The Job of Eating Well Only the most perverse of worlds would rank the pleasure of an afternoon nap among the greatest of sins. Can it really compare to murder? Does the indolent b.u.m really rank down with the out-of-control capitalist? Sloth is a victimless crime if ever there was one, and yet, of the deadly seven, it is the vice most devoutly abhorred in modern America, at least judging by the rewards doled out to the professional pract.i.tioners of l.u.s.t and pride. The gentle sloths among us, alas, receive no comparable compensation.

The practice of criminalizing foods that engender laziness first appeared in the legal code of the seventh-century B.C. Spartan civilization. The Spartans did everything they could to make dinner pure h.e.l.l. Meals were served in communal mess halls and in portions designed to leave citizens hungry. Their national dish was a deliberately revolting "black broth," made of pork stock, blood, vinegar, and salt. Citizens whose generous paunches suggested covert snacking were thrown out of the country. Foreign amba.s.sadors who dined with undue elegance were also expelled. The idea behind this madness, according to Plutarch, was to stop citizens from "spending their lives . . . laid on costly couches at splendid tables, delivering themselves up to the hands of their tradesmen and cooks, who fatten them in corners like greedy brutes." The code's creator, Lycurgus, took his creed so seriously he actually starved himself to death.

It's a notion that recurs regularly throughout Western history. The nineteenth-century English almost banned the potato for fear it would turn its working cla.s.s into fornicating hobos, just as the French aristocrats outlawed soft white bread to ensure a hardy peasantry. Modern America has raised this technique to technological perfection; consider, for example, "convenience foods" like Oscar Meyer's infamous Sack of Sauce in a Can of Meat and premade chocolate sundaes designed so that the microwave melts the sauce but leaves the ice cream intact. TV dinners. McDonald's. Despite the technological differences between modern America and Sparta, the principle of using diet to create an ideal working cla.s.s is identical. Where the Spartans banished citizens who enjoyed eating, modern America just pays them less-about 7 percent among female workers. Both today's fast-food outlets and Spartan mess halls are/were designed to discourage lingering over dinner and eliminate the need for people to "waste" their time cooking for the family. And, like the Spartans' legendarily bad food, many of these convenience foods are so unpleasant they make even work look good. They're also immensely profitable for the corporations who produce them. Perfect: American workers now pay more money for worse food so they can hurry back to jobs they hate.

The Spartans wanted to create a society of superwarriors because they believed waging war was the only worthwhile labor. They succeeded, and their fifth-century B.C. invasion of Athens helped end Greece's Golden Age of democracy, philosophy, and art. But before they fell, at least one Greek sybarite did a gastronomic tour of Sparta. "As he lay on the wooden benches and ate with them he remarked that he had always before been astounded to hear of the Spartan's courage," noted historian Athenaeus. "But now he did not think they were in any respect superior to other peoples . . . for surely the most cowardly man in the world would prefer to die rather than endure living that sort of life."

The Wonderful World of English Cookery Food lovers have long regarded the English cook with awe. His boiled cabbage and overcooked beef. Those cannonball puddings. There is no foodstuff on Earth he has not reduced to an overcooked, flavorless monstrosity. But why? The French believe it's genetic. "The Englishman is naturally a glutton stuffed with beefsteaks and plum pudding, a boa quasi-asphyxiated by a gazelle he just swallowed," opined scholar Jean Saint-Arroman in 1852, "whereas the Frenchman is naturally sober . . . so it is to us [the French] the sun, fine weather and the most precious gifts of nature. To the English, fogs, coal, plum pudding, the spleen and consumptive diseases." It's a point of view that has some resonance for anyone who's experienced the splendors of English cookery (green eel pie, anyone?). There are, however, other theories. Historian Stephen Mennell, for instance, believes France's obvious culinary superiority to the English developed from Louis XIV's requirement that France's n.o.bility live with him in Versailles. Louis had merely wanted to keep an eye on rebellious n.o.bles. But by putting all the aristos under one roof, he inadvertently created a gastronomic hothouse where armies of chefs, patissiers, sommeliers, boulangers, boulangers, and maitres d'hotel competed for the approval of the world's fussiest eaters. One maitre d', Francois Vatel, went so far as to throw himself on his sword when the fish arrived a half hour late. Voila, the birth of French haute cuisine. British n.o.bility, on the other hand, were not obliged to dwell at court, and, living on their own estates enjoyed less-elevated fare. If the fish arrived late, good-it meant two helpings of boiled beef. and maitres d'hotel competed for the approval of the world's fussiest eaters. One maitre d', Francois Vatel, went so far as to throw himself on his sword when the fish arrived a half hour late. Voila, the birth of French haute cuisine. British n.o.bility, on the other hand, were not obliged to dwell at court, and, living on their own estates enjoyed less-elevated fare. If the fish arrived late, good-it meant two helpings of boiled beef.

