from growing urban areas, and rising demands in markets feeding mine workers and cash-crop farmers. Subsidized, cheaper rice was demanded at an increasing rate by farmers who were interested in trying to make more profits by transitioning from staple foods to cash crops like cocoa, palm kernels, coffee, and ginger. For the cash-crop farmers, cheaper imported rice meant more time and land for growing exportable raw materials. Altogether rice imports were a large annual expense for the government-run food import business. The dominant theory, however, was that these expenses were necessary to grow cities and to increase the amount of exportable cash crops.39 Though negotiations eventually collapsed, proposals for industrial scale plantations of coconut for candy corporations and bananas for Europe included plans to reduce the amount of farm labor and farmland for rice.40 Real or hypothetical agricultural development projects revolved around the question of how rice policy could help reduce rice imports while increasing cash-crop production. Policy-makers and international donors answered this question by insisting that adjustments to the ratio of rice imports and cash-crop exports would change when more rice was grown faster in Sierra Leone. The relative speed and higher yields of swampland rice was appealing. To understand the nature of this appeal a brief historical sketch of Sierra Leone is necessary. The story of Sierra Leone can be roughly broken down by decades. Prior to independence in 1961, Sierra Leonean nationalists and community leaders organized campaigns for the gradual decolonization of the colonial economy and an Africanization of governmental institutions. While there were many competing visions for independence, generally those campaigning for decolonization demanded greater control over natural resource extraction and that British imperial authority over legal and administrative systems be dismantled. Demands for Sierra Leonean independence were undergirded by social movements that had slowly regained popular, anti-colonial control in the cities, towns and markets. The 1960s were defined by attempts to fulfill the promises of independence, and in the words of a leader in the Sierra Leone Women’s Movement, continue to “combine our different talents … for the benefit of all.”41 The political landscape of the first decade of independence was marked by a mixture of electoral conflict and innovative international relations. In 1968 the Sierra Leonean

341 Z.D. POPPEL military took control during a tense two-year transition of executive power between the two national parties. At the same time pan-African organizations attempted to develop durable and mutually beneficial forms of economic assistance, and leaders of Sierra Leonean educational and social welfare institutions found new sources of funding and new ways around obstacles to improvement. Postcolonial Sierra Leone was defined between these parameters of conflict and innovation. After emergency rule ended Siaka Stevens, the new president, embarked on a course to consolidate his party’s control over state institutions and challenge foreign corporate extraction of mineral wealth. The Stevens regime sowed the seeds of single-party politics and, despite its pretense of collective wealth, gradually steered mineral wealth into patrimonial channels.42 Against this creeping authoritarian regime an array of activists—community leaders, intellectuals, farmers and third-party reformists—oversaw the creation of new social welfare programs, pan-African connections, and new ideas for diagnosing what was causing Sierra Leone’s independence to stall. To name but a few; educators founded new publishing houses and new Africana Studies programs, farmers founded new cooperative banking and marketing organizations, and at great personal risk, reformers turned their dissent into political alternatives. From our vantage today we can see that critics of the state anticipated what came next. Despite state-led efforts to prove critics wrong and to demonstrate economic vitality, the evidence of the unhealthy status of the national government and the national economy of Sierra Leone was piling up in public. In the 1980s Sierra Leoneans endured multiple food shortages and hoarding scandals, deep economic depression and an anti- climactic handoff of power that marked the end of the fifteen-year term of Siaka Stevens. The brokers of Sierra Leone’sinternationalaffairs were sucked into a whirlwind of debt to multinational lenders while nationalist reformers struggled to mend deeply factiona- lized party politics. At a time of national depression reformists revived electoral politics and public institutions, desperately trying to slow a spreading militarization of social tensions. In the vacuum of economic depression, political violence was fashioned into a tool to dictate local market activity and a way to control access to productive resources. What is now known as a decade-long series of regional civil wars began when soldiers and militants saw violence as a mode of economic production and means to accumulate wealth.43 Though it is difficult to define the roots of war in a chapter on rice, it is important to point out the fact that relations between violence and society are as complex as those between food and society. The political life of rice in Green Revolution-era Sierra Leone demonstrates such complexity. The basic idea of getting more rice per acre, for example, was not introduced into Sierra Leone by the Green Revolution. Shortly after independence, the Sierra Leone government calculated approximately how much more rice would have to be grown, and how much more farmland would have to be converted to rice cultivation, if the country was to end rice imports and become self-sufficient in rice production.44 The desire for more rice led to an increase in the amount of national resources and spaces dedicated to rice research. The curriculum of agriculturally oriented Njala University College (established in 1964) focused on rice farming and nurtured student interest in rice-related fieldwork. After graduating these students, the agricultural extension staff and district authorities oversaw the distribution of imported hybridized rice seeds, subsidized fertilizer, and some farming machines. Despite small budgets and high labor demands, Njala graduates and state extension staff trained and deputized “Master Farm- ers” who could demonstrate the potential of high-yield varieties to their communities.

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Local seed varieties were discouraged, and cash rewards were promised to those who succeeded in growing two crops of wet rice in one season.45 Researchers, officials and farmers developed a proto-Green Revolution on their own terms and at their own pace. The Sierra Leone Minister of Natural Resources recruited international partners to help advance the national agenda of high rice yields and steady progress to self-sufficiency. Professors from the Hampton Institute (now Hampton Uni- versity), who worked at the Rural Training Institutes in eastern and northern Sierra Leone, trained students in rice planting and coordinated a campaign to increase rice planting in communities near campus. One Hampton professor claimed students helped increase the amount of rice planted per farmer by approximately 500 percent.46 Other planting campaigns were organized around the rice research station at Rokupr, around Njala Uni- versity, and in demonstration farms around the country. University of Illinois faculty living at Njala conducted soil and water surveys, and employed Njala students in off-campus rice research. In 1967 the results of country-wide rice survey were processed at Rokupr, and translated into schemes for increasing rice production across the nation.47 By then a large- scale national picture was slowly coming into focus. Within the first decade of independence, the Sierra Leone government and public institutions had invested in and established prototypes for the Green Revolution. When the United Nations, the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund became more deeply involved during the early 1970s in the expansion of high-yield swampland rice production, these efforts were superimposed over pre-existing projects and at pre-existing sites of rice research. One of the key sites in the history of food in Sierra Leone is a permanent rice research station in Rokupr. A small town and research station, Rokupr is located just south of the border with Guinea along the Great Scarcies River (known as the Kolenté River in Guinea). The station’s community and landscape are an index of accumulated knowledge and the accumulated effects of decades of rice-related labor. The Rice Research Station has been a regional research station for nearly eighty years. It was operated as a British West African station during the colonial period. The experimental fields in the 1950s were large enough for British colonial researchers to plot a rugged golf course around the fields.48 Nationalized after independence, the campus accommodated researchers, farmers, and families, and employed workers from communities adjacent to the campus. The land claimed by the station was gradually modified to resemble all the possible rice ecosystems in Sierra Leone. Mangrove, swamp and riverine rice were grown down by the river, and less water intensive forms of production were grown in rain-fed areas uphill from the river. People from nearby communities farmed and maintained the land around the experimental plots. Rice research at Rokupr depended on a social world that kept the campus and its agricultural experiments alive. Families that lived nearby provided the research station with labor and experience in exchange for wages and access to the land and agricultural resources. Most families were involved in a dual effort of growing experimental rice (for research and family consumption) and maintaining the sprawling farm areas owned by the state research station. Similar to other rice research stations in West Africa and around the world, Rokupr operated like a rice university. Rice research stations maintained a social basis of agricultural research. Women who lived nearby Rokupr tended vegetable gardens at the edge of the large rice fields they looked after, and experimented with intercropping techniques for cassava and beans. These women orchestrated the labor for maintaining, drying and treating the experimental rice. Some of the older male and female farmers grew up on and

343 Z.D. POPPEL around the research station. They witnessed and participated in the contributions that Rokupr made to improving rice production in Sierra Leone and West Africa over decades. They put this knowledge to work sorting seeds, relaying observations to researchers, counting and tasting the experimental varieties. Other farmers came from different West African countries, bringing and taking away seed samples.49 Rokupr station researchers and mechanics worked with farmers in studying and processing some of their crops. Together, they produced seeds and developed methods for generating higher rice yields. It was, and remains at present-day Rokupr, impossible to separate these products from the processes that made them possible. The divisions of land and labor at this research station, and the social relations made at this site of large-scale research, left their mark on each seed processed in a lab or readied for use elsewhere. Green Revolution projects were often at odds with the social world of experimental agriculture and the social basis of knowledge of rice in Sierra Leone. Such limitations were evident in efforts to integrate imported farm models and foreign seeds into the social world of agriculture in Sierra Leone. In the early 1960s Taiwanese and Chinese rice farmers worked as development agents in international projects throughout postcolonial West Africa. The initial presence of Taiwanese and Chinese rice farmers was small, but by 1968 300 worked throughout the region.50 Taiwanese rice farmers arrived in Sierra Leone in 1965 to build irrigated, high-yield rice farms. They began along the western coast of Sierra Leone, and by 1971 had helped build thirteen model rice farms. Using seeds originally from Taiwan and modified in the Philippines, they demonstrated to Sierra Leonean audiences how to maintain continuous, year-long rice production.51 The centerpiece of their performance was the maintenance of a constant cycle of seedlings grown in nearby marshy soil and then transplanted to the irrigated fields. The demonstrators travelled Sierra Leone, touring rice farms, and handed out small, durable hand sickles they claimed allowed for faster rice harvesting. In return, some Sierra Leonean agricultural officers toured and studied rice in Taiwan and the Philippines.52 During the 1970s Chinese international development agencies expanded the infrastructure of these model farms, and used them for demonstrations of rice machines and harvest techniques designed in China. While the Taiwanese projects succeeded in showing off large and continuous yields of swampland rice, the expenses of transforming a swamp into an irrigated farm proved too high. Paying workers to constantly transplant rice seedlings and maintain the tightly controlled irrigation needs of thirsty rice seeds was expensive and labor-intensive. When the Sierra Leone government and international development agencies expanded swampland production in the 1970s, these financial and physical limits remained. Limitations associated with the expensive yet high-yielding model, however, were deemed temporary problems to be solved. Experts predicted that the high yields could lead to higher profits and eventually make the expensive model not just sustainable but attractive. In 1970 the idea of subsidizing the high expenses took hold as a way to popularize the high-yielding swamp model. United Nations and Sierra Leone Ministry of Development officials latched onto the Taiwanese model and imagined ways to subsidize its reproduction.53 In 1967 the Sierra Leone government accepted a small grant from the British-owned Diamond Corporation of West Africa (DICOR). The grant was designated as a contribution to the increasing swampland rice production. Representatives of DICOR proposed to develop a pilot rice project within the swamp areas near their mining operations in eastern Sierra Leone. The plan was to give cash and high-yield rice packages to farmers who had access to swampland, as well as access to the labor needed for its conversion into an

344 QUICK RICE irrigated rice farm. Extension agents and a radio campaign recruited farmers and landholders to participate. Project coordinators reviewed applicants and their land, and afterwards registered them as official participants. Cash, seeds, fertilizer and some tools were transferred, and the farmer was expected to organize the removal of trees and stumps in the swampland and build small dirt walls (called bunds) to control the flow of water.54 Some landholders, farmers and government officials were skeptical of DICOR’s plan. The original DICOR agreement made the abandonment of upland rice farming a requirement for participation. Farmers who signed on to the DICOR project were hesitant to abandon upland farming, and many grew upland rice farms despite agreeing not to do so. Rice farmers’ attachment to upland farming limited the success of the DICOR project overall and resulted in “DICOR swamp farming being viewed by farmers essentially as of secondary importance.”55 Skeptical rice farmers believed that the Diamond Corporation’s real interest was cheap food for workers and widening its control over the local economy. Expanding the number of people engaged in intensive, continuous rice production was seen by DICOR’s critics as a cheap way to feed mine workers, as well as a means to deal with competition by re-orienting non-mineworkers away from diamonds and toward swampland rice production. The corporation was losing diamonds to unlicensed miners. Between 1969 and 1971 the number of Sierra Leoneans working in licensed diamond mines dropped significantly. This was partly due to a political battle between the state and corporations, but was also attributed to the increase in so-called “illicit” mining by local landholders who were finding diamonds on their own at an unprecedented rate.56 The DICOR project lasted for two years with only slight improvement in performance. The results were mixed. The overall yield of new high-yield rice turned out to be barely higher than the customary, seasonal swampland production.57 As it was for the Taiwanese model farms, the initial labor costs of clearing swampland and building irrigation channels were high, and left farmers with little money to hire workers for field maintenance and harvesting. The time frame for farming high-yield, very thirsty rice was strict. The lack of flexibility left fields out of sync with the ecological and social rhythms of the eastern part of Sierra Leone. The Sierra Leone government, however, had a shared but uneven interest in the prospects of continuous production of high-yield rice. Proponents of DICOR-like projects saw the slight advantage of high-yield swamps as improvable, and the difficulties of managing a strict fertilizer and watering schedule as problems that could be solved. In 1970 the Sierra Leone government and their international partners made another attempt to perfect the high-yield swampland model, and popularize the idea of transitioning from seasonal swampland production to a more permanent, constant form of food growing.58 The Ministry of Natural Resources initiated an “Inland Valley Swamp Devel- opment” program, the goal of which was to take the DICOR pilot project and scale it up to involve districts throughout Sierra Leone. The program called for a zone of permanent high-yield swampland production to be developed in each district. Existing swampland farms would begin sowing high-yield seeds and using more fertilizer, and new irrigated fields would be developed. The new swampland farms were expected to pull people away from upland rice production. The upland areas would then be converted to farms for more profitable cash crops like cocoa and palm kernels. The district government orchestrated an inventory of all swampland that could be targeted for conversion to continuous, high-yield rice production. The Ministry of Natural Resources then distributed cash, high-yield seeds and fertilizer. In order to conduct this survey and distribute the money, seeds and fertilizer

