Epic Cooking: The Last Old Polish Feast
Epic Cooking Food and Drink in “Pan Tadeusz”, the Polish National Epic |
Epic Cooking
Food and Drink in “Pan Tadeusz”,
the Polish National Epic
With a crash the hall's portals at last open fly, | ||||||
— Adam Mickiewicz: Pan Tadeusz, or The Last Foray in Lithuania: A Tale of the Gentry during 1811–1812, translated by Marcel Weyland, Book XII, verses 1–7
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With these words begins the last chapter, or Book XII of Pan Tadeusz. Its creation must have been overseen by at least three muses: Calliope (who presides over epic poetry), Thalia (responsible for the comical elements) and Gastronomia (not listed among the classic nine). As we've seen in the previous post, Adam Mickiewicz, the epic poem's author, took inspiration from two old Polish cookbooks. From one (The Perfect Cook by Wojciech Wielądko) he took the title, from the other (Compendium Ferculorum by Stanisław Czerniecki), everything else.
Book XII is almost all about a fictional banquet, said to be the last truly Old Polish feast. It is held by Judge Soplica in a abandoned castle about a mile away from his own home in Soplicowo. Tribune Hreczecha, ever the Renaissance man, who served as the master chef in Book XI, now replaces his flyswatter with a ceremonial staff indicating that he is now the master of ceremonies. It's him who, in the Judge's name, welcomes and seats the guests, and decides what dishes, in what order and on what tableware are to be served.
There are as many as three occasions for the big ceremonial dinner. First, it's a religious holiday, "the most solemn day of Our Lady of [the] Flowers".[1] Mickiewiczologists can't entirely agree as to the identity of this Catholic solemnity. Some say there is no such holiday, so the poet must have meant Our Lady of the Herbs, that is, Assumption Day, observed on 15 August. They propose various arguments, from historical (in real life, Napoleon invaded Russia only on 24 June 1812) to climatic and botanical ones (the spring of 1812 came late, so no flowers were yet in bloom in March). But the poet was quite unequivocal in Book XI that the action was taking place in the springtime rather than in the summer. Besides, Our Lady of the Flowers does exists, as this is an old folk name for the feast of Annunciation, observed on 25 March. On this day, the mother of Jesus is knocked up and Napoleon (according to Mickiewicz) begins his campaign to knock down the Russian tsar. The former brings hope for salvation of all humanity from sin while the latter brings hope for resurrecting Poland as an independent state. The poem makes no mention of the disaster that Napoleon's invasion of Russia would prove to be; the mood is full of joy and hope until the end.
The second occasion is a triple betrothal; Thaddeus proposes to Sophie, the Notary to Telimena and the Assessor to Tekla Hreczecha, the daughter "not too young, of some at least fifty years,"[2] of the master of today's ceremonies. And finally, the third occasion is the presence of Polish soldiers serving in the French army, including Gen. Dąbrowski, whom the Judge wishes to honour by inviting them to dinner. In line with the general's request, the dinner will feature "Polish cooking", reflecting Old Polish cuisine as imagined by Mickiewicz.
So let's try (as we already once did with an everyday Soplicowo supper) to reconstruct, at least partly, the manu of this exceptional banquet. How? By listing what dishes are mentioned in poem and then looking them up in Compendium Ferculorum to check how they were made.
What Did They Eat?
When describing the banquet that was going to be "the last Old Polish feast", Mickiewicz hoped to share with his readers the feeling of nostalgia for foodways that had been gone by his time. What he wanted to convey was, this Old Polish cuisine no longer exists, no one knows these dishes anymore, no one remembers their tastes, even their names now sound unfamiliar. How did he achieve this effect? That's simple: all you need to do is to take a hundred-odd-years-old cookery book and list the quaintest-sounding dish names.
Who now comprehends all these, to our times quite strange, | ||||
— A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book XII, verses 144–147, own translation based on Marcel Weyland's
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You don't know any of these specialities? Don't worry, Mickiewicz was actually assuming that the readers in his own time wouldn't know them either; heck, he doesn't seem to have known their exact meanings himself. The excerpt above is just a jumble of random words that don't really add up to any meaningful menu. We're going to decipher them in a moment, but first let's see where the poet took them from.