Although this theory does explain the absence of a truly British high cuisine, my personal favorite relates to the so-called invention of childhood during the Victorian era of the 1800s. The Victorians were the first to completely embrace the notion that children are fundamentally different from adults. Juveniles were strictly segregated, dressed in funny clothes, and told specific bedtime stories. They also had special dietary needs, i.e., old potatoes. "New potatoes are acceptable acceptable," wrote Pye Henry Chava.s.se in his 1844 bestseller Advice to Mothers on the Management of Their Offspring Advice to Mothers on the Management of Their Offspring, "but old potatoes, well cooked and mealy mealy, are the best a child can have." Chava.s.se preached that children under ten should breakfast exclusively on lukewarm milk poured over stale bread that was "preferably seven days old." Sweets were "slow poison," as were green vegetables. Once children had reached their second decade, they could be served old mutton-never beef or pork-and weak beer. Onion and garlic were absolutely forbidden. "Meat, potatoes and bread, with hunger for their sauce is the best, and indeed should be the only dinner, they should have," he wrote. Chava.s.se was the Dr. Spock of his day, and middle-cla.s.s Victorians followed his advice religiously. Children were shoved full of a gruel made of milk, crushed biscuits, and flour that had been boiled for seven hours. The students of Eton ate nothing but old mutton and potatoes 365 days of the year for both lunch and dinner until a compa.s.sionate graduate left a bequest to provide them with a plum pudding every Sunday. Their peers in France may have had to choke down an unreasonable number of baguettes, but almost a quarter of what they ate consisted of vegetables, eggs, and fish, not to mention half a bottle of wine every day. Even the boarding school in Provence that served nothing but cabbage soup 125 days of the year ranked above the English programs.

This s.a.d.i.s.tic approach to child nutrition was a perfect match for the theories of John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, who believed children were "natural atheists" because they enjoyed nature instead of G.o.d. He recommended bringing this under control by reminding them that "they are more ignorant and wicked than they could possibly believe," and breaking their spirit at every turn. Withholding pleasant food was considered a particularly plum way to do this because it trained them out of the expectation of "natural" pleasure at the table. Add this food guilt to the insanely bland food expectations created by Chava.s.se, and you have the pleasure-free cuisine that some claim helped create the stoic Victorian personality that led to Great Britain's domination of the world. It also explains why Victorian brats were so fond of American children's literature. It was the scenes of kids gorging on buckwheat pancakes with maple syrup, eggs, and sausage that they really liked.

Toast Fresh-baked bread is as soft and warm as a newborn baby. It's like eating a living creature. No wonder Christians use bread to symbolize the flesh of Christ or that the Jews call it the Staff of Life or that the Mayans' thirteen-layer loaf macerated in honey mead, called noh-wah noh-wah, was said to symbolize Heaven. Most people believe toast's divine status derives from its role as a dietary staple. It's more complicated than that, and a better explanation is the way it is made. Like beer, bread is created by allowing grain to ferment and then either baking or boiling the result. Today we know fermentation is just a yeast infection of sorts, but anybody who has seen a barrel of fermenting beer seething like a volcano, or a loaf rising, can understand how the humans who first witnessed it considered the process supernatural and akin to the swelling belly of a pregnant female. Italian women used to stand in front of their ovens gnashing their teeth and contorting their faces in a mock birth delivery to ensure a risen loaf. As late as the 1800s, it was traditional to force an older, unwed daughter to sit atop an oven baking bread to make her more attractive to suitors. The world's first bakers, in Egypt, actually doubled as gynecologists by selling wheat to women who suspected they "had a bun in the oven." The ladies would urinate on the wheat and, if pregnant, it would germinate in sympathy. If she was barren, the grain, too, would remain fallow (yes, this is largely effective).