345 Z.D. POPPEL the government nearly tripled its field staff, and recruited Peace Corps volunteers and other expatriate development workers.59 The cash incentives offered upfront, along with the possibility of subsidized farm equipment, pulled many farmers into the program. However, attachment to upland production prevailed. Entirely abandoning a less risky, less intensive, slower moving form of cultivation was apparently not seen as a favorable option. The promised profits also did not come through for many new swampland rice farmers. The campaign faced a significant obstacle in its reliance on a large extension workforce that was prone to high turnover. Peace Corps and expatriate development workers were typically only on two-year contracts. And altogether the price for paying for the vast oversight of complex and intensive swampland production proved too costly. The problems of the “Inland Valley Swamp Program” represent the contradictions of Green Revolution-era projects. Slower, seasonal agriculture was often more productive. Half of the 3,000 participating farmers in the “Inland Valley Swamp Program” reported that they harvested less rice with the new methods than they had harvested with pre-Green Revolution, customary swampland methods. The other half who reported higher yields, and actually profited from fast and large-scale agriculture change, enjoyed a higher social status. These farmers tended to be wealthier people well integrated into rice markets. They represented the model winner in Green Revolution projects.60 To researchers these winners conveyed their doubts about the long-term viability of a quick transition to intensive swampland rice production. One researcher reported that these farmers found themselves “subjected to more constraints than that had ever before been present in his farming.” The farmers feared that the government would subject them to routine inspections and audits, and eventually prohibit them from growing rice in upland areas.61 Viewed from the ground up, the tradeoffs of higher yielding swampland production were mixed and unpredictable. The differences between two swampland rice project participants in a northern town helps illustrate this. One participant in Alikalia had more wealth and social status to support a labor-intensive swampland experiment. Momorie Thoranka became relatively wealthy through trade, and as a teacher and scholar of Islam, he was well connected within his religious community. He was the host of a Peace Corps worker sent to the town to build a model high-yield, irrigated farm. Thoranka arranged for the model farm to be built nearby his family’s home, and explained to the Peace Corps worker that he was persuaded to try swampland production out of “fear of losing respect of other people.”62 In an effort to maintain his social status, as well as collecting rent from the Peace Corps worker, Thoranka offered more family land for use in the national swampland campaign. Thoranka had a hard time persuading members of his family, as they favored the less risky and less intensive practice of growing upland rice. When Thoranka returned to Alikalia after a few weeks work in the nearby city of Kono, he found that his father had abandoned the model swamp farm and was clearing an upland rice field. Thoranka persuaded his father to return to the model farm. At the end of the season the family had more rice to eat and traded the surplus, but remained skeptical of a dependence on intensive and expensive swampland practices.63 In the same town of Alikalia a young man living with his mother experienced a different type of tentative success with high-yield irrigated farming. The young man had just returned from the diamond boom town of Kono where he found no luck. Eager for work, he enrolled in the government swampland rice scheme. With the cash allowance he hired laborers to convert a swamp into an irrigated rice farm. Being young, however, he did not have the social status to bargain with many of the laborers, and as a result paid higher

346 QUICK RICE wages to those he hired. The immediate costs of converting the swamp proved too high and he ran out of money half-way through the rice growing season.64 The contrast between the older, better-oﬀ participant, and the younger, more vulnerable participant was common throughout Sierra Leone. The older landholder had over time acquired more economic and social status. The younger man and his mother experienced temporary success, but made few long-term gains. Studies of Green Revolu- tion food production in Asia and Latin America show similar results at the micro-level. In Sierra Leone, and throughout the rice-growing world, more rice was being made available at a faster rate through fertilizer-dependent, tightly-controlled farms. But making more rice through an acceleration of land development and tighter schedules was not socially and economically feasible. In Sierra Leone this lesson was learned on the ground and knowledge of the limitations of the Green Revolution slowly moved upward.

Conclusion: slowing down rice development When financial support for the “Inland Valley Swamp” campaign ran out in 1972, the World Bank offered a loan and a plan. The World Bank plan called for a renewal and a significant expansion of the previous campaign. The offer to continue the campaign to popularize continuous cultivation of high-yield rice varieties was authored by officials in the British Commonwealth Development Corporation, and passed down through the World Bank. The “Inland Valley Swamp” campaign of 1970–2 resulted in approximately 3,000 participants, and roughly 8,000 acres were converted to high-yield swampland rice. World Bank and British Commonwealth Development Corporation officials claimed that they could double the amount of participants and double the acreage in two years. In the process, they claimed, the project would also increase the amount of upland rice areas converted to more profitable (but inedible) exports like cocoa and palm kernels. Further- more, they argued, swamps were a natural resource to be exploited like any other. Rapidly intensifying swampland development was thought necessary because Sierra Leone was only using a small fraction of its available swampland.65 Farmers and researchers slowed down this push for a rapid expansion of swampland rice development. Although local mixed varieties and imported high-yield varieties produced more rice per acre when grown in irrigated swamp fields, they maintained that the risks of rapid swampland development were too high. They documented that pre-Green Revolution swamp farms were just as profitable, and demonstrated that overdeveloping swamps jeo- pardized other forms of rice production in Sierra Leone and throughout “the Rice Belt.” They also documented how farmers remained attached to upland and diverse forms of cultivation, and ultimately how these attachments slowed the rush of intensifying swampland development. Researchers worked with Sierra Leone government officials to construct a narrative that explained and supported farmers’ hesitation, and in some cases indifference, to the high-yielding model.66 By 1976 the ideas of the farmers and researchers was formed into a set of demands for a form of flexible and broader rice development strategy. The Sierra Leone government tried to prioritize upland rice farming in national and international development projects. It succeeded occasionally, and channeled funds and hand tools to the majority of Sierra Leone farmers with access to upland farms, rather than the smaller number with access to swamps.67 Gradually the prospects of improving existing practices of the majority of rice farmers dispersed throughout the country was deemed more affordable and more durable than standardizing and speeding up the production of swampland rice.

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Exactly what did the Green Revolution introduce into Sierra Leone? The desire for more rice was not an imported one. Neither was the idea that rice seed and farming methods could be improved. Farmers and researchers in Sierra Leone knew that rice yields in swampland areas were higher before any swampland became a target for internationally sponsored development. Likewise, Sierra Leonean officials knew that improving swampland farms was one of many ways to produce more rice. What the story of rice in Sierra Leone tells about the history of the Green Revolution is that international development projects are often superimposed on existing practices, and that such projects often aim to capture pre-existing local initiatives. By 1976 the desired outcomes of the Green Revolu- tion in Sierra Leone—permanent, high-yield, irrigated swampland rice farms—had not developed as planned. Just seven years after the Green Revolution had been coined as an international policy term it was overhauled from the bottom up. Despite efforts by the World Bank to yet again reboot high-yield, large-scale swampland developments in 1976, the Green Revolution proved to be a trend that rice farmers and landholders in Sierra Leone could withstand. The story of the Green Revolution remains one with significant consequences for present-day Sierra Leone. In January 2013, at the swampy edge of a rural university, the ingredients of the Green Revolution are on display. The experimental plot at Njala University has been set aside for yet another attempt to integrate hybrid, high-yield rice production with more aggressive water-control efforts. The swampland has been transformed—through a great amount of student and communal labor—into a model farm. Rice growers and agricultural officers come to look at and interpret this model farm. Similar model farms are currently being built in two other locations in the country. Those funding the model farm believe that more rice can be grown faster by transforming swamps into irrigated farms, and by popularizing a more productive, locally adapted form of constant swampland production. Despite past limitations swampland production is still popular in Sierra Leone. The designers of the swampland rice farm at Njala claim that their model is different from those in the past. Catfish farmed in channels dug around the rice fields will allow for additional protein and another source of income. The hybrid seed used in this model farm is more familiar to the Sierra Leonean rice farmers, and was cultivated at Rokupr. The financial support for the model farm comes from the World Bank, but also includes funds from an innovative, regional partnership with rice research stations in Cameroon and Nigeria. Previously excluded knowledge and regional connections now play a central role. Green Revolution era projects were troubled by how they excluded the knowledge of rice possessed by farmers and families who had grown rice for generations. The plan is that the expansion of new swampland experiments the Njala model will inspire will not reproduce such errors, and will demonstrate to local and international audiences that the path to national self-sufficiency in rice yields runs through irrigated swamps. The hopes and risks found in big ideas for rice are growing again on experimental farms in Sierra Leone.

Notes 1 See Christopher J. Lee, ed., Making a World After Empire: The Bandung Moment and its Political After- lives, Athens: Ohio University Press, 2010; Joseph Morgan Hodge, Triumph of the Expert: Agrarian Doctrines of Development and the Legacies of British Colonialism, Athens: Ohio University Press, 2007; K. Sivaramakrishnan and Arun Agrawal, eds, Regional Modernities: The Cultural Politics of Development in

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India, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2003; and Gunnel Cederlof and K. Sivaramakrishnan, eds, Ecological Nationalisms: Nature, Livelihoods and Identities in South Asia, Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2006. 2 Richard White, The Organic Machine: The Remaking of the Columbia River, New York: Hill and Wang, 1996. 3 See Nick Cullather, The Hungry World: America’s Cold War Battle Against Poverty in Asia, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2010. 4 William Gaud, Address to Society of International Development, March 8, 1968. Full text of speech can be found at www.agbioworld.org/biotech-info/topics/borlaug/borlaug-green.html (accessed October 2013). 5 Staff Editorial, Njala University College Newsletter, vol. 4, 1975, Njala, Sierra Leone, p. 2. Accessed through the library of the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign. 6 James E. Fabicon, Mario I. Galman and Jaime P. Ronquillo, Green Revolution: Easy Methods of Vegetable Growing, 2 volumes, Manila: National Bookstore, 1974; Filipiniana Section, Rizal Library, Ateneo de Manila University; accessed June 2012. 7 Jonathan Ellis Massaquoi, “Agricultural Production Adjustments to Achieve Self-Sufficiency in Rice Production in Sierra Leone,” Ph.D. Dissertation, Cornell University, 1987. 8 See Paul Richards, Coping with Hunger: Hazard and Experiment in an African Rice-Farming System, London: Allen & Unwin, 1986; for questions of contemporary politics of rice production see Catherine Bolten, “The Agricultural Impasse: Creating ‘Normal’ Post-War Development in Sierra Leone,” Journal of Political Ecology, 16, 2009. 9 Victor Smith, Sarah Lynch, William Whelan, John Strauss and Doyle Baker, “Household Food Consumption in Rural Sierra Leone,” MSU Rural Development Series, Working Paper No. 7, East Lansing: Michigan State University, 1979, p. 37. 10 Michael Johnny, “Agricultural Change and Peasant Farmer Resistance: The Case of the Tradi- tional Upland Rice Farmer in Sierra Leone,” Rural Africana, 10, 1981. 11 For a range of arguments for and against a Green Revolution in Africa see publications by the following organizations: the Alliance for a Green Revolution in Africa; the Oakland Institute; the Heritage Foundation; and the Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS). 12 A study of the Green Revolution in Africa like Cullather’s The Hungry World: America’s Cold War Battle Against Poverty in Asia, has yet to be written. This gap is not new. Keith Griffin’s The Green Revolution: An Economic Analysis (United Nations Research for Social Development, 1972) focuses only on Asia and Latin America. 13 Edward D. Melillo, “The First Green Revolution: Debt Peonage and the Making of the Nitrogen Fertilizer Trade, 1840–1930,” American Historical Review, 117(4), 2012, p. 1055. 14 See Robert S. Anderson, Edwin Levy and Barrie M. Morrison, Rice Science and Development Politics: Research Strategies and IRRI’s Technologies Confront Asian Diversity (1950–1980), Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991. 15 George Kilpatrick Tanham, War without Guns: American Civilians in Rural Vietnam, New York: Praeger, 1966. 16 Michael Latham, The Right Kind of Revolution: Modernization, Development and U.S. Foreign Policy from the Cold War to the Present, Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2011, p. 114. 17 Arthur W. Galston, “Falling Leaves and Ethical Dilemmas: Agent Orange in Vietnam,” in New Dimensions in Bioethics: Science, Ethics and the Formulation of Public Policy, Arthur W. Galston and Emily G. Shurr, eds, New York: Spring, 2001, pp. 109–24. 18 Jeanne Mager Stellman, Steven D. Stellman, Richard Christian, Tracy Weber and Carrie Tomasello, “The Extent and Patterns of Usage of Agent Orange and Other Herbicides in Viet- nam,” Nature, 422, April 17, 2003, pp. 681–7. 19 Latham, The Right Kind of Revolution, pp. 117–18. 20 Robert Chambers, “Beyond the Green Revolution: A Selective Essay,” in Understanding Green Revolutions: Agrarian change and development planning in South Asia, Tim Bayliss-Smith and Sudhir Wanmali, eds, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984. 21 Latham, The Right Kind of Revolution, p. 118. 22 Cullather, The Hungry World, p. 172. 23 United Nations Research Institute for Social Development, “The Social and Economic Implica- tions of Large-Scale Introduction of New Varieties of Foodgrain: Summary of Conclusion of a Global Research Project,” Geneva, 1974, p. ix.