The main body of Compendium Ferculorum (A Collection of Dishes) by Stanisław Czerniecki (pronounced stah-NEE-swahf churn-YET-skee), the cookbook that Mickiewicz loved to read while pining for Polish grub, follows a well-thought-out structure. It is divided into three chapters, each containing one hundred recipes (more or less; the author did cheat with the numbering a little), respectively, for meat dishes, fish dishes, and dairy and other dishes. At the end of each chapter, Czerniecki added ten bonus recipes, as well as one "master chef's secret".
These three "secrets" were recipes that required the highest level of culinary expertise, attainable only by the most skilled chefs. Czerniecki divulges them as a sort of present for his readers. The first of these secrets is a recipe for a capon in a bottle. The trick was to carefully skin the capon (a well-fattened castrated rooster), put the skin inside a bottle, fill it with a mixture of milk and eggs, and sew it up, then plug the bottle and plunge into boiling water. As the mixture expanded in heat, it made the skin swell and stiffen, producing an illusion of a whole capon fit inside a bottle. The bird's flesh could have been cooked and served separately, but it wasn't about the meat. It was all about the deception, the surprise and making sure that the guests would "not be without great astonishment".[4] Mickiewicz made no use of this particular idea in his poem, but we will come back to the two other secrets later on.
When searching for ideas for his description of the big festive meal, Mickiewicz took something from each of the three chapters, but it was in the third where he found the weirdest-sounding ones. Czerniecki introduces the chapter with the following words:
In the third chapter, I have included […] jellies, contusas, blancmanges, arcases, almond rings, macaroons […] | ||||
— Stanisław Czerniecki: Compendium ferculorum albo Zebranie potraw, Kraków: w drukarni Jerzego i Mikołaja Schedlów, 1682, p. 92, own translation
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So by now we know where the second line of the aforecited excerpt is coming from. What about the next two? It seems that the idea for these "tragacanths, brignoles and pineoli" came not from any specific recipes, but from the "General Memorandum for the Preparation of a Banquet" that Czerniecki included at the beginning of his book. It was a checklist of things and people that you should have at your disposal before you start preparing a big lordly feast. It opens with a list of various kinds of meat, followed by sundry dairy products, cereals, fruits, vegetables, spices, preserves, different kinds of fish and sugar, as well as kitchen utensils and jobs (including, for example, floor-sweepers equipped with brooms, shovels and wheelbarrows, because, you know, if there's going to be plenty of food, then there's also going to be plenty of leavings). As for the spices, the list covered, among others, the following:
Saffron, powdered sugar, pepper, ginger, cinnamon, cloves, mace, nutmeg, cumin, almonds, rice, large raisins, cybets, small raisins, pistachios, pignoli, dates, brignoles, figs, chestnuts, capers, […] starch, tragacanth, tornosol [i.e., strips of cloth – or scraps of old underwear, according to Kitowicz[5] – used for dyeing food], musk […] | ||||
— S. Czerniecki, op. cit., s. 4, own translation
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There's not much context here, so it's possible Mickiewicz couldn't even guess what some of these items were supposed to mean. But their meanings, of course, are precisely what we're interested in here. So, without further ado, let's break them down one by one:
"Contusa" (Polish: kontuza)
- An insipid mush for the ill, made from overcooked chicken, ground in a mortar into a pulp (hence the name; a contusion is produced in a similar manner after all), passed through a sieve and thinned down with some broth. No aromatics other than parsley. It's rather hard to imagine a dish like this at an opulent feast. Or that you could serve something of such consistency on a platter.
"Arcas" (Polish: arkas)
- Something between fresh cheese and jelly. It was made by boiling sweetened milk and adding lemon juice to curdle it. We're going to come back to this once we get to desserts.
Blancmange (Polish: blemas, blamas)
- A dessert quite similar to the arcas, but fit for Catholic lean days, as it was made from almond milk. The name means "white food" in French, which seems to be a pretty accurate description.
Scrod
- Young cod fish. I used this word to translate the archaic Polish word "pomuchla", which actually referred to Baltic cod of any age, as opposed to cod caught in other seas. We will be returning to fish later on.
Figatelli (Polish: figatele, figatelle)
- The Italian word refers to Corsican dried pork sausage. In Polish, "figatelle" is an archaic word for meatballs, which could be boiled, fried or baked. Often seasoned raisins, they were served as a side to various dishes, including soups.
"Cybets" (Polish: cybety)
- This word appears in Compendium only once, that is, in the "Memorandum", but not in any of the recipes, so it's hard to tell what Czerniecki meant by it. It could possibly refer to civet, fragrance fixative obtained from the glands found near the anus of an African weasel-like animal; or to Muscat-of-Alexandria raisins, known in Italian as zibibbo; or to cubeb pepper.