But the people who took this equation most to heart were the French. The French believed the baker's oven to be the national womb and the baguette to be the p.e.n.i.s, and great care was taken to ensure that only France's finest were involved in the act of consummation. The baking profession was restricted to devout Catholics. Village priests set aside an entire day each week to hear the confessions of the local boulanger boulanger, lest his sins be pa.s.sed on to the bread-eating public, and journalists like George Sand claimed the bakers' role in shaping public morality was second only to that of the Church. The good people of Paris took the issue so seriously that they almost went to war over a bun called pain mollet pain mollet. A loaf both light and rich, often enhanced with milk, soft as a baby's bottom, mollet mollet had traditionally been reserved for the aristocratic table. (Everyone else made do with stuff that had to be cut with an ax.) By the late 1600s, however, Parisian bakers were baking had traditionally been reserved for the aristocratic table. (Everyone else made do with stuff that had to be cut with an ax.) By the late 1600s, however, Parisian bakers were baking mollet mollet, also known as the "Queen's Bread," for the hoi polloi, and alarm bells began going off. "It is thirty years since an element of voluptuousness was introduced into the bread of the French," wrote one concerned police commissioner in 1710, "and since then, the bakeries have begun to resemble a brothel."

In his definitive The Bakers of Paris The Bakers of Paris, historian Stanley Kaplan points out that the authorities' concern over mollet mollet existed on a number of levels. "Bread became the innocent vector through which 'sensual pleasure' conquered (and cankered) the lower reaches of the body social," he wrote, ". . . blurring distinctions that structured the social order and undermining the st.u.r.dy values that had protected the 'little people' from the ravages of refinement." The police considered existed on a number of levels. "Bread became the innocent vector through which 'sensual pleasure' conquered (and cankered) the lower reaches of the body social," he wrote, ". . . blurring distinctions that structured the social order and undermining the st.u.r.dy values that had protected the 'little people' from the ravages of refinement." The police considered mollet mollet's luxurious texture its most obvious danger, because it introduced unrealistic expectations into the workers' daily lives. But they also objected to the way it was produced. Traditional French sourdough, called au au levain levain, is made by "mounting" a huge ma.s.s of raw dough and kneading, beating, and ma.s.saging it into shape. The intense labor this required was thought to impart a moral character to the loaf, which, when eaten, helped create a race of equally hardworking peasants. Pain mollet Pain mollet (which is comparable to a good brioche) was called "fantasy bread" because it almost kneaded itself, a laziness that, of course, imparted equally slothful characteristics to the diner. This was fine for aristocrats, who were lounge lizards by right of birth, but definitely a faux pas for the lower cla.s.ses. (which is comparable to a good brioche) was called "fantasy bread" because it almost kneaded itself, a laziness that, of course, imparted equally slothful characteristics to the diner. This was fine for aristocrats, who were lounge lizards by right of birth, but definitely a faux pas for the lower cla.s.ses.

The other concern related to the yeast used to make mollet mollet rise. The historic method of starting the growth of yeast in rise. The historic method of starting the growth of yeast in au au levain levain loaves was to set aside a small piece of uncooked dough from the previous night and add it to new batches. This not only produced a delicious and chewy bread with a wonderfully winey flavor, but the continuous transference of dough from one generation of bread to another gave loaves a pedigree that went back decades, if not centuries, to the baguettes gnawed by French yeoman of yore. In a culture obsessed with ancestry- and one that believed baking was s.e.xual and yeast a kind of s.e.m.e.n-this was no small potatoes. loaves was to set aside a small piece of uncooked dough from the previous night and add it to new batches. This not only produced a delicious and chewy bread with a wonderfully winey flavor, but the continuous transference of dough from one generation of bread to another gave loaves a pedigree that went back decades, if not centuries, to the baguettes gnawed by French yeoman of yore. In a culture obsessed with ancestry- and one that believed baking was s.e.xual and yeast a kind of s.e.m.e.n-this was no small potatoes. Mollet Mollet circ.u.mvented this process by using yeast obtained from Belgium beer to impregnate the loaf-dirty, unnatural, "foreign sc.u.m" that the French believed would produce similar unpatriotic characteristics in anyone who ate it. circ.u.mvented this process by using yeast obtained from Belgium beer to impregnate the loaf-dirty, unnatural, "foreign sc.u.m" that the French believed would produce similar unpatriotic characteristics in anyone who ate it. Mollet Mollet's seminal fluid was doubly d.a.m.ned because it came from beer, a drink that France's wine-loving aristocrats traditionally held in contempt.

