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This is another post in a &nbsp;series about food in ''Pan Tadeusz'', the Napoleonic-era Polish national epic by Adam Mickiewicz. While wandering around Europe after his exile from Russian-ruled Poland, Mickiewicz always kept in his travelling library an "old, worn cookbook", which he would read from time to time "with great pleasure", hoping to one day give a &nbsp;"truly Polish-Lithuanian banquet" according to "the ancient recipës".<ref>Excerpts quoted from a letter by Antoni Edward Odyniec, Mickiewicz's travel companion, dated 28 April 1830, quoted in: {{Cyt

}}</ref> I will write about the title of this book [[Epic Cooking: The Perfect Cook#“A Dear Souvenir of Righteous Customs”|in a different post]]. For now, it suffices to say that the poet never had the occasion to fulfill his dream of hosting a &nbsp;real-life Old Polish-Lithuanian feast and had to satisfy his culinary fantasies by conjuring up a &nbsp;perfect traditional banquet on the pages of ''Pan Tadeusz'' instead.

He placed his description of an old-fashioned "Polish dinner" in the books (chapters) XI and XII of the poem. In the earlier books, on the other hand, we can find depictions of the kind of meals the author could remember from his own youth in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania (a &nbsp;constituent nation of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, which covered not only the territory of the modern-day Republic of Lithuania, but also the much larger Belarus). To him, this was just the ordinary, daily fare of the "land of [his] childhood". To us, though, it is what the cookery described in his treasured little book was to Mickiewicz – the forgotten world of Old Polish cuisine. And just like Mickiewicz would fantasize about recreating an Old Polish banquet, so would I like to share with you my own vision of a &nbsp;''Pan Tadeusz''-style supper. Someone someday may actually try to prepare a &nbsp;meal based on the menu I propose here; but for now let's let’s stick mostly to our imagination.

}}, Book I, verses 262–263</ref><br>This and next frames come from Andrzej Wajda's Wajda’s 1999 film adaptation of ''Pan Tadeusz''.]]I already wrote about the chronology of the meals described in ''Pan Tadeusz'' in [[Epic Cooking: Breakfast at Judge Soplica's|my post about the epic's breakfasts]]. As you may or may not remember, there are three afternoon or evening meals described in the first five books of the poem. These include a &nbsp;Friday supper in the Horeszko family's family’s ruined castle, a &nbsp;Saturday dinner at Judge Soplica's Soplica’s manor house and a &nbsp;Sunday supper held in the castle again. We'll We’ll try and piece together our menu from the poet's poet’s descriptions of all three meals.

Why did Protase (Protazy), a &nbsp;former court usher and now Judge Soplica's Soplica’s domestic servant, insist on having the supper in the murky ruins of an abandoned castle? Officially, because the castle, more spacious than the Judge's Judge’s house, could better accommodate the many guests who arrived for the conclusion of the court case between the Judge and the Count. But as the castle was what the whole litigation was actually about, it was Protase's Protase’s idea to prove that the Judge had gained ownership of the ruins through usucaption. In other words, if the Judge had his meals in the castle, then it surely meant that the real estate was legally his.

As you may know, the main meal of the day in Poland begins invariably with a &nbsp;bowl of soup. It was no different in Soplica's Soplica’s house, except that, just before the soup, the men were served a &nbsp;small apéritif.

The Poles have known for a &nbsp;long time that there's there’s nothing better than vodka to open a &nbsp;meal, but the West is only now beginning to discover clear vodka as the perfect apéritif. This is how two East Europeans living in the West, Nicholas Ermochkine and Peter Iglikowski, described it in their book:

Why was it only for men, though? Why didn't didn’t the women get any vodka? After all, already in the 18th century, did the Rev. Jędrzej Kitowicz write of Polish noble ladies that they would "often get drunk on vodka".<ref>{{Cyt

}}</ref> Or maybe that's that’s precisely the reason?

This ritual repetitiveness of Soplica's Soplica’s meals was adjusted only to the season and to the Catholic calendar of feasts and fasts. In this case, it's it’s Lithuanian cold borscht, a &nbsp;summertime soup that is still as popular on hot days in both Lithuania and Poland as ''gazpacho'' is in Spain.

There is a &nbsp;linguistic problem here, though. Mickiewicz has used two different terms, "''chłodnik''" (pronounced {{pron|HWawd|neek}}) and "''chołodziec''" ({{pron|Haw|Waw|jets}}). Both words derive from the adjective "''chłodny''", or "cold", but while Mickiewiczologists have no doubt that "''chłodnik''" refers to a &nbsp;cold soup, there is some disagreement as to what kind of dish ''chołodziec'' was.<ref>{{Cyt

}}</ref> Is it a &nbsp;regional name for the same soup or does it refer to an aspic dish? After all, the similar Russian word "холодец" (''kholodets'') refers to a &nbsp;meat-based jelly. It could be possible that this term had filtered into the eastern dialects of Polish. Besides, veal feet in aspic would have paired perfectly with the vodka.