Musk (Polish: piżmo)
- Just like civet, it's a kind of fragrance fixative, obtained from the glands found near the same body part, only in a different animal, namely the Siberian musk deer. The culinary use of such fixatives was not uncommon, especially in perfumed dishes.
Tragacanth (Polish: dragant)
- Natural gum obtained from the dried sap of Astragalus gummifer. Today also known as E413, it may be used as food additive, for example, to make jellies stiffer.
Pineoli (Polish: pinele, pinole, pinelle)
- Pine nuts. Czerniecki used them interchangeably with pistachios.
Brignoles (Polish: brunele, brunelle)
- Brignoles is a French town famous for its plums and prunes. The Polish word "brunelle" may have referred to dried plums of any kind.
So far, all we've got are just individual ingredients. If we want entire dishes, we've got to check out other verses of the poem. As in any Polish dinner, we will start with the soups.
Soups
In all of Pan Tadeusz I've counted five distinct kinds of this crucial element of Polish cuisine. We've already discussed two of them, the beer soup and the Lithuanian cold borscht, in previous posts. Elsewhere in the epic, when Thaddeus's would-be father wanted to propose to a great lord's daughter, he was served "black gruel",[8] or czernina (blood soup, which is, incidentally, more of a Greater Poland speciality than a Lithuanian one), as a sign of refusal. Naturally, this soup's symbolism meant that it couldn't be served at a betrothal dinner.
An unspecified soup is also used by the poet in a rather bawdy joke. You see, in Polish, the word "zupa" ("soup") rhymes with "dupa" ("arse"), so Mickiewicz used the former to avoid mentioning the latter. Translating the pun into English is, of course, a challenge; this is how Marcel Weyland has dealt with it:
"I have heard, he had under the bishop's curse passed; | ||||
— A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book XII, verses 396–398
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But the description of the banquet we're discussing today begins with two soups taken straight from Compendium Ferculorum:
And the house-servants entered in pairs, in good line, | ||||
— A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book XII, verses 137–142
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One Mickiewiczologist who intentionally refrained from trying to understand the meanings of these "mysterious dishes", so as not to let the magic of the "cryptic flavours" escape, announced that from the time of Mickiewicz onward, "these very two soups – white and red! – will forever stand on the national table, no matter what."[9] The problem is that if you do try and decipher them (and this is exactly what we're about to do), then this patriotic vision of two soups in Poland's national colours will fall apart like a house of cards. Let's begin with the "royal borscht" and see if it was really red. As it happens, it's the first recipe in the third chapter of Compendium Ferculorum.
Take thin rye-bran borscht [i.e., fermented rye meal]; add some dried fish, be it pike or vimba; dried salmon; Danubian carp; smoked or fresh beluga; dried sturgeon; a whole onion, which you will discard before serving; soaked herrings, either Danubian or marine; dried mushrooms; fine buckwheat; and cumin. Boil it all together, salt to taste. Serve it in a bowl, it will be good. | ||||
— S. Czerniecki, op. cit., s. 71, own translation
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It will be good, for sure, but hardly red. It's not the familiar red beetroot borscht, but rather something modern Poles would call either "barszcz biały" ("white borscht") or "żurek" ("sour soup"), made from fermented flour-and-water mixture (or thinned sourdough, if you will). It used to exist in two versions: the festive one, cooked on smoked-meat stock and served on sausage, bacon and eggs, is still very much around. The Lenten version, with salted herring, once very common, is now somewhat forgotten. What Czerniecki calls "royal borscht" is the Lenten variant, but in a royal guise, so apart from the cheap herring, there are also more upscale fish species, such as pike, salmon and sturgeon. Mushrooms are there too, probably even more than two ("two mushrooms into borscht" is a Polish idiom expressing excess), as well as the exotic cumin.
And what about the other soup? The mention of a gold coin, pearls and "a secret old recipe" leaves no doubt that it's Czerniecki's third master chef's secret. But if you read the recipe carefully, you will see that it's no so much a banquet dish, but another concoction for the ill.