The controversy eventually split the capital in half. On one side were the Molletists, who indulged in the decadent habit known as "dunking," and claimed their lighter loaf was more intelligent than the "coa.r.s.e and ponderous" sourdough. On the other side were the Anti-Molletists, who countered that excessive indulgence in the queen's bread was creating "a creeping feebleness in the State." In 1660 the Paris Faculty of Medicine banned mollet mollet. The Parisians were outraged-as decadent, lazy sc.u.m they demanded the right to start their morning with something appropriately reprobate. A year later the government overturned the ban but proved their patriotism by forbidding the use of "foreign yeast." The arguments continued on and off for the next one hundred years and were celebrated in this lovely little ditty by Monsieur de la Condamine in the 1700s.

Then Perrault, the antagonist Said to all, "I am a Pain Molletist!

And Gentlemen, I do insist This bread is pleasant to digest!"

Patin responded, "but the yeast, (To say the least) Is made from a beer of Belgium!

A modern, devilish, bad invention!"

That this should have been published a century after the controversy first erupted gives a pretty good idea with what gravity the French viewed their morning slice. It was, however, just the tip of the iceberg.

The Incredibly Sad Tale of Philippe the Shoemaker (OR, THE POLITICS OF THE BAGUETTE).

It was a pleasant Parisian spring afternoon circa 1775 when Philippe Cordelois was awakened from his siesta by a knocking on the door. Kicking, actually. His visitors first reduced the building's main entrance to splinters. Then they charged up to his third-floor garret, shouting, "In the name of the King!" Philippe, a twenty-eight-year-old apprentice shoemaker, was puzzled; was his master in trouble with the police? The cops burst into his room and threw him against the wall. They knocked over the table, ripped open his mattress. Finally, the officer rummaging through his cupboard gave a shout and grabbed the shoemaker by the collar. He had found a piece of stale bread wedged into the back of one of the shelves. "Nothing to hide, eh?" shouted the officer. He shook the week-old crust in Philippe's face. "Then what, may I ask monsieur, is this?"

"The history of bread," wrote historian Piero Camporesi in The Bread of Dreams The Bread of Dreams, "is the dietary expression of a long battle between the cla.s.ses." The earlier Parisian scandal over mollet mollet had centered on the questions of yeast, nationalism, and ancestry. But the cla.s.sic battle was all about color and cla.s.s. Italians, for instance, have historically had only two real cla.s.ses, according to Camporesi. There were the "fodder mouths," peasants who lived on dark brown bread, and "bread mouths," who dined only on white. The Roman elite would attack anyone who dared offer them a slice of brown bread, and Caesar made the inappropriate serving of dark bread a crime punishable with prison time. had centered on the questions of yeast, nationalism, and ancestry. But the cla.s.sic battle was all about color and cla.s.s. Italians, for instance, have historically had only two real cla.s.ses, according to Camporesi. There were the "fodder mouths," peasants who lived on dark brown bread, and "bread mouths," who dined only on white. The Roman elite would attack anyone who dared offer them a slice of brown bread, and Caesar made the inappropriate serving of dark bread a crime punishable with prison time.

By the time Philippe the shoemaker was arrested in 1775, the issue of who got to eat white, and who brown-and at what price-had become one of the touchiest political issues in France. Like the Italian peasants, most French citizens choked down coa.r.s.e rye and barley breads. The authorities thought this fine and natural. Peasants, after all, were believed to be only marginally more evolved than pigs. The aristocrats suffered a supernaturally refined digestive system which, alas! could process nothing but the most meltingly delicious of baked goods, well b.u.t.tered. There were a few concessions to the real world. The army had been on a white-only ration since an attempt to foist rye on the boys had led to an open revolt. Parisians also received special treatment, and even the lowliest gamin dined on the snowiest of breads. This discrepancy was one of the first things Napoleon Bonaparte noticed with horror when he arrived in the capital.