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24 Ibid., p. 24. 25 Andrew Pearse, Seeds of Plenty, Seeds of Want: Social and Economic Implications of the Green Revolution, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1980. 26 Akhil Gupta, Postcolonial Developments: Agriculture in the Making of Modern India, Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1998, p. 142. See also B.H. Farmer, “Perspectives on the ‘Green Revolution’ in South Asia,” Modern Asian Studies, 20(1), 1983, pp. 177–99. 27 Fabicon et al., Green Revolution. 28 Gupta, Postcolonial Developments, pp. 45–7. 29 Cullather, The Hungry World, p. 235. 30 John H. Perkins, Geopolitics and the Green Revolution: Wheat, Genes and the Cold War, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997, p. 175. 31 “Procurement of Agricultural Surpluses under Public Law 480, Title IV – Rice,” Ministry of Development Files, Box 664; Public Records Office, Fourah Bay College, Freetown. 32 See Matthew Okai, “Rural Poverty Alleviation Measures in Sierra Leone,” In-depth Studies Series no. 6 (Food and Agriculture Organization, 1983). Okai incorporates data and reports from official Bank of Sierra Leone publications. 33 Richards, Coping with Hunger, p. 155. 34 United States Department of Agriculture and Agency for International Development, “Rice in West Africa: A Study,” Washington, DC: December 1968. 35 Okai, “Rural Poverty,” p. 14. 36 Massaquoi, “Agricultural Production Adjustments to Achieve Self-Sufficiency in Rice Production in Sierra Leone” p. 19. See also Smith et al., “Household Food Consumption in Rural Sierra Leone,” p. 57. 37 Dunstan Spencer, “Rice Policy in Sierra Leone,” in Rice in West Africa: Policy and Economics, Scott Pearson, J. Dirck Stryker and Charles Humphreys, eds, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1981, p. 190. 38 Djibril Aw, “Rice Development Strategies in Africa,” in Rice in Africa, I.W. Buddenhagen and G.J. Persley, eds, London: Academic Press, 1978, p. 69. 39 “Rice in West Africa: A Study,” p. 4. 40 “Plantation Programs, 1965–66,” Ministry of Development Files, Box 648; Public Records Office, Fourah Bay College, Freetown. 41 Constance Agatha Cummings-John, Memoirs of Krio Leader, Ibadan: Humanities Research Council, 1995, p. 110. 42 William Reno, Corruption and State Politics in Sierra Leone, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995, p. 102. 43 Jimmy Kandeh, Coups from Below: Armed Subalterns and State Power in West Africa, New York: Pal- grave Macmillan, 2004, p. 143. See also Danny Hoffman, The War Machines: Young Men and Vio- lence in Sierra Leone and Liberia, Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2011. 44 Ralph Gerald Saylor, The Economic System of Sierra Leone, Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1967, p. 84. 45 “Intensification of Rice Production in Sierra Leone, 1968–1971,” Ministry of Agriculture Files, Box 66; Public Records Office, Fourah Bay College, Freetown. 46 M. Fortenberry to E. Thomas, September 2, 1968; Sierra Leone Files, Hampton University Archives, Virginia. 47 See David P. Gamble, “Traditional Temne Beliefs and the Introduction of New Rice Varieties,” School of Development Studies, Njala University College, 1965, Njala University Library, Reference Collection; and A.J. Carpenter, James Alexander and Ryan Crawford, “The Dis- tribution and Effects on Rice Yields of Aphelencoides Bessey1 Christie (1942) in Sierra Leone,” International Rice Commission Newsletter, Vol. XVI, No. 3, September 1967; Njala University Library, Reference Collection. 48 Harry Mitchell, Remote Corners: A Sierra Leone Memoir, London: Radcliffe Press, 2002, p. 172. 49 “Training of Gambians in Rice Growing Techniques and Methods, 1954–1966,” Ministry of Agriculture Files, Box 55; Public Records Office, Fourah Bay College, Freetown. 50 “Rice in West Africa: A Study,” p. 8. 51 “Intensification of Rice Production in Sierra Leone, 1968–1971,” Ministry of Agriculture Files, Box 66.

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52 “Visits of Members of Agriculture Department to Other Countries,” Ministry of Agriculture Files, Box 65; Public Records Office, Fourah Bay College, Freetown. 53 Richards, Coping with Hunger, p. 19. 54 Leon Weintraub, “Introducing Agricultural Change: The Inland Valley Swamp Rice Scheme in Sierra Leone,” Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Wisconsin, 1973, p. 77. 55 Ibid., p. 84. Weintraub draws extensively from Allan Hobby, “The Introduction of Intensive Swamp Rice Cultivation in the Eastern Province of Sierra Leone,” Kenema: Sierra Leone Department of Agriculture, August 1968. 56 Staff Report, International Bank for Reconstruction and Development, International Develop- ment Association, “Appraisal of Integrated Agricultural Development Project, Sierra Leone,” June 6, 1972; accessed at Worldbank.org. in July 2013. Also see Weintraub, “Introducing Agri- cultural Change,” pp. 66–92. 57 Weintraub, “Introducing Agricultural Change,” p. 69. 58 Ibid., p. 233. 59 Spencer, “Rice Policy in Sierra Leone,” p. 185. 60 Pearse, Seeds of Plenty, pp. 48–9. 61 Weintrab, “Introducing Agricultural Change,” p. 80. 62 A. W. Haas, “Diffusion of Innovations in Sierra Leone, West Africa: First Report of the Intro- duction and Diffusion of a New Rice Farming Method among Koranko Farmers in Alikalia, Koinadugu District, December 1973–February 1974,” paper from the Institute of Cultural and Social Studies, Leiden: Leiden State University, 1974, pp. 33–4. 63 Ibid. 64 Ibid. 65 See International Development Association, “Report and Recommendation of the President to the Executive Directors on a Proposed Development Credit to Sierra Leone for an Integrated Agricultural Development Project,” June 8, 1972; accessed at Worldbank.org in July 2013. 66 See Jean Due and Gerald Karr, “Strategies for Increasing Rice Production in Sierra Leone,” African Studies Review, 16(1), April, 1973, pp. 23–71; Dunstan Spencer, “Micro-level Farm Man- agement and Production Economics Research Among Traditional African Farmers: Lessons from Sierra Leone,” African Rural Employment Study, Michigan State University, September 1972; and I.W. Buddenhagen and G.J. Persley, Rice in Africa: Proceedings of a Conference held at the Interna- tional Institute of Tropical Agriculture, London: Academic Press, 1978. 67 Spencer, “Rice Policy in Sierra Leone,” p. 189. See also Spencer, Ibi I. May-Parker and Frank S. Rose, “Employment, Efficiency and Income in the Rice Processing Industry in Sierra Leone,” African Rural Economy Paper No. 15, Njala University College/Michigan State University, 1976, p. 72.

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1500–1700 Appelbaum, Robert, Aguecheek’s Beef, Belch’s Hiccup, and Other Gastronomic Interjections: Literature, Culture, and Food among the Early Moderns (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006). Cabieses, Fernando, Cien Siglos de Pan (Lima: Consejo National de Ciencia y Tecnología, 1995). Coe, Sophie, America’s First Cuisine (Austin: Texas University Press, 1994). Forbes, R.J., A Short History of the Art of Distillation (Leiden: Brill, 1948). Guy, Kolleen, When Champagne Became French. Wine and the Making of a National Identity (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins, 2003). Hornsey, Ian S., A History of Beer and Brewing (Cambridge: Royal Society of Chemistry, 2003). Krögel, Alison, Food, Power, and Resistance in the Andes (Lanham: Lexington Books, 2011). Martin, A. Lynn, Alcohol, Violence and Disorder (Kirksville: Truman State, 2009). Morales, Edmundo, The Guinea Pig: Healing, Food, and Ritual in the Andes (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1995). Ortega, Julio, “Guaman Poma y el discurso de los alimentos,” Socialismo y participación 63 (November 1993): 29–38. Ortega, Julio, “Leer y describir: el Inca Garcilaso y el sujeto de la abundancia,” in El hombre y los Andes: Homenaje a Franklin Pease G.Y, vol. 1, edited by Javier Flores Espinoza and Rafael Varón Gabai (Lima: Pontiﬁcia Universidad Católica del Perú Fondo Editorial, 2000), pp. 397–408. Ossio, Juan M., “Aspectos simbólicos de las comidas andinas: una nueva versión,” in Cultura, identidad y cocina en el Perú, edited by Rosario Olivas Weston (Lima: Universidad San Martín de Porres, 1992), pp. 77–113. Pettid, Michael J., Korean Cuisine: An Illustrated History (London: Reaktion Books, 2008). Phillips, Rod, A Short History of Wine (New York: Ecco, 2000). Rath, Eric C., Food and Fantasy in Early Modern Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010). Rath, Eric C., “New Meanings for Old Vegetables in Kyoto,” Food, Culture and Society 17.2 (2014): 203–23. Rath, Eric C., “Sex and Sea Bream: Food and Prostitution in Hishikawa Moronobu’s Visit to Yoshiwara,” in Master Works from the John C. Weber Collection of Japanese Art (San Francisco, CA: Asian Art Museum Chong-Moon Lee Center for Asian Art and Culture, 2014). Rath, Eric C., “The Tastiest Dish in Edo: Print, Performance, and Culinary Culture in Early Modern Japan,” East Asian Publishing and Society 3.2 (2013): 184–214. Robinson, Edward Forbes, The Early History of Coﬀee Houses in England (New York: Cambridge Uni- versity Press, 2013). Seligmann, Linda, Peruvian Street Lives: Culture, Power, and Economy among Market Women of Cuzco (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2004). Stern, Steve, “The Variety and Ambiguity of Native Andean Intervention in Markets,” in Ethnicity, Markets, and Migration in the Andes: At the Crossroads of History and Anthropology, edited by Brooke Larson

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and Olivia Harris with Enrique Tandeter (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1995), pp. 73– 100. Super, John, Food, Conquest and Colonization in Sixteenth Century Spanish America (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1988). Unger, Richard W., Beer and Wine in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004). Weismantel, Mary J., Food, Gender, and Poverty in the Ecuadorian Andes (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1988).

1700–1900 Allen, Lindsay, “The Mexican Food System: Traditional and Modern,” Ecology of Food and Nutrition 27 (1992) 219–34. Bower, Anne L., ed., African American Foodways: Explorations of History and Culture (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2007). Butcher, John, The British in Malaya, 1880–1941: The Social History of a European Community in Colonial South-East Asia (Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press, 1979). Byrd, Alexander X., Captives and Voyagers: Black Migrants Across the Eighteenth-Century British Atlantic World (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 2008). Carney, Judith A., Black Rice: The African Origins of Rice Cultivation in the Americas (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001). Chrzan, Janet, Alcohol: Social Drinking in Cultural Context (New York: Routledge, 2013). Coveney, J., Food, Morals and Meaning: The Pleasures and Anxiety of Eating, 2nd edn (London: Routledge, 2006). Eden, Trudy, The Early American Table: Food and Society in the New World (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2008). Fitzgerald, Gerard J. and Petrick, Gabriella, “In Good Taste: Rethinking American History with Our Palates,” Journal of American History 95 (2008): 392–404. Fogel, Robert William, The Escape from Hunger and Premature Death, 1700–2100: Europe, America, and the Third World (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2004). Hames, Gina, Alcohol in World History (New York: Routledge, 2012). Harris, Jessica B., High on the Hog: A Culinary Journey from Africa to America (New York: Bloomsbury Press, 2011). Holt, Mack P., ed., Alcohol: A Social and Cultural History (Oxford: Berg, 2006). Iacobbo, Karen and Iacobbo, Michael, Vegetarian America: A History (Westport: Praeger, 2004). James, Gregory, Of Victorians and Vegetarians: The Vegetarian Movement in Nineteenth-Century Britain (London: Tauris, 2007). Kamminga, H. and Cunningham, A., eds, The Science and Culture of Nutrition, 1840–1940 (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1995). Kaplan, Steven L., The Bakers of Paris and the Bread Question, 1700–1775 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1996). LaCombe, Michael A., Political Gastronomy: Food and Authority in the English Atlantic World (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012). LaCombe, Michael A., “Subject or Signiﬁer? Food and the History of Early North America,” History Compass 11.10 (2013): 859–68. Leong-Salobir, Cecilia, Food Culture in Colonial Asia: A Taste of Empire (London: Routledge, 2011). Leong-Salobir, Cecilia, “Food Stories: Culinary Links of an Island State and a Continent,” in Aus- tralia–Singapore Relations: Successful Bilateral Relations in a Historical and Contemporary Context, edited by Ian Austin (Singapore: Select Books & Edith Cowan University, 2011). Lewiki, Tadeusz, West African Food in the Middle Ages (London: Cambridge University Press, 1974). McCann, James C., Stirring the Pot: A History of African Cuisine (Athens: Ohio University Press, 2009).

353 SUGGESTIONS FOR FURTHER READING

McWilliams, James E., A Revolution in Eating: How the Quest for Food Shaped America (New York: Columbia University Press, 2005). Miller, Ian, “‘A dangerous revolutionary force amongst us’: Conceptualising Working-Class Tea Drinking in the British Isles, c.1860–1900,” Cultural and Social History 10 (2013): 419–38. Murdock, Catherine Gilbert, Domesticating Drink: Women, Men, and Alcohol in America, 1870–1940 (Bal- timore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998). Norton, Marcy, Sacred Gifts, Profane Pleasures: A History of Tobacco and Chocolate in the Atlantic World (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2008). Opie, Fredrick Douglas, Hog and Hominy: Soul Food from Africa to America (New York: Columbia Uni- versity Press, 2010). Procida, Mary, Married to the Empire: Gender, Politics and Imperialism in India, 1883–1947 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2002). Reese, Ty M., “‘Eating’ Luxury: Fante Middlemen, British Goods, and Changing Dependencies on the Gold Coast, 1750–1821,” William and Mary Quarterly, 66.4 (October 2009): 851–72. Rorabaugh, W.J., The Alcoholic Republic: An American Tradition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979). Shprintzen, Adam D., The Vegetarian Crusade: The Rise of an American Reform Movement, 1817– 1921 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina, 2013). Spencer, Colin, The Heretic’s Feast: A History of Vegetarianism (London: UPNE, 1993). Spivey, Diane M., The Peppers, Cracklings, and Knots of Wool Cookbook: The Global Migration of African Cuisine (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1999). Stuart, Tristram, The Bloodless Revolution: A Cultural History of Vegetarianism from 1600 to Modern Times (New York: W.W. Norton, 2006). Tompkins, Kyla Wazana, Racial Indigestion: Eating Bodies in the 19th Century (New York: New York University Press, 2012). Warnes, Andrew, Savage Barbecue: Race, Culture, and the Invention of America’s First Food (Athens: The University of Georgia Press, 2008). Williams-Forson, Psyche A., Building Houses out of Chicken Legs: Black Women, Food, & Power (Chapel Hill: UNC Press, 2006). Wilson, Thomas, ed., Drinking Cultures (Oxford: Berg, 2005).

