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The name of another personality is introduced in connection with the book, namely that of Cœlius or Cælius. This name is mentioned in the title of the first undated edition (ca. 1483–6) as Celius. Torinus, 1541, places “Cælius” before “Apicius”; Humelbergius, 1542, places “Cœlius” after A. Lister approves of this, berating Torinus for his willful methods of editing the book: “En hominem in conjecturis sane audacissimus!” If any of them were correct about “Cœlius,” Torinus would be the man. (Cf. Schanz, Röm. Lit. Gesch., Müller’s Handbuch d. klass. Altertums-Wissenschaft, V III, 112, p. 506.) However, there is no raison d’être for Cœlius.

His presence and the unreality thereof has been cleared up by Vollmer, as will be duly shown. The squabble of the medieval savants has also given rise to the story that Apicius is but a joke perpetrated upon the world by a medieval savant. This will be refuted also later on. Our book is a genuine Roman. Medieval savants have made plenty of Roman “fakes,” for sundry reasons. A most ingenious hoax was the “completion” of the Petronius fragment by a scholar able to hoodwink his learned contemporaries by an exhibition of Petronian literary style and a fertile imagination. Ever so many other “fakers” were shown up in due time. When this version of Petronius was pronounced genuine by the scientific world, the perpetrator of the “joke” confessed, enjoying a good laugh at the expense of his colleagues. But we shall presently understand how such a “joke” with Apicius would be impossible. Meanwhile, we crave the indulgence of the modern reader with our mention of Cœlius. We desire to do full justice to the ancient work and complete the presentation of its history. The controversies that have raged over it make this course necessary.

Our predecessors have not had the benefit of modern communication, and, therefore, could not know all that is to be known on the subject. We sympathize with Lister yet do not condemn Torinus. If Torinus ever dared making important changes in the old text, they are easily ascertained by collation with other texts. This we have endeavored to do. Explaining the discrepancies, it will be noted that we have not given a full vote of confidence to Lister.

Why should the mysterious Cœlius or Cælius, if such an author or compiler of a tome on cookery existed affix the name of “Apicius” to it? The reason would be commercial gain, prestige accruing from the name of that cookery celebrity. Such business sense would not be extraordinary. Modern cooks pursue the same method. Witness the innumerable à la soandsos. Babies, apartment houses, streets, cities, parks, dogs, race horses, soap, cheese, herring, cigars, hair restorers are thus named today. “Apicius” on the front page of any ancient cookery book would be perfectly consistent with the ancient spirit of advertising. It has been stated, too, that Cœlius had more than one collaborator. Neither can this be proven.

The copyists have made many changes throughout the original text. Misspelling of terms, ignorance of cookery have done much to obscure the meaning. The scribes of the middle ages had much difficulty in this respect since medieval Latin is different from Apician language.

The very language of the original is proof for its authenticity. The desire of Torinus to interpret to his medieval readers the ancient text is pardonable. How much or how little he succeeded is attested to by some of his contemporary readers, former owners of our copies. Scholars plainly confess inability to decipher Apicius by groans inscribed on the fly leaves and title pages in Latin, French and other languages. One French scholar of the 16th century, apparently “kidded” for studying an undecipherable cook book, stoically inscribes the title page of our Lyon, 1541, copy with: “This amuses me. Why make fun of me?” This sort of message, reaching us out of the dim past of bygone centuries is among the most touching reading we have done, and has urged us on with the good though laborious and unprofitable work.

Notwithstanding its drawbacks, our book is a classic both as to form and contents. It has served as a prototype of most ancient and modern books. Its influence is felt to the present day.

The book has often been cited by old writers as proof of the debaucheries and the gluttony of ancient Rome. Nothing could be further from the truth because these writers failed to understand the book.

The Apicius book reflects the true condition (partly so, because it is incomplete) of the kitchen prevailing at the beginning of our era when the mistress of the Old World was in her full regalia, when her ample body had not yet succumbed to that fatty degeneration of the interior so fatal to ever so many individuals, families, cities and nations.