On the other hand, the vodka was served to men only, but the ''chołodziec'' was consumed by all. What's What’s more, there's there’s no evidence that, in the 19th century, the word was used for aspic anywhere outside certain regions of Russia proper; it's it’s not attested in either Polish or Belarusian of the time (of course, aspic dishes themselves had been known since the Middle Ages, albeit under other names). Anyway, the oldest translations of ''Pan Tadeusz'' into both Russian and Belarusian treat both "''chłodnik''" and "''chołodziec''" as referring to a &nbsp;soup. It looks like both Mickiewicz himself and his contemporary translators had no doubts that these two words were synonymous.

There's There’s another interesting difference, though. On the third day, the cold borscht was "whitened", or clouded with sour cream, but on the first and second days, it wasn'twasn’t. Why? One possible explanation would be that the first two days were Friday and Saturday, that is, lean days. In Polish tradition, dairy products, as well as meat, were proscribed on lean days. It was only on Sunday that the same cold borscht was served again, but this time, enhanced with the luxurious additive. Except that if the Soplicas fasted on Saturday, then they must have done it only in the afternoon, because [[Epic Cooking: Breakfast at Judge Soplica's|for breakfast they'd had not only cream, but even smoked goose breasts, beef tongues, ham and steaks]]! This may be explained away only by the poet's poet’s inconsistency.

So how do you prepare this whitened Lithuanian cold borscht? Here's Here’s a &nbsp;recipë from ''The Lithuanian Cook'', a &nbsp;Polish-language cookbook by Wincentyna Zawadzka. The first edition was published two decades after Mickiewicz had penned ''Pan Tadeusz'', but I suppose the recipë would have been quite similar in his times. Heck, even today Lithuanian cold borscht is still made in pretty much the same fashion.

Now that we know what they had for soup, let's let’s find out what was served as the second course.

And here we've we’ve got another puzzle which Mickiewiczologists have been trying to figure out for decades. Crayfish was easily available in late summer, chicken possibly too, but asparagus? The season for asparagus is in May, right? So how could it find itself on the table next to the late-summer crayfish? Was it only for the rhyme? Or is this yet another of the poet's poet’s mistakes who seems to have juggled the seasons quite liberally in his work?

"Disturbed, shaken, uncertain," we begin to doubt the realism of the epic's epic’s setting. But no, "such master errs not!"<ref>Mickiewicz, ''op. cit.'', Book 12, verse 710</ref> It's It’s perfectly possible to defend the presence of asparagus in early September. After all, the poet didn't didn’t specify that it was fresh asparagus. And the art of pickling the vegetable had been known in Poland for ages. Here's Here’s a &nbsp;recipë for vinegar-cured asparagus from a &nbsp;17th-century herbal written by a &nbsp;Polish Renaissance botanist, Prof. Simon Syrenius (Szymon Syreński):

Very well, but how do you combine these pickles with chicken and crayfish into one dish? Let's Let’s consult ''The Lithuanian Cook'' once again. We can find there a &nbsp;recipë for "chicken with mayonnaise", elegantly garnished with, that's that’s right, asparagus and crayfish (and cauliflower to boot).

Naturally, if you use pickled asparagus, then don't don’t add too much vinegar into this dish. This quite sour course would have been paired with sweet Malaga wine. And if you've you’ve got too much asparagus and crayfish on your hands, then you may also add them to your cold borscht, as you could see in the recipë for the first-course dish.

After the second course, it's it’s time for the third. What does the poet tell us about it?

So, not much. All we know is that gherkins or cucumbers were served on the side. But what about the meat? We're We’re going to have to complete the picture with our own imagination. After a &nbsp;rather light poultry course, I suppose it's it’s time for something more substantial. And as August and September are mutton season, then why not have some ram meat? Let's Let’s take the first recipë for mutton that we can find in ''The Lithuanian Cook'':

And, from the same book, a &nbsp;recipë for "stewed cucumbers to be served with mutton":

Early September may be somewhat late for fresh cucumbers, but we do know that Sophie (Zosia), Thaddeus's Thaddeus’s young love interest, picked them with her own hand in her little garden.

}}</ref> And so, we've we’ve got another course that is both greasy and sour: fat mutton marinated in vinegar, pickled gherkins and all of it stewed in lard or butter. This will be accompanied by Hungarian Tokay wine.

Whoa, hold on! A &nbsp;fourth course? How many courses were there, then? Well, a &nbsp;minimum of four. A &nbsp;two-course dinner is the norm in what we consider traditional Polish cuisine today, but in the 19th century a &nbsp;dinner in a &nbsp;well-to-do home rarely consisted of fewer than four courses. Not counting the dessert.