1900–present Achaya, K.T., Indian Food: A Historical Companion (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1994). Adema, P., “Vicarious Consumption: Food Television and the Ambiguity of Modernity,” Journal of American and Comparative Cultures 23.3 (2000): 113–24. Belasco, Warren, “Ethnic Fast Foods: The Corporate Melting Pot,” Food and Foodways 2 (1987): 1–30. Berry, Sara, No Condition is Permanent: The Social Dynamics of Agrarian Change in Sub-Saharan Africa (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1993). Boniface, Priscilla, Tasting Tourism: Travelling for Food and Drink (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003). Buettner, Elizabeth, “‘Going for an Indian’: South Asian Restaurants and the Limits of Multi- culturalism in Britain,” Journal of Modern History 80.4 (December 2008): 865–901. Collingham, Lizzie, Curry: A Tale of Cooks and Conquerors (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006). Collins, Kathleen, Watching What We Eat: The Evolution of Television Cooking Shows (New York: Con- tinuum, 2009). Cwiertka, Katarzyna, Modern Japanese Cuisine: Food, Power and National Identity (London: Reaktion Books, 2006). de Solier, I., “Tv Dinners: Culinary Television, Education and Distinction,” Continuum: Journal of Media & Cultural Studies 19.4 (2005): 465–81. Diner, Hasia, Hungering for America: Italian, Irish, and Jewish Foodways in the Age of Migration (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001).

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Everett, Sally, “Beyond the Tourist Gaze? The Pursuit of an Embodied Experience through Food Tourism,” Tourist Studies 8 (2009): 337–58. Gabaccia, Donna, We Are What We Eat: Ethnic Food and the Making of Americans (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998). Gibson, Sara, “Traveling, Dwelling, and Eating Cultures,” Space and Culture 10.1 (2007): 4–21. Gmelch, George and Bohn, Sharon, Tasting the Good Life: Wine Tourism in the Napa Valley (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2011). Guerrón Montero, Carla, “All in One Pot: The Place of Rice and Beans in Panama’s Regional and National Cuisine,” in Rice and Beans: A Unique Dish in a Hundred Places, edited by Livia Barbosa and Richard Wilk (London: Berg, 2012), pp. 161–80. Guerrón Montero, Carla, “Afro-Antillean Cuisine and Global Tourism,” Food, Culture, and Society 7.2 (2004): 29–47. Haley, Andrew P., Turning the Tables: Restaurants and the Rise of the American Middle Class, 1880–1920 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina, 2013). Hall, C. Michael, Sharples, Liz, Mitchell, Richard, Macionis, Niki and Cambourne, Brock, eds, Food Tourism Around the World: Development, Management and Markets (Oxford: Butterworth–Heinemann, 2003). Hjalager, Anne-Mette and Richards, Greg, eds, Tourism and Gastronomy (London: Routledge, 2002). Johnston, Josée and Baumann, Shyon, Foodies: Democracy and Distinction in the Gourmet Foodscape (New York: Routledge, 2010). Kamp, David, The United States of Arugula: How We Became a Gourmet Nation (New York: Broadway Books, 2006). Langdon, Philip, Orange Roofs, Golden Arches: The Architecture of American Chain Restaurants (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1986). Levenstein, Harvey, Paradox of Plenty: A Social History of Eating in Modern America (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993). Levenstein, Harvey, Revolution at the Table: The Transformation of the American Diet (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988). Luxenberg, Stan, Roadside Empires: How the Chains Franchised America (New York: Viking, 1985). McNeill, J.R. and Unger, Corinna R., eds, Environmental Histories of the Cold War (Cambridge: Cam- bridge University Press, 2010). Naccarato, Peter and LeBesco, Kathleen, Culinary Capital (New York: Berg, 2012). Ojukutu-Macauley, Sylvia and Rashid, Ismail, eds, Paradoxes of History and Memory in Post-Colonial Sierra Leone (Lanham: Lexington Books, 2013). Pearse, Andrew, Seeds of Plenty, Seeds of Want: Social and Economic Implications of the Green Revolution (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1980). Peters, Erica J., Appetites and Aspirations in Vietnam: Food and Drink in the Long Nineteenth Century (Lanham: AltaMira, 2012). Pillsbury, Richard, From Boarding House to Bistro: The American Restaurant Then and Now (Boston: Unwin Hyman, 1990). Ray, Krishnendu, The Migrant’s Table: Meals and Memories in Bengali-American Households (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2004). Rousseau, Signe, Food Media: Celebrity Chefs and the Politics of Everyday Interference (New York: Berg, 2012). Sen, Collen Taylor, Food Culture in India (Westport: Greenwood Press, 2004). Sidali, Katia Laura, Spiller, Achim and Schulze, Birgit, eds, Food, Agri-Culture and Tourism: Linking Local Gastronomy and Rural Tourism: Interdisciplinary Perspectives (Berlin and Heidelberg: Springer, 2011). Strauss, David, Setting the Table for Julia Child: Gourmet Dining in America, 1934–1961 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2011).

355 INDEX

Page numbers followed by “n” indicate notes. Page numbers in italics indicate figures, and in bold indicate tables. absinthe 48, 165–66, 173 distillates 48–49, 158–59, 165–66; and food Account of the Diseases lately Prevalent at the General diplomacy 97, 98–99, 101–2; and Penitentiary, An (Latham) 209 globalization xxiv, 42, 156, 160–61, 166–68, ackee 301 174; high levels of consumption 42–44, 156, Adam, Edward 165 161–62, 174; and indigenous peoples 160–61, additives 228, 234–35 171–72; meaning xviii, xx–xxi, 59; Adema, Pauline 287 medicalization 164, 168, 171, 205–6; and advertising 57, 167–68, 256–57, 261–62, morality xxiv, 162–64; smuggling 161; and 264–65, 275 see also marketing taxation 164–65; in the Tongu˘i pogam 75; and Africa: alcohol 49, 157, 160–61, 167, 171–72; tourism 294 see also beer; stimulants; food aid programs 339; food culture 116–17, temperance; wine 119–20, 121; food diplomacy xxii–xxiii, 92– alcoholism 49, 162, 168, 171 see also drunkenness 93, 97–102, 104–7; and the Green Revolution Alcoholism (Zerboglio) 170 xxx, 333, 335, 343–44; influence on British Alcott, Bronson 182–83 Atlantic cooking 114–15, 128; and migration Alcott, William A. 182, 183 296, 298, 317; transatlantic slave trade Alikalia, Sierra Leone 346 115–16, 118 see also Sierra Leone Alimentación y obtención de alimentos en el Perú Afro-Antilleans 298, 299–303, 304–7 prehispánico (Horkheimer) 24 Afro-Colonials 298 Alzate Ramírez, José Antonio 83, 84–85 Agent Blue 337 American Humane Association 184, 188 Agent Orange 337 American Meat (Leffingwell) 185 Agrarian Question, The (Kautsky) 221 American Temperance Society 169 Agricultural Trade Development and Assistance American Vegetarian and Health Journal 182 Act (1954) 339 American Vegetarian Society (AVS) 179, agriculture: and alcohol 161, 162, 174; cash 182, 183 crops 297, 341, 345; colonization of food Ams, Max 233–34 culture 20–23, 28–31; cultivation and storage Analects, The (Confucius) 66 21–22; diversity 19, 24–26, 33, 64–65, 96, Anderson, Benedict 86–87 116, 298; industrialization 221–23, 222, 239; Anglo-Indian Cookery at Home (Hervey) 140 international programs 332–34, 337–40, 344– Anglo-Indians 133–34, 135, 137–40, 144–45, 48; livestock 65, 72–73, 116; rice farming 64, 149–50, 317–18 334–35, 340–48; and ritual 15–16, 26–27; animal welfare xxv, 179–83, 229, 236 see also and war 335–37 see also famine; plantations humane movement agritourism 293, 295, 303 Animals’ Rights Considered in Relation to Progress (Salt) Akyeampong, Emmanuel K. 172 187 Albala, Ken xviii, xx, xxi Anthology of Special Delicacies (Hakuboˇshi) 11 alcohol: chicha 25, 33–35; cider, mead and Appadurai, Arjun 140 metheglin 47; consumption by country 157; Appert, Nicolas 233

356 INDEX apples 47, 49, 159, 233 Borsodi, Ralph 234 aqllakuna 25 Bosse, Abraham 45 aqua vitae 48, 49 Boston Globe 255 Arashi Otohachi 13 Boyd Orr, John 235 Art of Drinking, The (Obsopoeus) 45 Boyle, Frederick 148 Asia: alcohol 158, 160, 162, 163; anti-colonial brandy 48, 159, 160, 161 movement 332, 336; colonial food culture Braunschweig, Heironymus 48–49 131–32, 138, 143–50; cookbooks 140–43; Bray, Francesca 64 cosmology 61–63, 65–68; and the Green bread: corn bread 27, 88–89; ﬂatbreads xix, 84, Revolution 335, 339, 347; and migration 298, 86, 87–88, 296; and pizza 250–51, 254; 314, 316–17, 320–21; mochi culture 15; tea 52 plantation cuisine 122; processed white 203, see also India; Korea; Malaya; Singapore 225–28, 239; West African 116 Assembly of Standard Cookery Writings 14 Brennan, Thomas 164 Associazione Verace Pizza Napoletana (VPN) 264 Brewers’ Journal 166 asylums xxv, 172, 202–7, 208, 215–16 Britain: alcohol and globalization 160–61; Australia 167, 171 asylums 172, 202–7; beer 47, 159–60, 166, authenticity 256, 264–65, 293, 306–7, 320 168; and class 49, 135; colonies 92–93, 117, Aylett, John 128 132–34, 143, 150; food diplomacy xxii, 97– 102, 104–7; Gin Acts 162, 164; Indian Bacci, Andrea 44 restaurants 140, 317–20, 321–22; Baekeland, Leo H. 235 industrialization 201–2, 220–21, 227, 230, Bahadur, Bir 318 234, 237; prisons 207–16; and slavery 115–16, Bai Hu Tong 63 118, 119, 299; and tea 52 see also India Baird, Robert 169 British and Foreign Medical Review 204 Bak-Geller Corona, Sarah xxii British Medical Journal 213 baking 126, 227–28 see also bread Brooke, Charles 147–48 bananas 296–97, 298, 299–300, 301, 305 Brown, David and Patricia 321–23, 322 bánh mì 316 Brown, Mary S. 190 Barker, George M. 146 Bruyerin-Champier, Jean 49 Baron, Robert 315 Buchanan, Uriel 186 Barr, Ann 271 Buckley, Roger N. 162 Bateson, William 224 Buddhism 8, 12, 184, 185, 186 Battle Creek Sanitarium 179, 184 Bungo fudoki 3 Baumann, Shyon 272 Burbridge, Frederick William 145 Beard, James 276, 285, 314 Burns, Peter M. 296 Beaumont, William 209 butter 113, 123 beef 65, 72–73, 316 butter chicken 318–19 beer 42, 45–47, 156, 159–60, 166–68, 172, Buttes, Henry 58–59 205–6 see also chicha Beer Street (print by Hogarth) 49, 51, 164 cacao 52, 295, 297, 305, 341, 347 Bellamy, Edward 187 Café Procope 52 Benezet, Anthony 180 California Pizza Kitchen, Inc. 259, 262, 264, 265 Besant, Annie 185–86 California-style cuisine 263–64 Bible-Christian Church 181–82 California wine 167, 168 “Bible Testimony on Abstinence from the Flesh calorie intake 221, 225, 237, 238–39 of Animals as Food” (Metcalfe) 181 Camellia rice cakes 9, 11 Bickham, Troy 137 Campbell, John A. 207 Big Buddha rice cakes 13 Canada 169, 171, 172, 173, 228 see also North Bird, Isabella L. 148–49 America Birdseye, Clarence F. 230 canning 228, 233–34, 275 Bittman, Mark 280 Capital (Marx) 227, 239 Blackwood’s Edinburgh Review 203 Cara, Ana C. 315 Blavatsky, Helena P. 185 Caribbean: cuisine 301–2, 304, 306; history Blégny, Nicolas de 57–58 294–95; politics of food 305; rum 49, 159; Bocas del Toro, Panama xxix, 297, 299–303, tourism xxix, 295 see also Panama 300, 304–7 Carlesso, Ernie 313