We repeat, our Apicius covers Rome’s healthy epoch; hence the importance of the book. The voluptuous concoctions, the fabulous dishes, the proverbial excesses that have made decent people shudder with disgust throughout the ages are not known to Apicius. If they ever existed at all in their traditional ugliness they made their appearance after Apicius’ time. We recall, Petronius, describing some of these “stunts” is a contemporary of Nero (whom he satirizes as “Trimalchio”). So is Seneca, noble soul, another victim of Cæsarean insanity; he, too, describes Imperial excesses. These extremely few foolish creations are really at the bottom of the cause for this misunderstanding of true Roman life. Such stupidity has allowed the joy of life which, as Epikuros and Platina believe, may be indulged in with perfect virtue and honesty to become a byword among all good people who are not gastronomers either by birth, by choice or by training.

With due justice to the Roman people may we be permitted to say that proverbial excesses were exceedingly rare occurrences. The follies and the vices of a Nero, a boy Heliogabalus, a Pollio, a Vitellius and a few other notorious wasters are spread sporadically over a period of at least eight hundred years. Between these cases of gastronomic insanity lie wellnigh a thousand years of everyday grind and drudgery of the Roman people. The bulk was miserably fed as compared with modern standards of living. Only a few patricians could afford “high living.” Since a prosperous bourgeoisie (usually the economic and gastronomic background of any nation) was practically unknown in Rome, where the so-called middle classes were in reality poor, shiftless and floating freedmen, it is evident that the bulk of the population because of the empire’s unsettled economic conditions, its extensive system of slavery (precluding all successful practice of trades by freemen), the continuous military operations, the haphazard financial system, was forced to live niggardly. The contrast between the middle classes and the upper classes seemed very cruel. This condition may account for the many outcries against the “extravagances” of the few privileged ones who could afford decent food and for the exaggerated stories about their table found in the literature of the time.

The seemingly outlandish methods of Apician food preparation become plain and clear in the light of social evolution. “Evolution” is perhaps not the right word to convey our idea of social perpetual motion.

Apicius used practically all the cooking utensils in use today. He only lacked gas, electricity and artificial refrigeration, modern achievements while useful in the kitchen and indispensable in wholesale production and for labor saving, that have no bearing on purely gastronomical problems. There is only one difference between the cooking utensils of yore and the modern products: the old ones are hand-made, more individualistic, more beautiful, more artistic than our machine-made varieties.

Despite his strangeness and remoteness, Apicius is not dead by any means. We have but to inspect (as Gollmer has pointed out) the table of the Southern Europeans to find Apician traditions alive. In the Northern countries, too, are found his traces. To think that Apicius should have survived in the North of Europe, far removed from his native soil, is a rather audacious suggestion. But the keen observer can find him in Great Britain, Scandinavia and the Baltic provinces today. The conquerors and seafarers coming from the South have carried the pollen of gastronomic flowers far into the North where they adjusted themselves to soil and climate. Many a cook of the British isles, of Southern Sweden, Holstein, Denmark, Friesland, Pomerania still observes Apicius rules though he may not be aware of the fact.

We must realize that Apicius is only a book, a frail hand-made record and that, while the record itself might have been forgotten, its principles have become international property, long ago. Thus they live on. Like a living thing—a language, a custom, they themselves may have undergone changes, “improvements,” alterations, augmentation, corruption. But the character has been preserved; a couple of thousand years are, after all, but a paltry matter. Our own age is but the grandchild of antiquity. The words we utter, in their roots, are those of our grandfathers. And so do many dishes we eat today resemble those once enjoyed by Apicius and his friends.

Is it necessary to point the tenacity of the spirit of the Antique, reaching deep into the modern age? The latest Apicius edition in the original Latin is dated 1922!

The gastronomic life of Europe was under the complete rule of old Rome until the middle of the seventeenth century. Then came a sudden change for modernity, comparable to the rather abrupt change of languages from the fashionable Latin to the national idioms and vernacular, in England and Germany under the influence of literary giants like Luther, Chaucer, Shakespeare.

All medieval food literature of the continent and indeed the early cookery books of England prior to La Varenne (Le Cuisinier François, 1654) are deeply influenced by Apicius. The great change in eating, resulting in a new gastronomic order, attained its highest peak of perfection just prior to the French revolution. Temporarily suspended by this social upheaval, it continued to flourish until about the latter part of last century. The last decades of this new order is often referred to as the classical period of gastronomy, with France claiming the laurels for its development. “Classic” for reasons we do not know (Urbain Dubois, outstanding master of this period wrote “La Cuisine classique”) except that its precepts appeal as classical to our notion of eating. This may not correspond to the views of posterity, we had therefore better wait a century or two before proclaiming our system of cookery “classical.”