Like Napoleon, the French peasantry was pa.s.sionately discontented with the situation. It finally blew up when a baker in the village of Beaumont-sur-Oise tried charging white prices for rye. Housewives hog-tied the villain and threw him into the pond, which would have been the end of it if the village's police chief (a notoriously shy man) had kept the situation under control. He didn't, and before you knew it, the ladies had embarked upon a daring but popular program of economic reform. After they'd given away all the baguettes in Beaumont, they headed over to the neighboring village of Meru, where their fiscal policies were again warmly received. Within ten days, over three hundred bread riots broke out. Markets were raided, bakers were forced to sell their loaves at one-tenth the market price, and whole barges were relieved of their flour. The uprising kept creeping closer and closer to Paris, but the police did nothing. They claimed so many people were partic.i.p.ating that they'd have to arrest most of France.

The rioters finally reached Paris and gathered outside the office of the minister of finance, Anne-Robert Turgot, chanting, "Give us bread!" At least that's the popular version of the event. A more accurate translation of their plaint would probably be, "Give us a light yet savory bread with a crisp, caramel-colored crust and a pleasantly chewy, but not tough, interior at a reasonable price." They emphasized their point by threatening to clobber the riot police with stale baguettes. Stale green green baguettes, to be precise. They claimed the bizarrely colored monstrosities, which ranged from very dark brown to gray to green to black, were now being sold by Parisian bakers as a result of Turgot's free-trade policies. This was too much for Turgot. He called the green baguettes "Turkish bread" and claimed they had been made from ashes and rye to serve as propaganda tools in a campaign to topple his government. Turgot's supporters then implied that the bread riots had been started not by peasant housewives but by s.e.xual transvest.i.tes, "perverted men who were strangers to the villages which they had come to destroy." It was baguettes, to be precise. They claimed the bizarrely colored monstrosities, which ranged from very dark brown to gray to green to black, were now being sold by Parisian bakers as a result of Turgot's free-trade policies. This was too much for Turgot. He called the green baguettes "Turkish bread" and claimed they had been made from ashes and rye to serve as propaganda tools in a campaign to topple his government. Turgot's supporters then implied that the bread riots had been started not by peasant housewives but by s.e.xual transvest.i.tes, "perverted men who were strangers to the villages which they had come to destroy." It was they they who had made the green bread weeks earlier, Turgot claimed, so it would be nice and moldy in time for the riots, at which point they'd handed it out to real peasants whom they paid to say it had been purchased at the marketplace. It was obviously all a lie, the story went, because no one had seen a slice of dark brown bread in Paris-much less green-in centuries. who had made the green bread weeks earlier, Turgot claimed, so it would be nice and moldy in time for the riots, at which point they'd handed it out to real peasants whom they paid to say it had been purchased at the marketplace. It was obviously all a lie, the story went, because no one had seen a slice of dark brown bread in Paris-much less green-in centuries.

Enter Philippe the Shoemaker. Turgot had a.s.signed the entire Parisian police force to find anyone possessing bread that was bien brune bien brune (quite brown) and bring the conspirators to justice. Hundreds were arrested and interrogated. The transcripts of their "confessions" can still be found today on a dusty shelf in the French National Archives, a foot-high stack of handwritten, crumbling papers liberally decorated with doodles. A number of them finger the shoemaker. One informant told the police he'd seen Philippe with a group of suspicious-looking country "ladies." Another put him drinking with bakers believed to be part of the conspiracy. The most d.a.m.ning report claims he was seen with a subversive baguette in his hands the day of the riots. Inspector Jean Baptiste Charles LeMaire was in charge of the investigation, and when he finally located Philippe's digs- only a block from Paris's central marketplace, Les Halles!- LeMaire struck. Philippe was charged with "possession of a (quite brown) and bring the conspirators to justice. Hundreds were arrested and interrogated. The transcripts of their "confessions" can still be found today on a dusty shelf in the French National Archives, a foot-high stack of handwritten, crumbling papers liberally decorated with doodles. A number of them finger the shoemaker. One informant told the police he'd seen Philippe with a group of suspicious-looking country "ladies." Another put him drinking with bakers believed to be part of the conspiracy. The most d.a.m.ning report claims he was seen with a subversive baguette in his hands the day of the riots. Inspector Jean Baptiste Charles LeMaire was in charge of the investigation, and when he finally located Philippe's digs- only a block from Paris's central marketplace, Les Halles!- LeMaire struck. Philippe was charged with "possession of a crouton crouton of bread that was absolutely brown" and taken to the s.a.d.i.s.tic interrogation chambers below place du Chatelet (now an equally annoying Metro station of the same name). of bread that was absolutely brown" and taken to the s.a.d.i.s.tic interrogation chambers below place du Chatelet (now an equally annoying Metro station of the same name).