357 INDEX

Carney, Frank and Daniel 251, 252 288; and the gourmet movement 273–74, Carney, Robert B. 256 284; in Korea 63, 66, 73; and mental illness carp 75 203, 204–5; in Panama 299, 300; and pizza Carpenter, Kenneth J. 210 263–65; and plantation culture 114, 119, cash-crop farming 297, 341, 345, 347 125–26; and prisons 208; and prohibition of Castillero Calvo, Alfredo 296, 297 alcohol 165, 168, 169, 172, 174–75 Catholicism 43, 47, 52, 163 Cleghorn, Sarah N. 187 celebrity culture 261, 274, 278, 285–86, 287 Clinton, William J. “Bill” 314 Cellier Blumenthal, Jean Baptiste 165 Closet of Sir Kenelm Digby Opened (Digby) 47 Chang of Andong, Lady 75 Clubb, Henry S. 182, 183–84, 190 Charles II, King of Great Britain 52 clubs 140, 149–50, 254 Cherry Leaf rice cakes 9, 11 Cobo, Bernabé 21, 25, 26, 27, 31–34, 35 Cheyne, George 164 Cochrane, Willard W. 221 Chez Panisse 263 codﬁsh 75, 301 Chibong yusoˇl (Yi Sugwang) 65–66, 69, 73, 74 coffee 51–56, 58, 163, 234, 297 Chicago 170, 184, 262–63 coffee houses 52, 164 Chicago Tribune 263 Coffey, Aeneas 165 Chicago Vegetarian Society 188, 190 Cohn, Victor 234 Chicago World’s Fair (1893) 184 cold chains 229–32, 235 chicha 25, 33–35 Cold War xxx, 249, 317, 336–37 chicken xxvi, 120, 145–46, 150, 224–25, 318–19 Coles, Helen 125 chicken tikka masala 318, 320 Colin, Joseph 233 Child, Irvin L. 255 Collection of Quick Recipes for Rice Cakes and Sweets Child, Julia 271–72, 278, 284 (Jippensha) 14 children 45, 63, 138, 238, 260, 261–62 Collins, Kathleen xxviii China: and alcohol 157, 158; confectionery 13; colonial memoirs: and food history 131–32, and mass migration 317; obesity 238; and 144–50; reliability 143–44 Panama 298–99; and Sierra Leone 344; tea colonization: and alcohol 49, 159, 160–62, 163– 52; and Vietnam 315, 316 see also 65, 167, 171–72; and cookbooks xxii–xxiv, Confucianism 134–43, 150; and culinary diversity 298, 306; Chiriquí Land Company 297 and export production 294, 297; and food Chitty, Anna 149–50 diplomacy 92–107; food metaphors 27–31; chocolate 52–54, 57, 58, 163 and hybrid cuisine 114–15, 120–22, 131–32, chogi (croaker) 75 316, 317–18, 321–22; and independence 341– Cho-goro- 12 42; and patria cuisine 81, 83–89; power chopssal (foxtail millet) 68 relations 19–24, 33–35, 132–34, 147–49, 332; Chorleywood Baking Process (CBP) 228 and social policy 87–89 see also plantations; Chosoˇn, Korea see Korea slavery chowhounds 283 Colson, Elizabeth F. 157 Christianity 34–35, 43, 101, 163, 181–82 see also Columbian Exchange xv, xvii–xviii, xx, 114 Catholicism; Protestantism; temperance Columbian Exposition (Chicago, 1893) 184 Christison, Robert 211 Comentarios reales (Garcilaso de la Vega) 25, 27– chu (liquor) 75 30, 34–35 Chuck E. Cheese 262 Comly, John 180 Churchill, Winston 236 Commentarius de abusu tabaci Americanum veteri et cider 47, 159 herbae thee Asiaticorum in Europa novo (Paulli) Cieza de León, Pedro de 23, 24 53, 54 Cinotto, Simone 168 competition: in food media 285; between native Clarkson, John 93–95, 97–98, 99, 100, 102 and imported foods 28–30; pizza chains 251, Clarkson, Thomas 93, 96, 98 258–60, 261–62, 264–65 class: and alcohol consumption 45, 47, 49, 158– confectionery 4, 9–10, 11–15, 72 60, 162–63, 167, 171; and cookbooks 135–36, Confucianism 62–63, 66–69, 73, 76 140–41; and diet 134, 145, 150, 200, 296, Connolly, John 204–5 297; and ethnic food 252–53, 313; and food conscientious objectors 191 knowledge xxviii, 272, 283–85; and food Consejos útiles para socorrer a la necesidad en tiempos que media 270–71, 274–76, 278, 281–83, 286–87, escasean los comestibles (Alzate Ramírez) 83, 84–85

358 INDEX conspicuous consumption xxx, 125, 145, 273 Delicate Diet, for Daintiemouthd Droonkards, A Consultative Group for International (Gascoigne) 45 Agricultural Research (CGIAR) 337–38 delivery pizza 256, 257–58, 261, 265 containerization 231–32 democratization: of alcohol production and convenience foods xxiii, 11, 235, 236–40, consumption xxiv, 174; and food culture 258–60, 281, 304 see also fast food xxviii, 270–71, 272, 278, 283–86, 288; and Cook, Robin 318 technology 235; of white bread 225 cookbooks: alcoholic drinks 47, 75; American dental health 238 253, 274, 275–76; and colonization xxii–xxiv, Diamond Corporation of West Africa (DICOR) 133–38, 150; compiled 135; and hybrid 344–45 cuisine 131–32, 138–40; Japanese 10, 11, 14; Diamond, Jared M. 239 Korean 72, 75; reliability xvi–xvii; for servants Diario de México 88 140–43, 142; vegetarian 189–90; West Die Wüste droht (Metternich) 236 African recipes 114–15 see also named books; Diet for a Small Planet 272 recipes Digby, Kenelm 47 Cookery Collection (Kikkawa) 10 digestion: and coffee 55, 56; and distilled alcohol Cooking with the Experts (Kaufman) 276 xx, 48; and mental illness 203, 204–5, 207; Cork County Prison 213 and scientiﬁc medicine 201, 209–10; and tea Cork Lunatic Asylum 202, 205 57; and tortillas 88; and wine 44 corn see maize DiGiorno Pizza 259 corn bread 27, 88–89 Diner, Hasia R. 266 Corner, John 279 Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives (television program) Cortés, Hernán 52 282–83, 285 “Cost of a Skin, The” (Moore) 190 Dione Lucas Show (television program) 276 Covello, Leonard 255 Directions for Health (Vaughan) 58 Coveney, John 200 distillation: and colonialism 160, 167; Cradock, Phyllis “Fanny” 277 democratization of xxiv, 174; technology creolization: Indian food in the US 320–26; and 48–49, 158–59, 165–66 mass migration 313–20; Panamanian cuisine Dixon, W. Hepworth 211 296–99; and plantation culture 119, 299–301 Do-Maker process 228 see also hybridization Doctor Steven’s Water 48 criminality xxvi, 163–64, 171, 202, 207–16 Dodman, David 294–95 Crosby, Ernest H. 187–88 dog 65, 73–74 Cruz, Gaspar da 52 Do-gen (Zen Master) 8, 16 culinary tourism xxix, 292–93, 295, 299, 301–2, Domestic Economy and Cookery (anon.) 136 304–7 Domingo, Signior 100, 101, 102 Cultura alimentaria y globalización (Castillero Calvo) Domino’s Pizza Group plc 251, 255–56, 258, 296 261, 264, 265 cultural exchange xv, xvii–xviii, xix–xx, 316 Dorrance, John T. 233 curry: Anglo-Indian cookbooks 135–36, 140, Douglas, Loudon M 224 141–43; as a British dish 317–18, 320; in Dow, Neal S. 170 colonial culture 131, 134, 138–40, 145–47, Driver, Elizabeth 140 149–50; in the United States 321–25 drugs 42, 50–51, 58, 59 see also stimulants Curry Cook’s Assistant, The (Santiagoe) 140 drunkenness 44, 45, 156–57, 161–64, 169, 171–72, 174–75 see also alcoholism dak bungalows 149–50 DuBois, Isaac 99, 100 Daniels, John 253 Dufour, Philippe Sylvestre 54–57 Darrow, Clarence S. 188 Dukhobors 187 Davidson, Alan 136 Dunlop, John 170 Davies, F. Pritchard 206 Dyets Dry Dinner (Buttes) 58–59 Dawe, W.H. 137 Dawes, William 100, 101, 103 Eastman, Timothy C. 230 De naturali vinorum historia (Bacci) 44 Eat Tweet (Evans) 281 Deetz, Kelley F. xvi, xviii, xxii–xxiii Economical Cookery Book, The (G.L.R.) 139 degeneration theory 171 ecotourism 303 Del Taco restaurants 326 Eddy, Sarah J. 187

359 INDEX

Edgerton, Robert B. 157 fermentation: and bread making 227–28; of Edwardo’s Natural Pizza 264 chicha 34; and digestion 56, 57–58, 88; and Eighteenth Amendment 156, 173 see also distillation 49, 160–61, 164; vegetables 65; prohibition of alcohol wine and beer 42, 43, 47, 166 Eisenhower, Dwight D. 256 Fernández de Lizardi, José Joaquín 83 El Primer nueva corónica i buen gobierno (Guaman fertilizer 222, 229, 332, 335–36, 337, 340, 347 Poma de Ayala) 26, 30–31, 32,34 Fieri, Guy 282–83 Emberá people 298 filial piety 63 Emerson, Robert L. 251 Fillmore, Charles S. 186 Encyclopédie économique 84–85 Finkelstein, Joanne 271, 285–86 English Housewife, The (Markham) 47 fish: industrialized 230, 233, 239; in Korea 65, Enlightenment 52, 82, 159, 162–65, 174 74–75; moolee 139; in Panama 301; entertainment: exclusivity 273–74, 285–87; food plantation cuisine 122–23; in West Africa 117 as xxviii, 261–62, 270–71, 277, 279–80, 288 Fisher, Mary F. K. 273 epilepsy 203, 207 fishing 116, 120, 126, 230, 298, 304 Eppes, Richard 126, 127 Fiske, Minnie M. 190 Equality (Bellamy) 187 Fithian, Phillip V. 123, 124–25, 127 Equiano, Olaudah 98 Five Elements 66–67 Ernie’s restaurant 313–14, 315 Five Phases 62–63, 63,65–67, 76 Estienne, Charles 48 Five Tastes 66–67 ethics see morality flatbreads xix, 84, 86, 87–88, 296 see also pizza Ethics of Diet, The (Williams) 187 Flower Petal Rice Cakes 9, 12 ethnic food: and Americanization xxvii–xxviii, Floyd, Keith 277 252–57, 315; and cultural identity xx, 254, Food & Wine 314 255, 266, 302; Indian 317–26; Mexican 326; food aid programs 332, 339 in Panama xxix, 296–99, 301–6; and Food and Health (Plimmer and Plimmer) 220 upmarket restaurants 313–14; Vietnamese food culture: Andean 20–27, 33–35; and class cuisine 314, 315–16 see also France, cuisine 271; patria cuisine xxii, 81, 83–89; plantations etiquette 100, 102, 104–6, 148 119–22, 124–25, 128; and slavery 114–15, Europe: alcohol 42–49, 157, 158–62, 167–68, 116–17; and tourism 265, 291–93, 298–307 174; industrialization of diet 237; mass food diplomacy: and conflict xxii, 102–6; and migration 252, 266, 317; new stimulants and power 92–93, 97–102, 106–7; United States intoxicants 42, 50–59; opposition to alcohol 97, 107n6 156, 162–65, 168 see also colonization; named food history: description xii–xvi, xvii–xix; sources countries xvi–xvii Evans, Joshua 180–81 Food, Home, and Garden 185, 186 Evans, Maureen 281 Food Media (Rousseau) 287 Everett, Sally 293 Food Network 270, 273, 274, 279, 280, 285–87 Every Living Creature (Trine) 186, 188 food shortages: and colonization xxi–xxii, 94–97, 106–7; and food policy xxvii, 87–89; and the Fahlberg, Constantin 235 Green Revolution 333, 342; and patria cuisine Fairchild-Allen, Cynthia 185 81, 83–87 see also famine Falconbridge, Alexander 94, 95, 111n85 food stores xix, 13 Falconbridge, Anna Maria 94, 95, 97, 101, 103 “Foodatainment” (Finkelstein) 271 famine xxi–xxii, 3, 11, 70, 81–82, 213 see also foodies: definition 271–72, 283; and food food shortages television 281, 286; as a new development 270, Farama IV, ruler (Bai) of Koya-Temne 92, 96, 273, 288; and social status xxviii, 271, 284–85 97, 99, 101, 104–6 Foodies (Johnston and Baumann) 272 fast food: cultural homogenization xxviii, “Foodstuffs and the Heart” (Yanagita) 8 256–57, 262–63; growth of chains xxvii, Ford Foundation 336 249–51, 258–60; marketing 260–62, 264–66; Forerunner, The (Gilman) 187 in Panama 303–4, 306; pizza 250–52, fortified food 234–35, 237, 239 255–56, 258–66 see also industrialization Fortune 258 Fawn Cakes 13, 14 Foucault, Michel 201, 202, 207–8 Feijoo, Benito Jerónimo 89n7 France: attack on Freetown 92; cuisine 122, feminism 187, 189 125–26, 276, 278, 313–14; degeneration

360 INDEX

theory 171; prohibition of alcohol 173; Gillett, Lucy H. 253 tourism 293; and Vietnam 315, 316, 336; Gilman, Charlotte P. 187 wine and brandy 159, 161, 166, 167 Gilpin, Mrs John 140 franchising 249, 250, 256, 257, 263–64 gin 48, 49, 156, 161–62, 164, 174 Frank, Carl August 297 Gin Acts 162, 164 Franklin, Benjamin 180 Gin Lane (print by Hogarth) 49, 50, 164 Frazier, Louise 274, 279 globalization: and alcohol xxiv, 156–62, 165–68, Freetown, Sierra Leone 92–93, 97, 99, 106 174; Americanization xxvii–xxviii; and anti- French Chef, The (television program) 271–72, 278 alcohol reform 162–65, 168–73; creolization French fries 230–31 of food culture 315, 316, 324–26; of fast food Freschetta Pizza 259 251, 252, 257–58, 265–66; of food media Fresh Brothers Pizza 260 277; and industrialization xix, 220–25, Freshel, Curtis P. 190 228–34, 237–40; stimulants and intoxicants Freshel, Maud R. L. “Emmarel” 188–90 42; and tourism 300–301, 306–7 Frey, William 187 glocalization xxvii–xxviii, 262–65 Friend in Need English-Tamil Cookery Book, A 141 Godfather’s Pizza, Inc. 260 Friendly Admonition, A (Hales) 164 Gohei rice cakes 10 frozen foods 230–31, 258–60, 264 gold 30–31, 32, 167 fruit: and alcohol 49, 159; in colonial Asia Golden Rule Cookbook, The (Freshel) 189–90 144–45, 147; in the Korean diet 64, 72; Goldsmith, Oliver 181 plantains and bananas 297; South American Goldstein, David 285 19; storage 231, 232, 233; West African 117 Gonçalez Holguín, Diego 26 Fukazawa Sayuri 15 Gonfarone’s restaurant 254 Funabashiya Orie 14 González Echevarría, Roberto 29 Furry Canaba 98–99, 101 Good Housekeeping 259 Gorbachev, Mikhail S. 266 Gaceta de literatura de México 85 Gordon, Michael 264 Gaceta de México 81, 86–87, 88 Go-rui nichiyo- ryo-risho- 14 Galenic medicine 44, 47, 53–56, 161, 200–201 Gothenburg system 172 Galloping Gourmet (television program) 278 Gotti, Roland and Victor 313, 314, 315 Gálvez, Bernardo de 82 Gourmet magazine 270, 273–74, 276, 285, 286, 314 Gama, Vasco da 317 gourmets 271–72, 273–74, 277, 284 see also Garcilaso de la Vega “El Inca” 21, 25, 27–30, foodies 31, 34–35 Gow, John 236 Gardiner, Grace 133, 137, 138 Graham, Sylvester 181, 182, 183, 192 garlic 253, 254, 301 grains: alcohol 47, 49, 161, 173; high-yield Garrett, Elizabeth 133 332–33; Korean 64, 68–70; milling 225–28, Gascoigne, George 45 226; South American 19, 28–29; West Gatti’s Pizza 261 African 117 see also maize; rice; wheat Gaud, William S. 333 Grant, Colesworthy 144–45 Gaylord India Restaurants 325 Grant, Doris M. 239 gender roles: in colonial Asia 133, 138; and Granville Town 93, 111n85 convenience foods 235; and food media 275, grappa 49 278; and plantation culture 119, 121, 124; Grataroli, Guglielmo 45 and tourism 300–301; West African 97–98, Great Awakening 163, 169 100 see also women Great Fortune rice cakes 10 genetic engineering 224, 236, 239 Greeley, Horace 182 Germany 136, 166, 170 Green Revolution: description xviii–xix, xxx– Ghana 115, 172 xxxi, 332–35; opposition to 338–39; origins Ghartey IV, King of Winneba 172 335–38; in Sierra Leone 339–48 Gibson, Charles B. 211 Green Revolution (Fabicon et al.) 333, 339 Gibson, Edward 211 Grenada 295 Gibson, Sara 293 Guaman Poma de Ayala, Felipe 21, 26, 30–31, gifts 98–99, 101–2, 103–4, 126, 161 32, 34, 35 Gilardi, Michael 259 Guerrón Montero, Carla xxix Gill, Sarwan S. 324 Gujral, Kundan Lal 318–19