This is an excellent secret, tried on the ill and those despairing about their health, which you will prepare in the following manner: Take a hind quarter of a ram, a capon, four partridges, fresh meaty venison and beef, all unplucked, unwashed and unsalted. Spit-roast them all on a small fire without basting and remove once they are well done. Poke or cut them quickly with a knife and press out the juices into a glass vessel. Put a string of pearls and a red ducat inside and wrap the vessel tightly in bladder and canvas. Place the bundle in cold water, bring the water to boil and cook for four hours. Then remove and unwrap the vessel and take it to the patient. Let him drink a spoon and a half, while still warm, on an empty stomach and cover him with blankets to let him sweat. Reserve the red ducat and the pearls. This secret should not be used more than once in one illness. If the patient is sweating, he will, God willing, experience amelioration. | ||||
— S. Czerniecki, op. cit., s. 96, own translation
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You can see that this was a cure for the well-to-do only. All we're getting out of a entire stag, an ox, a quarter of a ram, four partridges and one capon is one and a half tablespoons of meat juice that we're supposed to serve the patient to make him sweat. Sounds like some kind of homeopatic drivel, doesn't it? It's even more suspicious, if you consider what happens to the ducat and the pearls that the chef would have said he'd needed for this elixir. In any case, it doesn't seem these ingredients had any influence on the preparation's medicinal properties, flavour or even colour. If you had thought that, if the borscht hadn't turned out to be the red soup, then perhaps it was this red-ducat broth, then think again. The red ducat wasn't actually red in colour, it was golden; besided, gold doesn't dissolve in water (unless it the royal water, or aqua regia, but that's not really fit for consumption). It's more likely that, like any other good broth, this one, even if cooked without the golden coin, would have been golden in colour – that is, neither white nor red.
For the purpose of our reconstruction, though, I suggest we take another of Czerniecki's broth recipes. A good dinner broth. Just like the one that opens the first chapter of the Compendium.
Polish broth is to be made as follows: Take beef or veal, a hazel grouse or a partridge, pigeons or any other meat that can be boiled for broth. Soak the meat, salt it well, place in a pot and scald with hot water. Let the water stand for some time, then strain back onto the meat. Add parsley, butter, salt, skim the scum, and when well cooked, serve hot. You should also remember, lest the broth smells like water and wind, to add parsley or dill, onion or garlic, mace or rosemary, or peppercorns according to your taste. | ||||
— S. Czerniecki, op. cit., s. 13, own translation
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Now, this is the kind of broth that you can still see on many a Polish table every Sunday! This recipe seems quite modern in that, unlike many other Old Polish dishes, it's quite moderate in terms of exotic spices (only mace and pepper!), while making use of familiar herbs, like parsley, dill and rosemary. The one thing does seem to be missing are the now mandatory noodles. But noodles aren't the only possible soup garnish and as we alrady know that there were meatballs on the menu, then why not serve them together with the broth? So now let's see a recipe for the figatelle.
Take some veal or a capon, beef or game, or fresh lean pork. Remove the veins and chop up finely. Take beef, whether-mutton or venison tallow, remove the veins, chop up as finely as you can. Grate or chop finely some white bread. Mix it all together with a few eggs. Add pepper and nutmeg. Make any meatballs you like, big or small, boiled or baked, and if you want, you can also add raisins, large, small or both, according to your need. Cook them in boiling water. If you want to serve them alone, then garnish with parsley. And if you want to serve them alongside another dish, then add them when already cooked. | ||||
— S. Czerniecki, op. cit., s. 16, own translation
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Fish Dishes
Big aristocratic banquets often lasted for at least a few days. Considering the frequency of lean (fasting) days (every Wednesday, Friday and Saturday), there was no way for the feat not to overlap with a lean day. On such days the menu was modified to include fish, but no meat of any land animals. This why Compendium Ferculorum has an entire chapter devoted exclusively to fish dishes. The banquet in Pan Tadeusz is condensed to just one day, but the menu contains both meat and fish items. You may have already notice that of the two soups, one was meat-based while the other was a fish soup. So let's continue with this convention and have one fish dish to every meat serving on our menu. And, since the poet devoted more attention to fish, let's start with this.
