from Canto XV

61

The conference or congress (for it ended
     As congresses of late do) of the Lady
Adeline and Don Juan rather blended
     Some acids with the sweets—for she was heady;
But, ere the matter could be marr’d or mended,
     The silvery bell rung, not for “dinner ready,”
But for that hour, called half-hour, given to dress,
Though ladies’ robes seem scant enough for less.

62

Great things were now to be achieved at table,
    With massy plate for armour, knives and forks
For weapons; but what Muse since Homer’s able
     (His feasts are not the worst part of his works)
To draw up in array a single day-bill
     Of modern dinners? where more mystery lurks
In soups or sauces, or a sole ragot,
Than witches, b—ches, or physicians brew.

63

There was a goodly “soupe la bonne femme,”
     Though God knows whence it came from; there was too
A turbot for relief of those who cram,
    Relieved with dindon la Prigueux;
There also was—the sinner that I am!
    How shall I get this gourmand stanza through?—
Soupe la Beauveau, whose relief was Dory,
Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory.

64

But I must crowd all into one grand mess
     Or mass; for should I stretch into detail,
My Muse would run much more into excess,
     Than when some squeamish people deem her frail.
But though a “bonne vivante,” I must confess
    Her stomach’s not her peccant part: this tale
However doth require some slight refection,
Just to relieve her spirits from dejection.

65

Fowls la Cond, slices eke of salmon,
    With sauces Genevoises, and haunch of venison;
Wines too which might again have slain young Ammon—
     A man like whom I hope we shan’t see many soon;
They also set a glazed Westphalian ham on,
    Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison;
And then there was Champagne with foaming whirls,
As white as Cleopatra’s melted pearls.

66

Then there was God knows what ” l’Allemande,”
    “A l’Espagnole,” “timballe,” and “Salpicon”—
With things I can’t withstand or understand,
     Though swallow’d with much zest upon the whole;
And “entremets” to piddle with at hand,
     Gently to lull down the subsiding soul;
While great Lucullus’ Robe triumphal muffles—
(There’s Fame)—young Partridge’ fillets, deck’d with truffles.

67

What are the fillets on the victor’s brow
     To these? They are rags or dust. Where is the arch
Which nodded to the nation’s spoils below?
     Where the triumphal chariots’ haughty march?
Gone to where victories must like dinners go.
     Further I shall not follow the research:
But oh! ye modern heroes with your cartridges,
When will your names lend lustre even to partridges?

68

Those truffles too are no bad accessaries,
    Follow’d by “Petits puits d’Amour”—a dish
Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies,
     So every one may dress it to his wish,
According to the best of dictionaries,
    Which encyclopedize both flesh and fish;
But even sans “confitures,” it no less true is,
There’s pretty picking in those “petits puits.”

69

The mind is lost in mighty contemplation
     Of intellect expended on two courses;
And indigestion’s grand multiplication
     Requires arithmetic beyond my forces.
Who would suppose, from Adam’s simple ration,
    That cookery could have call’d forth such resources,
As form a science and a nomenclature
From out the commonest demands of nature?

70

The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled;
     The diners of celebrity dined well;
The ladies with more moderation mingled
     In the feast, pecking less than I can tell;
Also the younger men too; for a springald
    Can’t like ripe age in gourmandise excel,
But thinks less of good eating than the whisper
(When seated next him) of some pretty lisper.