361 INDEX gula melaka 146–47 Holbrook, Martin L. 183 Guy, William A. 214–15, 216 Holiday magazine 322 Holtzman, Jon D. 306 Haber-Bosch process 222 Honcho- shokkan (Hitomi) 7 Haldane, John B.S. 236 Hong Kong 262 Hales, Stephen 164 Horandner, Edith 134 Haley, Andrew P. 271, 272, 274, 286 Horkheimer, Hans 24 halibut 122 Howard, H. Augusta 183 Hall, Bolton 183 Huangdi (the Yellow Emperor) 66 Hallaran, William S. 202, 205 Huayna Capac 30–31, 32 Hamilton, Sukey 113, 121 humane movement xxv, 183–85, 186–92 Hardy, Anne 214 Humanitarian League 186, 187, 188 Harpers & Queen 271 hunting 116, 120, 148, 298 Harriet (enslaved cook) 126 Huntington, West Virginia 282 Harrison, James 229 Huss, Magnus 168, 171 Hart, Alice B. 136 Hyang’yak ku’gu˘p pang (“Emergency Folk Medicine Hartley, John 286 Remedies”)70 Hatton, Frank 145, 148 hybridization: and colonization xxiii–xxiv, “Have Animals Souls?” (Blavatsky) 185 131–32, 138–40, 144–50, 294; of crops Hawkins, William 162 222–23, 223, 336; and cultural identity health: and alcohol 156, 161–62, 164, 168, 171, 298–99, 301–2, 306–7; and fast food xxvii, 174; in cookbooks 137; diet and balance xix, 254–57, 262–66, 303–4; and industrialization xxi, 61–62, 65–68, 76–77; effects of 221, 224; and migration xxix–xxx see also inadequate diet 209, 210–14, 216; and fast creolization; Green Revolution food 252, 260, 264; as a filial duty 63; and food television 281–83, 288; Galenic medicine I Love to Eat (television program) 276 44, 47, 53–55, 161, 200–201; and the Ibadan, Nigeria 337 industrialized diet xxvi, 237–40; and rice icing glass 301, 304, 306 cakes 9, 15; and tea, coffee and chocolate identity: African 114–15, 116–17, 120; Afro- 55–58; and tobacco 58–59; and vegetarianism Antillean 301, 302–3, 306; bourgeois 163; and xxiv–xxv, 179–80, 191–92 see also medicine chicha 33–35; class and food xxviii, 264, 285, and diet; Tongu˘i pogam 286, 288; and food tourism xxix, 291, 292; Heinz, Henry J. 233 Italian-American 254, 255, 266; national and Hemings, James 125–26 regional cuisines 296, 298–99; politics and herbs 29, 48, 64, 70–71, 113, 305 food 20–21, 28–31, 81–89, 275–76; and status Herland (Gilman) 187 of crops 25–27; and vegetarianism 190, 192 “Hermit, The” (Goldsmith) 181 Igbo people 118, 122, 127 Herrmann, Rachel B. xviii, xxii Ignatieff, Michael G. 208 Hervey, Henrietta A. 140 Ilitch, Michael 258, 261 Hess, Karen 134 immigration see migration Higgs, Edward 134 impotence 54, 58 Higman, Barry W. 301 Incas 21–22, 25–27, 30–31, 32,34–35 see also Hill, Annette 279 Tahuantinsuyu Hill, Frederic 211 India 319; and alcohol 157, 158, 162, 171; and hill stations 149 colonial hybrid cuisine 133–34, 138–46, 149– hippocras 44 50, 317–18; and cookbooks 131–33, 135–43; Historia del nuevo mundo (Cobo) 25, 31–34 and the Green Revolution 333, 338, 339; History and Social Influence of the Potato, The migration xxx, 316–21; and pizza 262, 265; (Salaman) xiv restaurateurs in Britain 318–20; restaurateurs History of the American Temperance Society (Baird) 169 in the US 320–26 Hitchcock, Alfred J. 313 India House restaurant 321–24, 322, 323 Hitomi Hitsudai 6 India Pale Ale 166, 168 Hoˇ Chun xxi, 61–62, 66–68, 75 Indian Domestic Economy and Receipt Book (Riddell) 141 Hobson, John A. 223 indigenous peoples: and alcohol 160, 162–64, Hogarth, William 49, 50, 51 167, 171–72; conflict with 82; cultural Hoggart, Richard 277 colonization 19–24, 33–35; dependency

362 INDEX

on 92–93, 96–102, 104–7, 119–20; Kaibara Ekiken 15 exploitation 30–31, 115–16; food culture 84, Kanefsky, John 227 88, 148–49, 298, 302–3, 306–7; Panamanian Kaplan, Alice Y. 278 296, 305 see also patria cuisine Kashiwa funabashi (Funabashiya) 14 industrialization: and alcohol 159–60, 165–68, Kautsky, Karl J. 221 170, 174; of diet xxvi, 201–2, 234–40; and fast Kawabata Do-ki confectioners 12 food 249–50, 257–60; of food production and Keeley, Leslie E. 171 processing xxvii, 220–28, 222, 226;and Kellogg, John Harvey 184, 192, 236 migration 315–16, 317; mobile and durable Kenney-Herbert, Arthur R. 133, 134 food xxvi, 228–34, 233; mortality and morbidity Kerr, Graham 278, 279 patterns 237–39; and vegetarianism 180, 183 Khrushchev, Nikita S. 249 Inebriate Act (1898) 172 ki 65–67, 74 ingoˇ ssu˘lgae (carp’s gall bladder) 75 Kikkawa Fusatsune 10 Inland Valley Swamp Program 345–47 Kim Ho 69 Innes, Emily 147 kimch’i 65, 71, 76 institutionalization: dietary experimentation xviii, King Drinks, The (painting by Jordaens) 45, 46 xxv–xxvi, 200, 205–7, 211–16; food and mental Kingsford, Anna 185 illness 203–5, 215; rationalizing punishment Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Barbara 293 208–11; and social control 201, 202–3 Knopf, Alfred A. 273 intoxicants see alcohol Kokon meibutsu gozen gashi hidensho- (anon.) 14 Ireland: alcohol 49, 157; asylums 202, 203, Kokon meibutsu gozen gashi zushiki (anon.) 14 205–7; dietary customs 201–2, 205; prisons Kokon shinsei meika hiroku 14–15 208, 211, 213–14 k’ong 69 see also soybeans Ireland, Lynne 135 Korea: cosmology 62–63, 65–68; diet and balance irradiation 234 xxi, 61–62, 76–77; elements of diet 64–65, 68– Islam 52, 101, 163, 317, 324 76; famine and invasions 70 see also South Korea Italian-Americans xxvii, 252–57, 263, 265–66, Kotzebue, Otto von 233 314–15 Kraft Foods Group, Inc. 259 Italy 168, 170, 173, 252–55, 265, 293 Kripalani, Kishore 325 Ivan IV “the Terrible,” Tsar of Russia 158 Krögel, Alison xix–xx iyoˇl chiyoˇl 74 Kuala Langat, Malaya 147 Kuhwang ch’waryo (“Concise Reference for Famine Jacob, John 206–7 Relief”)64 Jacobson, Edward 264 Kuna people 298, 299, 306 Jaffrey, Madhur 319 Kyoto, Japan 7–8, 12–13 Jago, William and William C. 227 Kyuhap ch’ongsoˇ (“Encyclopedia for Women’s Jahangir (Mughal emperor) 162 Daily Lives”)72 Jamaican Food (Higman) 301 James Beard Foundation 285 La Gaceta de México see Gaceta de México James I, King of England 58 laboratories 234, 332, 335–36 Jamestown, Virginia 108n13, 117 lager beer 166–67 Jamie Oliver’s Food Revolution (television program) 282 Lager Beer Revolt 170 Jamie’s School Dinners (television program) 282 Lalor, Joseph 206 Japan xix, 162, 167, 170, 232, 335–36 see also Lancerio, Sante 44 rice cakes Lancet, The 208 Jayasanker, Laresh xvii, xxix–xxx Lang, John 149 Jefferson, Thomas 125–26 Lang, Mrs C. 136 Jevons, William S. 227 Lankester, Edwin 213–14 Jimmy, King (subchief) of Koya-Temne 97, 98, Lappé, Francis Moore 272 99, 100 Latham, Milton and Edith 185 Jippensha Ikku 14 Latham, P. Mere 209 Johnson, Sherwood “Shakey” 261 Latin America: and alcohol 157, 160, 162, 164, Johnston, Josée 272 167; cuisine 313, 314; and the Green Jordaens, Jacob 45, 46 Revolution 332, 335, 347; inﬂuence on Joubert, Laurent 44 Panamanian cuisine 296; and migration 317 Journal of Mental Science 206 see also Panama; Tahuantinsuyu

363 INDEX

Law Magazine 210 maize: chicha 25, 33–35; importance 24, 25–27, Lawson, Nigella 286 81, 83–84, 88–89; industrialization 221, 222, Lazar, Vaughan 264 236; in Panamanian cuisine 296, 297, 298; Le bon usage du thé, du café et du chocolat pour la preservation and patria cuisine xxii, 84–85, 87; whiskey et pour la guerison des maladies (Blégny) 57–58 49, 166 Leavitt, Mary C. 170 “Maize, Tubers and Agricultural Rites” (Murra) LeBesco, Kathleen 275, 283 26 Lectures on Digestion and Diet (Thackrah) 205 Major Grey’s Chutney 322 Lefﬁngwell, Albert 185 Malaya 132–33, 135, 136, 146–50 Leighton, Gerald R 224 Malayan Cookery Book, The (Hubbard) 134–35 León Pinelo, Antonio de 53 Malcolmson, John G. 208 Leong-Salobir, Cecilia xvii, xxiii–xxiv MaMa Rosa’s Pizza 259–60 Lessons on Nurturing Life (Kaibara) 15 Mancall, Peter C. 163 Levy, Paul 271 mangos 144 Lewis, Tania 275, 281, 282 market economics 21, 23–24 Liber de arte distillandi simplicia et composite marketing: of alcohol 166, 167–68; of (Braunschweig) 48–49 confectionery 13–14; of fast food 256–57, 258, Liebig, Justus von 201, 210, 211 261–62, 264–65, 266, 326; and food television Lieffers, Caroline 136 286, 287; of frozen ﬁsh 230; of tea 57 Life among Convicts (Gibson) 211 Markham, Gervase 47 lifestyle media 273–76, 281–82, 285–88 see also Marradon, Barthelemy 53 television Mars, Valerie 134 Linde, Carl von 230 Marshall, Jane 274, 279 literacy and numeracy 126, 141 Marshall, William 125–26 Little Caesars Pizza, Inc. 258, 261 Marx, Karl H. 227, 239 Lives of a Bengal Lancer (movie) 324 Maryborough District Asylum 206–7 Livesey, Joseph 169 masalas 317–18, 320 livestrong.com 252 Matthews, Harry G. 294 Lizhi (“Book of Rites”)65 McCann, James C. 114 Logan, Robert R. 186 McDonald’s Corp. xxvii, 249, 252, 257, 261–62, Lombardi’s pizzeria 254 303–4 Lombroso, Cesare 171 McFeely, Mary D. 275 London Prisons, The (Dixon) 211 McGrigor, James 209 Long, Lucy M. 292 Meacham, Sarah H. 159 Look Magazine 256 mead 47 Loubère, Leo A. 166 mealtimes: in colonial Asia 131, 139–40, 145, Love, John F. 252 147, 149–50; etiquette 97–98, 100; Lovell, Mary F. 185, 187, 191 institutional 205, 209, 211; Panamanian 296; Loyalist colonists 92, 93, 94–95, 96, 97, 106 plantation dinners 124–25; school lunches 260 Lucas, Dione 276 meat: in colonial hybrid cuisine 133–34, 138, Lunt, Peter 281 140, 141–42, 145–46, 147, 148–49; and food Lunyu (Confucius) 66 diplomacy 101, 104, 105–6; in Indian cuisine Luther, Martin 43 318–19, 321, 324, 325; industrialization Lyman, Benjamin S. 198n48 224–25, 236; in institutions 205, 209, 213; Lyman, William W. 234 in the Korean diet 65, 70, 72–75; in the Panamanian diet 296, 298, 302–3, 305; in MacAndrew, Craig 157 plantation cuisine 124–25, 126; theft 127; Macaulay, Zachary 92, 96, 101, 103–5 transportation 229–30, 231, 232;in MacAusland, Earle R. 273 Vietnamese cuisine 316; in the West African Madeira 160 diet 116–17 see also vegetarianism Madness and Civilisation (Foucault) 202 media: and democratization 271–72, 283–85, magazines: business 258; food 270–71, 273–74, 288; and food consciousness 270–71, 273–74, 276, 285, 286, 314; general interest 203; legal 276–77, 285–87; instructional role 275–76, 210; lifestyle 259, 271, 273, 322; medical 204, 277–79, 280–82, 287–88; in New Spain 205, 206, 213; vegetarian 182, 185, 186, 190 86–87; and passivity 279–80, 283, 287 see also named magazine Medical Times and Gazette 204, 205