And those fish! Great smoked salmon from Danube afar, | ||||
— A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book XII, verses 148–151
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Again, this is just an enumeration of fish species taken directly from the "General Memorandum". The full catalogue goes like this:
Salmon, fresh and dried, Danzig and Danubian; sterlet; sturgeon, fresh, salted and smoked; trout; barbel; stone loach; gudgeon; grayling; vimba, fresh and dried; bullheads; eels, fresh and dried; various freshwater fish; salted fish; beluga, fresh, salted and smoked; herring; Venetian caviar, Turkish caviar; Danubian herring, smoked herring; flounder; dried plaice; luce, pike, pickerel, hurling pick, gilthed; carp, Danubian, young and platter-sized; perch; crucian; bream; tench; stockfish, cod, scrod; oysters; turtles; escargots; crayfish. | ||||
— S. Czerniecki, op. cit., p. 5, own translation
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Some of the species here further subdivided according to age and size. In traditional Polish terminology, the pike, for example, ranges from the obłączka (smallest) to szczupak półmiskowy ("platter-sized"), szczupak łokietny ("cubit-long"), szczupak podgłówny ("sub-main") to szczupak główny ("main", the largest). These terms used have their equivalents in English: gilthed, hurling pick, pickerel, pike and luce.
So we've got quite a few fish species, but what about fish dishes? Here Mickiewicz was a somewhat less specific. He did mention one delicacy, though, which was served at the end of the dinner as the master chef's pièce de résistance.
Last, a master-chef's tour de force comes into view: | ||||
— A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book XII, verses 152–154
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Obviously, that's the second "secret" from the Compendium. This one, for a "whole, uncut fish, cooked in three ways", except that in Czerniecki's recipe it was middle that was boiled, the head was fried and the tail, roasted.[12] Not any fish will do here. It must both appropriately dignified and long, which means a mature pike is the best choice. The trick is rather simple: all you need to do is to spit-roast the fish over coals. The part that's meant to be boiled must be wrapped in cloth that is constantly doused with salted water with vinegar. The part that's supposed to be fried is basted with oil and sprinkled with flour. A the part that's meant to be roasted is roasted. And here's the full recipe as written by Czerniecki:
Take a pike, as large as you want, remove the scales near the head and tail, but leave it in the middle. Gut it and impale on a spit. Wrap a piece of cloth around the middle part with the scales and secure with strings. Dampen the cloth with salted wine vinegar. Salt the head and the tail as well, and roast over a small fire. Keep vinegar boiling in a clay pot and use it often to damped the cloth. Baste the head early on with oil or butter, sprinkle with wheat flour and repeat this several times so that it fries. And when the tail starts to brown, then baste too, but don't sprinkle with flour. And when you deem it done, remove from the spit and unwrap the cloth. You will have a pike that is fried, boiled and roasted. | ||||
— S. Czerniecki, op. cit., s. 67–68, own translation
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Piotr Klepacz and Tomasz Welter with a pike made ready for roasting / frying / boiling
To była jedyna potrawa rybna wymieniona w księdze XII, ale na szczęście nie jedyna w całym Panu Tadeuszu:
[…] Any Muscovite general puts on a great show, | ||||
— A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book IV, verses 402–403
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U Mickiewicza szczupak w szafranie robi wprawdzie tylko za element poetyckiego porównania, ale było to swego czasu jedno z ulubionych dań rybnych polskiej szlachty, a szafran – jedną z ich ulubionych przypraw. Czerniecki opisywał typowo polskie potrawy właśnie jako "szafranne [i] pieprzne".[13] Ale, że szczupak już był, to teraz w szafranowym sosie zróbmy sobie łososia, który – według Czernieckiego – "w naszej Polszcze jest najsubtelniejszego smaku." Pierwszy przepis drugiego rozdziału Compendium jest właśnie na "łososia [na] żółto po królewsku".
Weźmij łososia, oczesz [tj. oskrob], zrysuj [tj. wypatrosz], grzbiet wyjmij, dzwona na szpilki włóż. Pietruszki w kostkę i wzdłuż nakraj. Wstaw w kotle, zasoliwszy dobrze. A gdy dowiera [tj. dogotowuje się], zdejmij z ognia. Tę polewkę odlej osobno, co łosoś wrzał, przelej wodą, żebyś sól spłukał. A gdy masz dawać, wlej gąszcz [tj. przecier warzywny], jaki masz, wlej wina, octu winnego trochę, cukru według smaku, pieprzu, szafranu, cynamonu, rożenków wielkich, limonii w talarki. Przywarzaj a kosztuj, a jeżeli trzeba przydać soli, tedy onej polewki, w której wrzał łosoś, przylewaj według smaku. |
— S. Czerniecki, op. cit., s. 46 |
A na trzecie danie rybne weźmy jeszcze jeden przepis Czernieckiego, żeby jakoś wykorzystać tego karpia i pinelle, które już sobie przygotowaliśmy.