Disposing of that old “classic,” Apicius, as slowly as a conservative cooking world could afford to do, the present nations set out to cultivate a taste for things that a Roman would have pronounced unfit for a slave. Still, the world moves on. Conquest, discovery of foreign parts, the New World, contributed fine things to the modern table—old forgotten foods were rediscovered—endless lists of materials and combinations, new daring, preposterous dishes that made the younger generation rejoice while old folks looked on gasping with dismay, despair, contempt.

Be it sufficient to remark that the older practitioners of our own days, educated in “classic” cuisine again are quite apprehensive of their traditions endangered by the spirit of revolt of the young against the old. Again and again we hear of a decline that has set in, and even by the best authorities alarmist notes are spread to the effect that “we have begun our journey back, step by step to our primitive tree and our primitive nuts” (Pennell. Does Spengler consider food in his “Decline of the West?”).

It matters not whether we share this pessimism, nor what we may have to say pro or con this question of “progress” or “retrogression” in eating (or in anything else for that matter). In fact we are not concerned with the question here more than to give it passing attention.

If “classic” cookery is dying nowadays, if it cannot reassert itself that would be a loss to mankind. But this classic cookery system has so far only been the sole and exclusive privilege of a dying aristocracy. It seems quite in order that it should go under in the great Götterdämmerung that commenced with the German peasants wars of the sixteenth century, flaring up (as the second act) in the French revolution late in the eighteenth century, the Act III of which drama has been experienced in our own days.

The common people as yet have never had an active part in the enjoyment of the classic art of eating. So far, they always provided the wherewithal, and looked on, holding the bag. Modern hotels, because of their commercial character, have done little to perpetuate it. They merely have commercialized the art. Beyond exercising ordinary salesmanship, our maîtres d’hôtel have not educated our nouveaux riches in the mysteries and delights of gastronomy. Hotelmen are not supposed to be educators, they merely cater to a demand. And our new aristocracy has been too busy with limousines, golf, divorces and electricity to bemourn the decline of classic cookery.

Most people “get by” without the benefit of classic cookery, subsisting on a medley of edibles, tenaciously clinging to mother’s traditions, to things “as she used to make them,” and mother’s methods still savor of Apicius. Surely, this is no sign of retrogression but of tenacity.

The only fundamental difference between Roman dining and that of our own times may be found in these two indisputable facts—

(First) Devoid of the science of agriculture, without any advanced mechanical means, food was not raised in a very systematic way; if it happened to be abundant, Roma lacked storage and transportation facilities to make good use of it. There never were any food supplies on any large, extensive and scientific scale, hence raw materials, the wherewithal of a “classic” meal, were expensive.

(Second) Skilled labor, so vital for the success of any good dinner, so imperative for the rational preparation of food was cheap to those who held slaves.

Hence, the culinary conditions of ancient Rome were exactly the opposite of today’s state of affairs. Then, good food was expensive while good labor was cheap. Now, good food is cheap while skilled labor is at a premium. Somehow, good, intelligent “labor” is reluctant to devote itself to food. That is another story. The chances for a good dinner seemed to be in favor of the Romans—but only for a favored few. Those of us, although unable to command a staff of experts, but able to prepare their own meals rationally and serve them well are indeed fortunate. With a few dimes they may dine in royal fashion. If our much maligned age has achieved anything at all it has at least enabled the working “slave” of the “masses” to dine in a manner that even princes could hardly match in former days, a manner indeed that the princes of our own time could not improve upon. The fly in the ointment is that most modern people do not know how to handle and to appreciate food. This condition, however, may be remedied by instruction and education.

Slowly, the modern masses are learning to emulate their erstwhile masters in the art of eating. They have the advantages of the great improvements in provisioning as compared with former days, thanks chiefly to the great lines of communication established by modern commerce, thanks to scientific agriculture and to the spirit of commercial enterprise and its resulting prosperity.

There are two “Ifs” in the path to humanity’s salvation, at least, that of its table. If the commercialization of cookery, i.e., the wholesale production of ready-made foods for the table does not completely enthrall the housewife and if we can succeed to educate the masses to make rational, craftsmanlike use of our wonderful stores of edibles, employing or modifying to this end the rules of classic cookery, there really should be no need for any serious talk about our journey back to the primitive nuts. Even Spengler might be wrong then. Adequate distribution of our foods and rational use thereof seem to be one of the greatest problems today.