Alas, all that we know about the fourth course served at Judge Soplica's Soplica’s is that it was there. The poet doesn't doesn’t tell us anything about what exactly was being eaten. Instead, we have a &nbsp;description of a &nbsp;drunken brawl which broke out during the second supper in the castle. Glasses, bottles, knives, tables, even organ pipes were all used as weapons. When the dust settled, the diners had gone, leaving behind a &nbsp;battlefield strewn with remnants of the feast. Perhaps from these food scraps we can read what had been served towards the end of the meal?

It looks like poultry, including turkeys, returned to the table after the third course. Even though turkeys come originally from America, they became quite popular in Poland not long after Columbus's Columbus’s journeys. On European tables, they quickly replaced other large birds, like peafowl and swans, which from then on were raised mostly for decorative purposes. By the 19th century, the turkey had already been considered a &nbsp;time-honoured Old Polish delicacy.

At Judge Soplica's Soplica’s farm, turkeys, chickens and other poultry, including ducks, geese and pigeons, were all raised by an eminent expert, the housekeeper,…

As with many minor characters in ''Pan Tadeusz'', her name is telling; "''Kokosznicka z&nbsp;domu Jendykowiczówna''" could be translated as "Mrs. Hen ''née'' Turkey". Anyway, she had a &nbsp;little, well-meaning, even if sometimes overzealous, helper in Sophie, who fed the poultry with expensive pearl barley.

So how would we cook such a &nbsp;turkey fattened on lordly pearl barley? The chicken served for the second course was boiled, so this time let's let’s have a &nbsp;roast.

Of desserts that were served at Judge Soplica's Soplica’s we know nothing. Most of the meals described in the poem were interrupted in some way before the waiters even had the chance to bring in the sweets. The only sweet treat mentioned in ''Pan Tadeusz'' is ''kisiel'' and only in a &nbsp;proverb at that.

If you've you’ve never heard of ''kisiel'' (pronounced {{pron|kee|shel}}) or of this saying, don't don’t worry. Mickiewicz apparently thought that even Polish people living outside Lithuania might be unfamiliar with either of these, so he added the following explanatory footnote:

In other words, "tenth water on kisiel" refers to a &nbsp;very distant relation. The saying is still used in modern Polish, just as ''kisiel'' is still a &nbsp;popular dessert. It's It’s also a &nbsp;very ancient one, although originally it wasn't wasn’t sweet at all. The very word "''kisiel''" comes from the verb "''kisić''", "to make sour". The ancient Slavic ''kisiel'' was a &nbsp;mouth-puckering white jelly made from a &nbsp;fermented mixture of water and oat or rye meal. A &nbsp;similar concoction is still used in Poland as the basis for ''żurek'', or white borscht, one of the most popular Polish soups. It was made just as Mickiewicz described it: by pouring water on oatmeal and leaving the starchy solution to ferment until it becomes sour and gelatinous enough to be cut with a &nbsp;knife. For ancient Slavs, this was one of the principal staples. A &nbsp;mythical land of plenty is described in Russian fairy tales as rivers of milk between banks of ''kisiel''. ''The Tale of Bygone Years'', a &nbsp;12th-century chronicle of Kyivan Ruthenia (or Kievan Rus'Rus’), even tells a &nbsp;story of how ''kisiel'' saved the city of Belgorod from an invasion by the nomadic Pechenegs. During the siege, a &nbsp;respected old Belgorodian man advised his compatriots to dig a &nbsp;deep well, fill it with water and oat starch, and wait until it went sour. Then they invited Pecheneg envoys into the city to show them the well, let them try the ''kisiel'' and convince them that they were getting their food straight from the ground, so any further siege made no sense and it would be best for the Pechenegs to go back to the steppe and leave Belgorod alone.<ref>{{Cyt

}}</ref> but it seems to be true for other Slavic peoples as well. Even so, there must have always been those who tried to balance the sourness with something sweet, be it honey or fruit juices. And so did ''kisiel'' eventually evolve into a &nbsp;sweet, fruit-flavoured dish. Finally, in the 19th century, oatmeal gave way to potato starch and thus the ''kisiel'' we know today was born. The recipë for apple-flavoured ''kisiel'' you can read below, taken from ''The Lithuanian Cook'', is already a &nbsp;relatively modern one; it contains potato starch and sugar, and no fermentation is necessary.

And finally, just to make the dessert a &nbsp;tad more diverse and make use of some other autumn fruits, let's let’s add one more recipë from the same source, this one for pear compote. In modern Polish, "''kompot''" refers to a &nbsp;popular watery drink made from fruits boiled with sugar. In the 19th century, though, the meaning was closer to the French original, that is, a &nbsp;thick and very sweet fruit syrup. In fact, you could simply buy a &nbsp;tin of pears in syrup, pour them into bowls, add some spices and the effect would be almost the same.

And so we've we’ve created a &nbsp;complete menu of a &nbsp;Soplica-style dinner: