Intro & Preface & Contents
Previous: Winter VIII. Second course...
There is to me an odd pathos in the literature of vegetarianism. I remember the day when I read these periodicals and pamphlets with all the zest of hunger and poverty, vigorously seeking to persuade myself that flesh was an altogether superfluous, even a repulsive, food. If ever such things fall under my eye nowadays, I am touched with a half humourous compassion for the people whose necessity, not their will, consents to this chemical view of diet. There comes before me a vision of certain vegetarian restaurants, where, at a minim outlay, I have often enough made believe to satisfy my craving stomach; where I have swallowed ‘savoury cutlet.’ ‘vegetable steak.’ and I know not what windy insufficiencies tricked up under specious names. One place do I recall where you had a complete dinner for sixpence -- I dare not try to remember the items. But well indeed do I see the faces of the guests -- poor clerks and shopboys, bloodless girls and women of many sorts -- all endeavoring to find a relish in lentil soup and haricot something-or-other. It was a grotesquely heart-breaking sight.
I hate with a bitter hatred the names of lentils and haricots -- those pretentious cheats of the appetite, those tabulated humbugs, those certificated aridities calling themselves human food! An ounce of either, we are told, is equivalent to -- how many pounds? -- of the best rumpsteak. There are not many ounces of common sense in the brain of him who proves it, or of him who believes it... Preach and tabulate as you will, the English palate -- which is the supreme judge -- rejects vegetables without the natural concomitant of meat... as it rejects lemonade and ginger-ale offered as substitute for honest beer.
Alpha.
I am shocked, shocked, I say, that there were vegetarian restaurants in London in the nineteenth-century. While I’m quite fond of lentils, I tend to agree with him about faux meats and I would add faux vegan cheeses to the black list. It took me years to stop people from making me Tofurkey, or the like, at Thanksgiving. The wonderful thing about Thanksgiving diner is that there is never enough room on your plate for all the side dishes. Between mashed potatoes (with butter), stuffing (not stuffed in the bird), yams, green beans (HR's detested haricots), and cranberries, the last thing you want is to have to make room for some nasty Tofurky dish.
Today there are some pretty decent sausage substitutes that I do enjoy. But this is reasonable enough, as sausage is mostly spices and added flavorings in any case. At least I don’t have to worry about the source of the meat that has no better use than to be pulverized and shot into casings.
I strongly recommend you reread Gissing's words above, aloud, and in an irate French accent. The effect is... powerful. And humorous.
Food for thought.
By chance, two of my favorite vegetarian restaurants are in London. Cranks and Food For Thought -- on Neal Street. The first time I was at Food For Thought was a bitter cold day in the early spring. It was so delightful to descend into that warm basement and then to hover over a steaming bowl of delicious food. The bread was hearty and heavy and delicious. I may even have had lemonade to drink... it was a long time ago. There are meats I miss: grilled steak, bbq ribs, abalone steak, both roast beef and turkey sandwiches. But as a vegetarian for ethical reasons, avoiding meat has never been a problem for me. Eating eggs made it much easier to eat while traveling, and I’ve learned the other trick of always staying in university towns which have, if not vegetarian, at least ethnic alternatives that give me more options. And I would also counter the “natural gusto” and true “nourishment” Gissing found in Cambridge sausage with my not suffering from any kind of food poisoning in over 35 years -- the couple times I ate a bit of meat by mistake and suffered the consequences, shouldn’t really count in this.
Next: Winter X. The English Potato.
No comments:
Post a Comment