POLICE INSPECTOR LEMAIRE: Is it not true that you told the shop-keeper that this bread, this dark bread, was being sold in the central market of Paris?

PHILIPPE THE SHOEMAKER: Mais, oui! Mais, oui! Yes, it is true I said that. But monsieur, I was only repeating what a man from the country had told me. He said that they were selling this bread in the market. It is he who gave me the dark bread! Yes, it is true I said that. But monsieur, I was only repeating what a man from the country had told me. He said that they were selling this bread in the market. It is he who gave me the dark bread!

[LeMaire must have been pleased since his job had been to find proof that the peasant rabble-rousers from Beaumont were also behind the disturbance in Paris.]

LEMAIRE: This is the one you met with the country "ladies"?

PHILIPPE: I saw three or four women who were showing everyone some round loaves, yes.

LEMAIRE: Did they speak to you?

PHILIPPE: I think they were selling bread. But in truth, monsieur, it was the man with them who approached me with the aforementioned bread that you found in my chamber.

LEMAIRE: And it is true, is it not, that those three or four women also gave you some bread that was quite dark?

PHILIPPE: No.

LEMAIRE: I think you are not telling the truth, monsieur. It is not a reasonable story. For instance, why were you in the market when there was all the tumult going on if you were not involved?

PHILIPPE: Oh, I was only curious.

LEMAIRE: Just curious! A likely story. Do you know where you are? Do you know what happens to people in these places? People who are "just curious" about rebellions against the King of France?

PHILIPPE: G.o.d save the King! Oh, mercy, monsieur . . .

LEMAIRE: Are you sure these so-called women did not give the bread to you?

PHILIPPE: Yes, no, no. I tell you it is the truth! It was the man who gave me the aforementioned bread. It was completely black! I remember he said to me, "This bread, eh? It is not so good, non? Not even a dog should eat such stuff!"

LEMAIRE: The rogue! Describe this man.

PHILIPPE: He was maybe five feet three inches, about thirty-six to forty years. Brown hair. I swear that I have no idea of his name. I had never seen him before.

LEMAIRE: And his clothes? What was he wearing?

PHILIPPE: I couldn't say. I remember thinking he had very poor fashion sense. Tres paysan. Tres paysan.

Philippe's story seems to have checked out, because LeMaire released him after a half dozen interrogations. There are, however, no records of his ever having married. Perhaps he died in the upcoming revolution, or returned to his village of Cambray, where people ate brown bread and were glad of it. The treasonous crouton crouton found in his room was sent to the royal crime lab, where forensic experts determined that, contrary to Minister Turgot's theory, it had been baked the day of the riots and "turned green and black because of its ingredients." Turgot's theory that a deviant Svengali had masterminded the riots, however, was probably correct; Louis XVI was so horrified by the information in the final police report that he burned it himself (apparently it indicated that Louis's relative the Prince of Conti had been behind the whole thing). Turgot was forced from power soon after banning the powerful bakery guild. The question of who got what bread continued to smolder until Marie Antoinette finally introduced an element of sanity into the debate by suggesting that if the peasants were unhappy with their bread, why didn't they just eat cake? This simple observation was somehow taken the wrong way, and, soon thereafter, on the day the price of bread reached an all-time high, the people of Paris went shopping for her head. found in his room was sent to the royal crime lab, where forensic experts determined that, contrary to Minister Turgot's theory, it had been baked the day of the riots and "turned green and black because of its ingredients." Turgot's theory that a deviant Svengali had masterminded the riots, however, was probably correct; Louis XVI was so horrified by the information in the final police report that he burned it himself (apparently it indicated that Louis's relative the Prince of Conti had been behind the whole thing). Turgot was forced from power soon after banning the powerful bakery guild. The question of who got what bread continued to smolder until Marie Antoinette finally introduced an element of sanity into the debate by suggesting that if the peasants were unhappy with their bread, why didn't they just eat cake? This simple observation was somehow taken the wrong way, and, soon thereafter, on the day the price of bread reached an all-time high, the people of Paris went shopping for her head.