364 INDEX medicine and diet: alcohol abuse 164, 168, 171; 163–65, 174–75; and spiritual movements indigestion 88, 203, 205; mental illness 202–7; 185–86; and technology xxvi; and nutritional science xxv–xxvi, 200–201, 215– vegetarianism xviii, xxiv–xxv, 179–84, 186–92 16; in premodern Korea 61–62, 63, 65–77; Morel, Bénédict A. 171 prisons 208–15; stimulants and intoxicants 42, Moti Mahal restaurant 318–19 44, 47, 48–49, 53–59, 161–62 see also health Moulton, Sara 279, 286 Mencius (Mencius) 66 movies 261, 278, 313, 324 Mendel, Lafayette B. 179, 191 Mueller, Thomas and Richard 257 mental illness: conceptual shift 202–3, 207; and Mughal Empire 162, 319–20, 321, 324 diet xxv, 203–7, 213, 215–16; Murra, John V. 21–22, 26 institutionalization 201 Mussolini, Benito 253 mepssal 68 My Little Green Book (Maramag) 333 Metcalfe, William 181–82 mycoproteins 236 metheglin 47 Metternich, Anton 236 Naccarato, Peter 275, 283 Mexican food 258, 302, 326 naengi (shepherd’s purse) 71 Mexico 165, 336, 337 see also New Spain Nagatsuka Takashi 5 Meyrowitz, Joshua 279, 287 Naimbana II, ruler (Bai) of Koya-Temne 96, Middlesex County Asylum 204 99, 100 migration: and alcohol 166–67, 173, 174; Naimbana, John Frederick, (aka Henry culinary creolization 314–16, 320, 326; Granville Naimbana) 96, 102–4 Dukhobors 187; European 165, 174, 252–55, ñame 296 266; forced 115–16; Indian xxx, 317–21, Namura Jo-haku 14 324–25; mass 316–17; and Panama 296, 298, Nancho-ho-ki (Namura) 14 299; to the suburbs 250 Naples, Italy 250–51, 254–55, 256, 265 military and agricultural programs 335–37 Nation, Carry A. 173 milk 234, 237 National Football League (NFL) 261 Millbank Prison 209, 214–15 Native Americans: and alcohol 160, 161, 163– Millennium Food Company 190 64, 167, 171; and creolization 315; Millennium Guild 188–90 enslavement 115; and food 23–24, 97, 116, Miller, Bonnie M. xxvii–xxviii 119; fur trade 159, 162 see also New Spain; Miller, Ian xviii, xxv–xxvi Tahuantinsuyu milling 5, 225–28, 226 Nearing, Helen K. 186 Mills, Benjamin Fay 187, 188 Nestlé S.A. 259, 264 minari (wild parsley) 71 New Haven, Connecticut 255, 263 Mintz, Sidney W. xv, xvii, 19, 294 New Spain: alcohol 160, 165; concept of patria Mirror Cakes 6–9, 7 83; famine xxi–xxii, 81–82; food culture xxii, Mirror to Native Foodstuffs (Hitomi) 6 83–89 mismatch diseases 221, 238–39 New Thought 184, 185, 186 mita service 22–23 New Year (Japanese) 3, 6–9, 11, 12, 15 Mizuno Nanboku 15 New York 164, 251, 253, 263, 316 mobility: delivery 257–58; and durability xxvi, New York Times 264, 265, 272, 280–81, 320 228–34; social xxix, 252; and tourism 293 New York Tribune 182 mochi 4–5, 10–11, 12 see also rice cakes Ngöbe people 298, 299, 302, 303, 305 Mochi (Watanabe and Fukazawa) 15 Nicholas II, Tsar of Russia 173 Mochigashi sokuseki teseishu- (Jippensha) 14 Nicholls, James 164 mock turtle soup 141 Nigeria 118, 337, 340 mogwa (Chinese quince) 72 Nixon, Richard M. 249 Monaghan, James 255 Njala University College 342–43, 348 Monaghan, Thomas 255–56, 258, 261, 263 North America: and alcohol 157, 159, 160, 162, Monticello 125 164–65; food diplomacy 97; Loyalists 96; Moore, J. Howard 187, 188, 190 prohibition of alcohol 172, 173; temperance morality: and criminality 208, 214; and movement 168–69, 170 see also plantations; drunkenness 44, 45, 162–63; and the humane United States; vegetarianism movement 184–85; and institutionalization Novelli, Marina 296 201, 202–3, 215; and social control xxiv, 157, Novero, Cecilia 136

365 INDEX nutritional science 200, 201, 207, 209–16 Paulli, Simon 53, 54 nutritional value: of beer 47, 206; of the Peace Corps 303, 346 industrialized diet 221, 236–39; of the Italian- Peet, George L. 146 American diet 253; of potatoes 24, 25 Pepe, Frank 263 Pépin, Jacques 278, 281 Oak Leaf rice cakes 11 Pepys, Richard 94, 95 obesity 69–70, 238, 239, 260, 281 Pérez Calama, José 83, 85–86 Obsopoeus, Vincentius 45 Perth Prison 211 Occom, Samson 163 Perú 20; agricultural diversity 19; food culture Odum, Howard T. 222 21–22, 24–27; gastronomic colonization xix– Ofﬁcial Foodie Handbook, The (Barr and Levy) 271 xx, 19–21, 27–35; tribute payments 22–23 Offspring of the Wild Boar rice cakes 12 Pettid, Michael J. xix, xxi okra xxiii, 114, 117, 121, 122 Phan, Charles xxx, 314, 315–16, 315 Okrent, Daniel 173 Phelan, John Leddy 163 Oliver, Jamie 282–83, 286 Philippines 163, 333, 336, 337–39 Omnivore’s Dilemma, The (Pollan) 236 phở 316 “On the Appetite in Insanity” (Campbell) 207 phylloxera 168, 174 one-pot cooking 114, 117, 119–20, 121 Pilcher, Jeffrey M. xviii, xx–xxi, xxiv onigiri 10 Pillsbury Company 259 Oprah Winfrey Show (television program) 281 Pillsbury, Richard 250 oranges 231 Pimm’s cocktails 324 organic food 239, 264 pish pash 138 Oriental Club 140 Pizarro, Francisco 19 Orlijan, Kimberly J. 275, 284, 288 pizza: Americanization xxvii–xxviii, 252–57, Ortega, Julio 30, 31 265–66; chains 251, 258–60; and children Orwell, George 237, 238 260, 261–62; “ethnic” status 256–57; as fast Otter, Chris xxvi food 249, 252, 257–60; Neapolitan 250–51, Out the Door restaurant 316 254, 265; as a social occasion 260–62; styles oysters 123 252, 262–65; and tourism 308n19 ozo-ni 9 Pizza Fusion 264 Pizza Hut, Inc. 250, 251–52, 256–57, 258, 259, Pa Kokilly 104 262, 265–66 Pa London 101, 104–5, 106 Pizza Today 251 Pa Sirey 101 Pizzeria Napoletana 263 Pace, Antonio 250 Pizzeria Regina 263 packaging 234, 255, 259 see also convenience Pizzeria Uno 263 foods Pizzeria Venti 265 Paddleford, Clementine 273 PL-480 agreements 339–40 Page, Melvin 238 Placotomus, Ioannes 47 “Painting of a Rice Cake” (Do-gen) 8 plantains 296–98, 299–300, 301, 306 Pakistan 318, 320, 321, 337–38 plantations: banana and plantain 299–300; and Pan, Lynn 171 export production 42, 294; food preparation Panama 295, 300; Afro-Antillean cuisine 301–3, 121–23; slave labor 115, 118–21, 125–28; 306–7; culinary and ethnic diversity xxix, 296, social structure 117–19, 124–25; sugar 49, 298–99; gender roles 300–301; history 159, 167 294–97, 299–300; indigenous peoples 296, Plimmer, Robert H. A. and Violet G. 220 298; politics of food 305; restaurants 302–7 poison 95, 98, 102–3, 118, 127, 165 pap sang 76–77 Pokhlebkin, William 158 Papa John’s, Inc. 251, 258, 261 Polcari, Anthony 263 Paper Mochi 11 politics: coffee houses 52; colonial power Park, Alice 187, 188, 189 hierarchies 33–35, 143; and the Green Partition of India (1947) 318, 319 Revolution 333–35, 338–39; identity and food patria cuisine xxii, 81, 83–89 20–21, 28–31, 81–89, 275–76, 291, 306; patriotism 82–83, 87 military and agricultural programs 335–37; Patsy’s Pizzeria 263 post-colonial 332–33; in Sierra Leone 340–48; Paul Revere’s Pizza International, Ltd. 257 and temperance 168, 169, 170, 172–73; and

366 INDEX

tourism 294–95, 305 see also food diplomacy; reducciones de indios 22 vegetarianism refrigeration 228, 229–32, 229, 231, 232, Pollan, Michael 236, 239 235, 257 Pope, Francois 276 Relaciones geográficas de Indias: Perú (Jiménez de la Poppel, Zachary D. xviii–xix, xxx Espada) 37n17 pori (barley) 68–69 religion: and alcohol 157, 163, 168–69, 170; and pork 65, 73, 224, 305 colonization 21, 22, 25, 33–35, 101; and meat Porter, Roy S. 201 117; and military exemption 191; and Portugal 10, 13, 115–16, 160, 161, 317 patriotism 82; and vegetarianism 185–86 see potatoes 24–27, 201–2, 205, 211 also Christianity; Islam Potosí 23–24, 160 research stations 336–37, 343–44, 348 poultry 101, 104, 138, 147 see also chicken restaurants: California-style 263–64; creolization poverty see class of food culture 313–16; dining-out boom 273, power: and colonization 20–21, 33–35; and 280; fast food 249–52, 258, 260, 261–62; cultural conflict xviii; and food diplomacy xxii, Indian 318–26; Italian 253–54; Panamanian 92–93, 96–102, 104–7; and slavery 121, 299, 302–7 127–28; supernatural 3, 7, 8–9 Rhiney, Kevon C. 294–95 Prescott, Samuel C. 234 rice: Anglo-Indian consumption 131, 145, 148; preservatives 46, 138, 159, 228, 234–35 in Chosoˇn Korea 64, 68–69, 76; farming in Preston Temperance Society 169 Sierra Leone 334–35, 340–48; and food prisons xxvi, 207–16 diplomacy 92, 98, 101, 103–4; and the Green processed food xxvi, 221, 225, 230, 234–40 see Revolution xxx–xxxi, 332–33, 335–38, also fast food 347–48; in Panamanian cuisine 296, 298, 301, Procida, Mary A. 137–38, 143 302, 304; PL-480 agreements 339–40; product placement 275–76 research stations 343–44, 348 prohibition of alcohol 156–58, 168–73, 174–75 Rice Cake Flowers 11 Protestantism 43, 47, 52, 163, 170 rice cakes: cultural significance 15–16; making Pryer, William and Ada 149 5–6; meaning xix, 3–5; Mirror Cakes 6–9, 7; Puck, Wolfgang 263–64 seasonality 11–12; varieties 7, 9–12, 13–15 pulque 160, 165 Rice Cakes (Watanabe and Fukazawa) 15 pungoˇ 75 Rice Economies, The (Bray) 64 Pure Food Act (1906) 185 Richards, Greg 292 purity 33–35 Richardson, Benjamin W. 236 Riddel, Robert F. 141 Quakers 163, 170, 180–81, 202 Riley, James 237 Quechua language 19–20, 25–26 see also Ripp, Victor 249 Tahuantinsuyu ritual: drinking practices 33, 35, 163; and maize 25, 26–27, 33, 35; and rice cakes 6–9, 12, 16; race: and slavery 115, 118–19, 121, 127; and West African 117; wine in Christianity 43 tourism 300; xenophobia 134, 320 Ritzer, George 249 Rachael (enslaved cook) 128 Road to Wigan Pier, The (Orwell) 237 railroads 166, 228–29, 229, 298 road transport 231, 232 Randolph, Mary 114 Rockefeller Foundation 336, 337 Rath, Eric C. xix Roget, Peter M. 209 Ray, Rachael 285 Rokupr Rice Research Station, Sierra Leone Real Sociedad Vascongada de Amigos del País 85 343–44, 348 reality television 279, 280, 286 rondón 301, 305, 306 Reasons for a Vegetarian Diet (Brown) 190 Rorabaugh, William J. 168–69 receipt books see cookbooks Rosenfield, Richard L. 264 recipes: abbreviated 280–81; Afro-Antillean Rousseau, Signe 287 301–3; for alcoholic drinks 47, 48; Korean 72; Rowley, Francis H. 190–91 literacy and numeracy 126, 141; for mochi 11, rum 49, 159, 162, 303 13–14; for ozo-ni 9; and patria cuisine 83–89; Rush, Benjamin 164 and plantation cuisine 113, 114, 121–23 see Russia: and alcohol 49, 158–59, 165, 170, 172, also cookbooks 173; and American food 249, 266; and Record of the Geography and Culture of Bungo 3 vegetarianism 187