Oczesane ryby zrysuj a na dzwona pokraj; cebule, pietruszki drobno nakraj; włóż w kociołek albo rynkę, zasól według smaku. Wsyp ochędożonych [tj. łuskanych] pinelli, włóż masła albo oliwy, pieprzu, gałki. Warz, a podsadziwszy, daj na stół. |
— S. Czerniecki, op. cit., s. 51 |
Meat Dishes
Przejdźmy do mięs. Tu musimy w jeszcze większym zakresie polegać na własnej fantazji, bo poeta żadnej potrawy mięsnej w opisie uczty nie wymienił. Wiemy tylko z księgi XI, a więc z opisu przygotowania uczty, że mięs było dużo i różnych.
Yet others, huge roasts onto enormous spits drag | ||||
— A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book XI, verses 138–149
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Głównie, jak widać, były to mięsa pieczone. Co ciekawe, Czerniecki nie umieścił w swoim Compendium prawie żadnych instrukcji, jak piec mięso. Pewnie uznał, że nie ma o czym pisać; nabijasz na rożen i opiekasz nad ogniem, żadna filozofia. Dlatego zdecydowana większość jego przepisów jest na mięsa duszone lub gotowane. Ale pod koniec pierwszego rozdziału zamieścił na szczęście dziesięć dodatkowych receptur na kondymenty, czyli sosy, do pieczystego: grzybowy, czosnkowy, musztardowy, jałowcowy, kalafiorowy, kaparowy, limonkowy, sardelowy (anchois), ostrygowy… Ale my wybierzemy ten najprostszy, a zarazem chyba najbardziej polski, czyli cebulowy.
Cebuli surowej usiekaj tak drobno jako mak, zmieszaj z młodym masłem, pieprzem, kładź w nakrawane gorące pieczyste, a daj gorąco. |
— S. Czerniecki, op. cit., s. 42 |
Ponacinana pieczeń wołowa, w nacięcia której nakłada się farsz cebulowy, to potrawa, która w polskiej kuchni funkcjonuje do dzisiaj. W XIX w. nazwano ją "pieczenią po huzarsku", bo pasy żółtego nadzienia na rumianej pieczeni przypominały naszym przodkom ozdobny szamerunek na huzarskich mundurach.
Z poetyckiego przekazu wiemy też, że na uczcie podano pieczony drób. Co więcej, nie zagospodarowaliśmy jeszcze kawioru, o którym również wiemy, że był. Okazuje się, że pieczony kapłon doskonale się łączy z kawiorem (jeśli wierzyć Czernieckiemu). Oto ostatni, setny, przepis z pierwszego rozdziału jego dzieła:
Upiecz kapłona dobrego, a gorącego ponakrawaj. Weźmij kawioru przepłukanego, a masła niesłonego, zmieszaj a nakładaj kapłona gorącego, przydawszy pieprzu, a daj gorąco na stół. |
— S. Czerniecki, op. cit., s. 37 |
Nie będziemy tu rozstrzygać, czy ma to być kawior wenecki czy turecki. Każdy może nałożyć takiego, jaki ma.
A żeby wykorzystać brunelle, czyli suszone śliwki, zrobimy sobie potrawę z mięsa duszonego, dajmy na to, cielęcego. Przepis na "potrawę z brunellami" opisał Czerniecki tymi słowami:
Weźmij […] cielęciny, […] ochędoż, rozbierz w członki, nakraj cebulę i pietruszki drobno. To wszystko włóż w rynkę i masła dobrego, soli. Warz, a gdy dowiera, włóż brunelli i cukru. Przywarz, przydawszy pieprzu i gałki [muszkatołowej], i trochę octu winnego, a daj na stół. |
— S. Czerniecki, op. cit., s. 21 |
Desserts
Pora na deser, na który, jak już wiemy, będą arkasy i blemasy. Zacznijmy od arkasu.
Mleka weźmij słodkiego, ile chcesz, wstaw w pięknym naczyniu, włóż cukru, a gdy zwierać będzie, wyciśnij cytrynę albo winnego octu łyżkę wlej. A gdy się zewre, lej w koszyczki na to zgotowane, żeby materia grubsza zostawała, a subtelna wyciekła. A polawszy talerz wódką różaną, wyłóż z koszyczka na talerz, a pocukrowawszy daj. Możesz też szafranu do mleka przydać, jeżeli chcesz. |
— S. Czerniecki, op. cit., s. 91 |
Czerniecki nie wspomina o tym w przepisie, ale jeśli arkas nie zestali się tak, jak powinien, to można go usztywnić dragantem.