Bread is the perfect bellwether of French neurosis. Once the revolution got into full swing, people began choosing their toast based on its political flavor. White was out. Proletariat brown became the toast of the town, and nary a marquis could be seen dunking his mollet mollet in his in his au lait au lait. Scholars quoted Pliny's praise of rye. Generals reminisced about how Roman gladiators scarfed down barley biscuits before battle. Even London's elite took note of the volatile situation and swore to eat "no wheaten bread of any finer quality than that produced from meal." But the bureaucrats of the French Revolution took the cake (not that they wanted any). Political committees railed against the cla.s.s separation caused by la mollesse la mollesse (luxury white breads) and urged that it be banned to "create a just uniformity." Court records from the era are full of bakers arrested for subversion or cheating or simply politically incorrect baking. The mayor of Paris urged the people to hunt down royalist patissiers, and some bakers were even lynched. The bread debate became so fierce that one of France's leading journalists furiously questioned the National a.s.sembly as to whether the revolution had been simply over who was to have "more or less white bread." (luxury white breads) and urged that it be banned to "create a just uniformity." Court records from the era are full of bakers arrested for subversion or cheating or simply politically incorrect baking. The mayor of Paris urged the people to hunt down royalist patissiers, and some bakers were even lynched. The bread debate became so fierce that one of France's leading journalists furiously questioned the National a.s.sembly as to whether the revolution had been simply over who was to have "more or less white bread."

The answer to his query, of course, was yes. In November 1793, only a month after Marie "let 'em eat cake" Antoinette had lost her head, the National a.s.sembly voted to create a National Bread of Equality. It was to be made of three parts wheat, one part rye. "Wealth and poverty have no place in a regime of equality," opined the committee, "[so] there shall no longer be produced a bread of the finest flour for the rich . . . but this single and good type of bread, the Bread of Equality." It was the old scandale mollet scandale mollet reborn, a law that enshrined the belief that the people's daily bread defined their political and moral character, only now Paris's social engineers were using it to create a truly democratic nation. This utopian loaf law was pa.s.sed on November 15 and sent on for final ratification. But it never came. Apparently even the French couldn't swallow this one. Instead, six weeks later the Parlement came up with what they thought was a better solution to the endless bickering over white and brown and luxe and reborn, a law that enshrined the belief that the people's daily bread defined their political and moral character, only now Paris's social engineers were using it to create a truly democratic nation. This utopian loaf law was pa.s.sed on November 15 and sent on for final ratification. But it never came. Apparently even the French couldn't swallow this one. Instead, six weeks later the Parlement came up with what they thought was a better solution to the endless bickering over white and brown and luxe and mollet mollet and your-bread-is-better-than-mine. They ordered every able-bodied Frenchman to start growing potatoes. and your-bread-is-better-than-mine. They ordered every able-bodied Frenchman to start growing potatoes.

The Virgin's Nipples The French may be the most vocal about s.e.x and baking, but the Italians have the most colorful renditions. The bread called copiette copiette is made to resemble a couple having s.e.x, a reference to the ancient tradition of schtupping in a wheat field to help ensure its fertility. Roman wives have a v.a.g.i.n.a-shaped pastry called is made to resemble a couple having s.e.x, a reference to the ancient tradition of schtupping in a wheat field to help ensure its fertility. Roman wives have a v.a.g.i.n.a-shaped pastry called prucitanu prucitanu that they traditionally give their husbands at Christmas. If dissatisfied, they give him the that they traditionally give their husbands at Christmas. If dissatisfied, they give him the viscotta di San Martinu viscotta di San Martinu, a phallic-looking biscuit named after the patron saint of cuckolded husbands. Well-hung grooms wear seven donut-shaped pastries called xuccarati xuccarati on their member during the honeymoon to calm their fearful brides. One cookie is removed and eaten each day until she's ready for the full monty. on their member during the honeymoon to calm their fearful brides. One cookie is removed and eaten each day until she's ready for the full monty.

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Traditional image of St. Agatha of St. Agatha offering her b.r.e.a.s.t.s offering her b.r.e.a.s.t.s on a serving on a serving platter; sketch by platter; sketch by the author of a the author of a fresco in an fresco in an unnamed Sicilian unnamed Sicilian church. church.