367 INDEX

Ryan, Agnes 189 Shennan, Margaret 146 Ryan, Mary E. 221 Shennong (the Divine Farmer) 66 Ryo-ri chinmishu- (Hakubo-shi) 11 shipping 161, 228–31, 231 Ryo-rishu- (Kikkawa) 10 Shokumotsu to shinzo- (Yanagita) 8 Shorter, Edward 202 Sabina Indian Cuisine 325 ShowBiz Pizza 262 saccharin 235 Shriver, Adam 236 sago pudding 146–47 Sierra Leone: alcohol consumption 157; food sake 16n12, 156, 162 diplomacy xxii, 97–102, 104–7; and the Salaman, Redcliffe N. xiv Green Revolution xxx, 333–34, 340, 348; Salinger, Pierre E. 314 history of the colony 92–97; independence Salt, Henry S. 186, 187, 188 341–42; PL-480 agreements 339–40; rice Salvation Army 170 farming 334–35, 340–48 San Francisco 313–15, 320–23, 325, 326 Simon, André L. 273 San Francisco Chronicle 314, 324 Simplot, John R. 230–31 sancocho 296 Sineri, Giralmo 233 Sanders, Ursula 126 Singapore 131–32, 135, 145, 147 Santarpio, Francisco 263 single-cell proteins (SCPs) 236 Santiagoe, Daniel 140 Slanted Door restaurant 314, 316 Sarawak 147–48 slavery: and Afro-Antilleans 298, 299; and Saturday Evening Post 254 alcohol 49, 159, 160, 161, 164, 165, 170; and Scarlino, Giovanni Battista 44 cooking xxii–xxiii, 113–15, 119–27; and Schema of Famous Japanese Confectionery New and Old 14 power xviii, 93, 98, 119, 127–28; and religion Schivelbusch, Wolfgang 163 163; and the transatlantic slave trade 96–98, Schlosser, Eric 231 115–16, 118, 294 Schnatter, John H. 258 Smil, Vaclav 222 Scholliers, Peter xvi Smith, Anna H. 185 schools 255, 260, 282 Smith, Delia 277 Schrad, Mark L. 173 Smith, Edward 212–14, 216 Schrick, Michael Puff von 48 Smith, J. Russell 233 Schwan Food Company 259 Smith, Jeffrey L. 278 Scotland 49, 161, 211 Smith, Sydney 208–9, 210 Scudder, Thayer 157 smuggling 161 Scull, Andrew T. 203 Snow, Ellen 183 scurvy 56, 58, 162, 209, 211 Snowden, Phillip 170 seafood 74–75, 117, 123, 298, 301 Snyder, Harry 227 seasonality xix, 11–12, 345–46 social change: and alcohol consumption 161, seaweed 72 171–74; and colonialism 132–33; and food Sebizius, Melchior 45 media 274–75, 283–84; and the Green Secret Text of New Recipes for Famous Sweets New and Revolution 338–39; and industrialization 235, Old 14–15 237; opposition to alcohol 157–58, 162–65, Secret Writings on Famous Japanese Confectionery New 168–70; politics of food 291; and and Old 14 vegetarianism 179–80, 182–83, 189, 191–92 Seligman, Jefferson 191 socialism 170, 186–88, 239 servants: attitudes to 144; ayahs 138; and colonial Socialism and the Drink Question (Snowden) 170 hybrid cuisine xxiii, 132, 148; and cookbooks Sociedad de Amigos del País 85 135, 136, 137–38, 140–43; indentured 118, Societies for the Prevention of Cruelty to 119, 164 Animals (SPCAs) 184, 185, 190–91 Setting the Table for Julia Child (Strauss) 276 Soil, The (Nagatsuka) 5 Severance, Juliet H. 183 Solier, Isabelle de 275, 284 Sewell, Issac “Ike” 263 “Some Historical Aspects of Vegetarianism” Shakey’s Pizza USA, Inc. 258, 261 (Mendel) 179 Shall We Slay to Eat? (Kellogg) 184 soup 9, 123, 141, 233, 316 Shangshu (Book of Documents) 63 South Africa 157, 161, 167, 171–72 Sharp, Granville 93 South Asia 158, 320–21 see also Asia; India Sheller, Mimi 294 South Korea 157, 238, 336

368 INDEX soybeans 65, 69, 235 taegu (codfish) 75 spaghetti 253–54, 255, 315 Tahuantinsuyu 20; food distribution 21–22; Spago restaurant 263–64 gastronomic colonization 19–21, 27–35; Spang, Rebecca L. 303 market economy 23–24; status hierarchies Spanish colonists 19–23, 27–31, 32, 82, 115 see 24–27; tribute payments 22–23 also New Spain; Perú Taiwan 335–36, 344 spices 48, 116, 120, 138–39, 141, 317–18 tambu storehouses 22, 31 spiciness 301–2, 326 Tanara, Vincenzo 47 Spigel, Lynn 275 tandoor cooking 318–19, 321, 325 sport 260–61 Tandoori Nights (television program) 320 Spry, Angela C. 139 Taqui Onqoy 36n14 standardization: and alcohol xxiv, 156, 166; and Taste (print by Bosse) 45 fast food xix, 249–50, 252, 257–58; Tasting Food, Tasting Freedom (Mintz) 19 industrialized food 227–28, 239; and prison taverns 45, 46–47, 158, 164 life xxvi, 208, 210–15; and tourism 298–99, taxation: and alcohol 46, 49, 163, 164–65, 172, 306, 307 173; of indigenous people 22–23, 28, 98, 171; status: and agricultural technologies 346–47; and and rice 64 alcohol 43, 158, 159, 160–61, 167, 174; and Taylor, William 183 diet 25–27, 64, 72–73, 74, 75, 76; and tea 12, 52, 53–54, 57–58, 102–3, 163, 203 knowledge 63, 75–76; and race 119, 120 Teeth-strengthening Rice Cakes 3, 6, 9 steam engines 165, 220, 227, 229, 230 teetotal movement 169–70 see also temperance steam thrasher 222 television: cooking programs 274–79, 282, Steel, Flora Annie 133, 137, 138 287–88; as educator 277–79, 280–82; Stevens, Henry Bailey 189 food as entertainment 270–71,273;and Stevens, Siaka P. 342 passivity 279–80,283,287;andsocialclass stimulants xx–xxi, 42, 50–59, 163, 164, 203 see 284–87 also alcohol Temne people 96, 98, 100, 102–4, 106 Stockholm system 172 temperance: origins 162–64, 168–69; and storage of food 233; canning 233–34; Inca prohibition 156–58, 170, 171–75; and storehouses 22, 31; refrigeration 228–32; taxation 164–65, 172, 173; temperance Sierra Leone 95–96, 106 societies 169–70; and vegetarianism 181, Story of Funabashi Sweets, The (Funabashiya) 14 183 Straits Times 131 Teología politico-caritativa (Pérez Calama) 83 Strand, James 100 Terry, Richard 140 Strange, Niki 284 Thackrah, Charles T. 205 Strauss, David 271, 274, 276 theft 102, 127 Street, Julian L. 273 Theophano, Janet 135 Stuart, Elbridge A. 233 Theosophy 184, 185–86 sugar: attitudes to xvii, 238; and Panama 297; Thoranka, Momorie 346 and rice cakes 9–10, 13; and rum 49, 159, Thoreau, Henry David 186–87 167; and slavery xv, 127; as a stimulant 51 Thornton, Henry 94 Sujatha’s restaurant 325 tinned food 146, 228, 233–34, 275 Sunday, William A. “Billy” 173 Toasted Cakes 13 supermarkets 235, 259 tobacco 42, 58–59, 118 Susan (enslaved cook) 126 toˇdoˇk (bonnet bellflower) 71 Sutton, Thomas 171 Tolstoy, Leo N. 169, 187 swampland rice production 334, 340–41, 344–48 Tombstone Pizza 259 sweeteners 235 Tongu˘i pogam: balance 66–68; food as medicine Sweetness and Power (Mintz) xv, xvii 68–69, 70–75; influence xxi, 61–62, 75–76 Sylhetis 318 Toppers Pizza 266 Sylvius, Franciscus 162 tortillas 84, 85, 86, 87–88, 296 symbolism: and fast food 266; food and Totino, Rosenella W. and James R. 258–59 community 81, 88–89; food metaphors xx, tourism: culinary tourism xxix, 292–93, 295, 27–31; gifts 99; and rice cakes xix, 6–9, 14; 305–6; and cultural identity 298–99, 301–2, status 167 306–7; economic significance 294–95, 305; synthetic food 220, 234–36, 237–40 and food culture 265, 291–92, 302–3; gender

369 INDEX

roles 300–301; mobilities 293, 296; US Public Broadcasting Service (PBS) 278–79 restaurants 303–5, 306; wine tourism 292 utopianism 182–83, 187, 236 Tourism Authority of Panama (ATP) 301, 306 uyuk (beef) 73 Toyotomi Hideyoshi 12 tractorization 221–22, 222 Valladolid, Michoacán 85–86 Traités nouveaux et curieux de café, du thé et du chocolat Valverde, Mariana 172 (Dufour) 54–56 van Onselen, Charles 171–72 transportation 165, 228–32, 231, 232 Vaughan, William 58 Treasury for Men (Namura) 14 Veblen, Thorstein B. 289n12 tribute payments 22–23, 98 Vegetable Diet (Alcott) 183 Trine, Ralph Waldo 186, 188 vegetables: in the Korean diet 64–65, 70–72, 76; Trinidad and Tobago 295 “monstrous” 29–30, 35; in the West African Trotter, Thomas 164 diet 116–17, 119, 121 Tsuboi Hirofumi 15–16 Vegetarian Dishes and Diet (Lyman) 198n48 Tsuchi (Nagatsuka) 5 Vegetarian Society of America 179, 182, 184, 190 Tuite, Hugh Morgan 206 Vegetarian, The 185, 186, 190 Tuke, Samuel 202 vegetarianism: conscientious objectors 191; and tu˘lkkae (perilla seeds) 71 feminism 187, 189; and the humane Tulpius, Nicolas 53 movement 183–85, 187–91; motivations xxiv– turtles 147, 302–3 xxv, 179–81, 192; and power relations xviii; TV chefs 275–77, 278–79,281,282,284,286–87 and socialism 186–88; and spiritual TV dinners 221, 235, 261 see also convenience movements 180–82, 185–86, 324; and foods temperance 181, 183 Twigg, Julia 179 Vertigo (movie) 313 Twining, Alexander C. 229 Vietnam 167, 314, 336–37 Tyson Foods, Inc. 225 Vietnamese cuisine 314, 315–16 Vik’s Chaat House 325 uhwang (ox bezoar) 73 Virginia: diet and health 282; enslaved cooks Umsik timibang (Lady Chang of Andong) 75 xxii–xxiii, 113–15, 119–21, 125–28; United Fruit Company 297, 299, 300 establishment of the colony 117–19; United Nations 333, 334, 337, 343 plantation cuisine 121–25 United Nations Research Institute for Social Virginia Gazette 121 Development (UNRISD) 338 vodka 49, 158–59, 165, 172, 173 United States: alcohol 159, 160, 162, 165, 172; cooking programs 274–80, 282–84, 287–88; Walden (Thoreau) 186–87 creolization of food culture 128, 314–16, war: African 116, 342; American Civil 233; 320–26; fast food xxvii–xxviii, 249–52, American Revolution 97; and migration 317; 260–66; food diplomacy 97, 107n6; foodies and trade in alcohol 161; Vietnam 336–37 271–73; and the Green Revolution 335–37; see also World War I; World War II industrialized food processing 221, 224–25, Ward, William Gibson 182 227, 233–36, 257–60; inﬂuence on Warner, Ezra J. 234 Panamanian cuisine 304; Italian-Americans Warner, Jessica 164–65, 174 252–57; lifestyle media 280–82, 284–87; and Watanabe Susumu 12 migration xxix–xxx, 166–67, 320–21, 324–25; Watanabe Tadao 15 PL-480 agreements 339; prohibition 156, 173; Waters, Alice L. 263 refrigeration 229–32, 229; temperance Watt, James 92, 94, 95, 101, 104–6 societies 169, 170 see also North America; Wear, Andrew 200 vegetarianism; Virginia Weiner, Martin J. 208 United States Agency for International Wesley, John 163, 164 Development (USAID) 333, 336–37 West Africa see Africa United States Department of Agriculture Whale Meat Cakes 13 (USDA) 260 What to Tell the Cook (Anon) 142–43, 142 Universal Kinship, The (Moore) 188 wheat: and the Green Revolution 332–33, Uno Chicago Grill 263 337–38; and industrialization 221, 223, 223, Unti, Bernard xviii, xxiv–xxv 226, 238; Korean consumption 69; and patria upland farming 340–41, 345–47 cuisine 84, 88; PL-480 agreements 339; in

370 INDEX

postwar United States 335–36; transportation Woodcock, George 147 228; as tribute payment 23; and West African Woodlands restaurants 325 cuisine 116; white bread xxvi, 225–28 Woolis (ship’s captain) 102–3 whiskey/whisky 49, 156, 166 Woolman, John 180 white bread xxvi, 203, 225–28 World Bank 334, 337, 343, 347, 348 White, Caroline E. 184–85, 191 World Health Organization 156, 157 White, Richard 99, 106 World War I xxvi, 168, 173, 174, 191, 253, 317 White Tiger Convention 63 World War II 254, 273, 317, 335–36 Whytt, Robert 203 Wounaan people 298 Wife’s Help to Indian Cookery, The (Dawe) 137 Wright, Sewall G. 224 Wight, Craig 293 wine: and Christian ritual 43; consumption Yamacopra, Queen of Koya-Temne 102–3 43–45, 162; marketing 167, 168; origins 42; Yanagita Kunio 4, 7, 8, 9 phylloxera 168, 174; production 159, 160, 161, Yi Hyoji 69 166, 167; tourism 292; types 44, 156, 166 Yi Sugwang 65–66, 69, 73, 74 women: and alcohol 45; and class 135–36, 203; yin and yang 9, 62, 66–68, 70 and coffee 54, 56, 58; colonial role 117, 133, Yo-jo-kun (Kaibara) 15 139, 143; and convenience foods 235, 250; York Retreat 202 employment 24, 300–301; feminism 187, 189; Yorkshire Post 320 and food diplomacy 101, 102–3, 106; as yuja (citron) 72 homemakers 273, 274–76, 281; in plantation Yum! Brands, Inc. 251 society 119, 121, 124; segregation 97–98, 100; temperance and prohibition 169, 170, 172, Zerboglio, Adolfo 170 173; and vegetarianism 183, 189–90 Zhu Xi 67 Women’s Christian Temperance Union Zlotnick, Susan 138–39 (WCTU) 170, 173, 183 Zola, Émile 171 Women’s Petition Against Coffee 54 Zwingli, Uldrich 43

371