Nadal trzymamy się zasady, że na każdą potrawę niepostną przypada jedna postna. Pora zatem na zupełnie wegański blamas. Polecam zwrócić uwagę, że pojawia się tu wspomniane wcześniej piżmo, które dodaje się, żeby aromat nie wywietrzał.
Polewkę weźmij. Migdałów ochędożonych, które bardzo dobrze utłuczesz w moździerzu i uwiercisz w donicy, i rozpuścisz tą polewką, którą wprzód przeprawisz przez gęstą serwetę, a potem przez worek lać będziesz na misę. Wprzód jednak polewkę zaprawisz według smaku, cytryn świeżych, wina, cynamonu całkiem, goździków, piżma i z tym przywarzywszy, rozpuść migdały. |
— S. Czerniecki, op. cit., s. 88–89 |
Co ciekawe, Czerniecki podaje też w swojej książce recepturę na blamas postny (ale już nie wegański), który robi się na galarecie rybnej.
The Centrepiece Masterpiece
Znacznie więcej uwagi niż samym potrawom poświęcił Mickiewicz ozdobie stołu, a konkretnie – wielkiemu porcelanowemu serwisowi.
The guests meanwhile, awaiting their meal in the hall, | ||||
— A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book XII, verses 25–27
Original text:
|
Co to takiego, ów serwis? Wyobraźcie sobie trzymacz do solniczki i pieprzniczki. Czasem można spotkać takie bardziej rozbudowane, z ampułkami na ocet i oliwę, czy uchwytem na serwetki. A teraz wyobraźcie sobie taki zestaw, ale rozbudowany do monstrualnych rozmiarów, tak że zajmuje pół stołu, a do tego bogato zdobiony. Coś takiego właśnie nazywano serwisem, albo z francuska "surtout de table" (wym.: sjur-tude tabl, dosłownie: "na całym stole").
Ten serwis, który Wojski na specjalną okazję wydobył z soplicowskiego lamusa, był olbrzymi nawet jak na barokowe standardy. Na tafli wielkości "karetnego koła"[16] stało co najmniej trzydzieści "niewielkich z porcelany wydętych" figurek "w polskich strojach".[17] Figurki te przedstawiały scenę z życia polskich sejmików – kampanię wyborczą, liczenie głosów, nieskuteczne weto, radość zwycięzcy i rozpacz żony przegranego. Nie będę się tu wdawał w szczegóły; kto chce, niech przeczyta opis Hreczechy, który pan Podkomorzy skwitował słowami: "prawda, że sejmik ciekawy, ale my głodni, każ Wać przynosić potrawy."[18]
Zamiast tego, skupmy się na tym, co w tym serwisie było z produktów spożywczych, choć oczywiście były one bardziej do ozdoby niż do jedzenia – coś, jak współczesne dekoracje tortów z cukrowego fondantu (np. takie cuda, jak moja siostra robi). Uwaga, teraz będzie dłuższy kawałek trzynastozgłoskowca, ale myślę, że warto przeczytać do końca.
Rim to rim this grand object, replete with the glow |
— A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book XII, verses 35–40, 159–184 |
Krajobraz zimowy zrobiony z "piany", czyli bitej śmietany na słodko, to jeszcze jeden koncept na barokową iluzję kulinarną wzięty z Compendium Czernieckiego. W wersji oryginalnej lało się ją na krzak rozmarynu, który z kolei obkładało się ulipkami, czyli krótkimi rurkami z kremem. Razem miało to udawać choinkę przykrytą czapą śniegu i leżące wokół niej szyszki. A robiło się to tak:
Weźmij śmietany gęstej słodkiej tak wiele, jak potrzeba. Przydaj cukru tłuczonego. Rób puszką, której do ciasta używasz [tj. ubijaj w metalowym naczyniu], tak długo, aż się piana wezdmie […] Możesz […] na misę krzak rozmarynowy postawić, a na niego pianę lać, który tak postawisz: chleba rżanego [tj. żytniego] rozkrój bochen na dwoje płasko. Z jednej części ośródkę wybierz, a masłem na to miejsce podlep i przyciśnij do misy, żeby to masło trzymało chleb mocno. A w ten chleb wsadź krzak rozmarynu, a będziesz lał pianę, a obsadziwszy ulipkami i pocukrowawszy, dasz na misę. |
— S. Czerniecki, op. cit., s. 90 |
Ta piana z czasem spływała z krzaka, co dawało efekt odwilży: po zimie przychodzą wiosna i lato. Odsłoniły się las zrobiony z czekolady, gryka z czekolady, jabłonie i grusze – nie wiem, może z jakiegoś jabłkowo-gruszkowego musu? I szafranowa pszenica, co chyba nie oznacza gołych pręcików krokusa uprawnego, ale jakąś masę zabarwioną na żółto szafranem. A jeżeli chwilę potem "zboża malowane złotem, nabrawszy ciepła w izbie powoli topnieją",[23] to chyba nie mogło to być nic innego niż lody szafranowe. To byłaby iście barokowa przewrotność: śnieg zrobiony z letniej piany, a letnie zboże – z lodów. Przepisu na lody Czerniecki nie podaje. Ale wiem, że pyszne lody szafranowe, z dodatkiem korzenia orchidei, który nadaje im niesamowitą krówkową konsystencję, można dostać w restauracji Gothic na dawnym zamku wielkiego mistrza krzyżackiego; dla samych tych lodów warto wybrać się do Malborka.
Na koniec zostały już tylko laski cynamonu i gałązki laurowe, oblepione (nie bardzo wiadomo jak) ziarenkami kminu. I nie jestem pewien, czy takie gałązki nadawałyby się jako zakąska. Prędzej można wyobrazić sobie jakieś kminowe, czy kminkowe, paluszki.
Tak czy siak, jedno jest ważne: żeby z całą tą sztuką kulinarnej iluzji trafić na publiczność, która ów kunszt będzie w stanie docenić. Wojskiemu, niestety, chyba nie do końca się to udało.
The guests neither inquired what this dish might be called, | ||||
— A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book XII, verses 155–158
Original text:
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Full Menu
References
- ↑ Adam Mickiewicz: Pan Tadeusz, or The Last Foray in Lithuania: A Tale of the Gentry during 1811-1812, translated by Marcel Weyland, Book XI, verses 153–154
- ↑ A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book XI, verse 669
- ↑ A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book XII, verses 195–196
- ↑ S. Czerniecki, op. cit., s. 44
- ↑ Jędrzej Kitowicz: Customs and Culture in Poland under the Last Saxon King, Oscar E. Swan (trans.), Budapest – New York: Central European University Press, 2019, p. 270
- ↑ A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book XII, verse 143
- ↑ A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book XII, verse 397
- ↑ A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book II, verse 282; Book X, verse 585
- ↑ Izabela Jarosińska: Kuchnia polska i romantyczna, Kraków: Wydawnictwo Literackie, 1994, p. 208–209, own translation
- ↑ A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book XII, verses 139–141
- ↑ A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book XII, verse 148
- ↑ S. Czerniecki, op. cit., s. 67
- ↑ S. Czerniecki, op. cit., s. 9
- ↑ A. Mickiewcz, op. cit., Book XI, verse 147
- ↑ A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book XI, verses 138–139
- ↑ A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book XII, verse 34
- ↑ A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book XII, verses 42–43
- ↑ A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book XII, verses 122–123
- ↑ A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book XII, verses 25–26, 33–34
- ↑ A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book XII, verses 41–42
- ↑ A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book XII, verses 159–162
- ↑ A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book XII, verses 488–489
- ↑ A. Mickiewicz, op. cit., Book XII, verses 174–175
Bibliography
- Stanisław Czerniecki: Compendium ferculorum albo Zebranie potraw, Jarosław Dumanowski, Magdalena Spychaj (eds.), Warszawa: Muzeum Pałacu Króla Jana III w Wilanowie, 2012
- Jarosław Dumanowski, Katarzyna Dumanowska: Słownik, in: Stanisław Czerniecki: Compendium ferculorum albo Zebranie potraw, 2012, p. 182–206
- Jarosław Dumanowski: Tatarskie ziele w cukrze, czyli Staropolskie słodycze, Warszawa: Muzeum Pałacu Króla Jana III w Wilanowie, 2013
- Izabela Jarosińska: Kuchnia polska i romantyczna, Kraków: Wydawnictwo Literackie, 1994
- Luigi Marinelli: O "zagadce" Najświętszej Panny Kwietnej: przyczynek do Mickiewiczowskiej "mariologii", in: Pamiętnik Literacki: czasopismo kwartalne poświęcone historii i krytyce literatury polskiej, 91/3, Warszawa: Instytut Badań Literackich PAN, 2000, p. 201–208
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