The most common of these erotic mouthfuls is the minni di virgini minni di virgini , or Nipples of the Virgin, a custardfilled pastry shaped like a woman's breast and topped with an aroused candied cherry nipple. Also sold-sans nipple-as , or Nipples of the Virgin, a custardfilled pastry shaped like a woman's breast and topped with an aroused candied cherry nipple. Also sold-sans nipple-as genovesi genovesi. The story behind this delicious pastry, however, is enough to take away your appet.i.te. It seems the pastry commemorates the martyrdom of St. Agatha, who had her b.r.e.a.s.t.s cut off by Roman pagans for refusing to renounce Christ. She's now the patron saint of breast cancer victims and is traditionally portrayed offering her b.r.e.a.s.t.s on a serving plate.

3 cups basic pastry dough 12 cup basic pastry cream Candied succatta or chocolate pieces Candied cherries cut in half Confectioners' sugar

Preheat oven to 425F (220C). Divide the dough into seven pieces and roll into rectangles about 6' 4' 1 14'. Place 2 tablespoons of pastry cream on one half of the rectangle and sprinkle with chopped candied pumpkin or chocolate (about 1 14 tablespoon, or as you like). Fold the other half of the dough over it to make a square. Seal it well and then, with a gla.s.s or a pastry cutter, cut out a circle-shaped mound from the center about three inches in diameter. Put the halved candied cherry in the middle, and bake for six to eight minutes, or until lightly browned. Sprinkle with confectioners' sugar and serve.

Makes 8. Best enjoyed warm.

The Root of Laziness The potato crept into Europe like a leper, a hideously deformed root that some Spanish conquistador, after raping an Indian village, had stuffed into his pocket and forgotten. When the European elite finally saw it in the 1500s, they immediately decided that it was unsuitable for themselves-so different than its deliciously tanned cousin, the sweet potato!-but perfect perfect for those porcine peasants. "The potato is rightly held responsible for flatulence," remarked French scholar Denis Diderot in his influential eighteenth-century for those porcine peasants. "The potato is rightly held responsible for flatulence," remarked French scholar Denis Diderot in his influential eighteenth-century Encyclopedie Encyclopedie. "But what is flatulence to the vigorous organs of peasants and workers?" The Russian aristocrats ordered their peasants to eat them. Italy's Catholics urged the faithful to "try and try again . . . this delicious food." The French published all-potato cookbooks. Only the English hesitated. "I would see all these labourers hanged," wrote one of the nation's most influential political thinkers in 1830, "and be hanged with them myself, rather than see them live upon potatoes."

The author in question was William T. Cobbett, an illiterate peasant who became England's most influential journalist by a unique combination of street savvy, demagoguery, and humor. When a member of Parliament referred to his paper, The Political The Political Register, Register, as "two-penny trash," Cobbett obligingly renamed it as "two-penny trash," Cobbett obligingly renamed it Cobbett's Two-Penny Trash Cobbett's Two-Penny Trash and watched the circulation increase. When one of his editorials got him imprisoned for treason, he simply ran the paper from his cell. His many loves, recorded in excruciating detail, included universal suffrage, turnips, and farming. His much more numerous hatreds included Shakespeare, paper money, tea, and, above all, that d.a.m.ned Irish potato. The Irish and the potato were inextricably woven together in the English thinking of the time, because while the rest of Europe still considered it pig food, the Irish had embraced the root like a brother. It usurped bread as the local staple. Men grew extra long thumbnails to facilitate the peeling. By the late 1700s the average Irish person was eating ten pounds of taters every day. and watched the circulation increase. When one of his editorials got him imprisoned for treason, he simply ran the paper from his cell. His many loves, recorded in excruciating detail, included universal suffrage, turnips, and farming. His much more numerous hatreds included Shakespeare, paper money, tea, and, above all, that d.a.m.ned Irish potato. The Irish and the potato were inextricably woven together in the English thinking of the time, because while the rest of Europe still considered it pig food, the Irish had embraced the root like a brother. It usurped bread as the local staple. Men grew extra long thumbnails to facilitate the peeling. By the late 1700s the average Irish person was eating ten pounds of taters every day.

English Protestants like Cobbett thought this was disgusting. They believed wheat bread was the natural food of man and that its replacement with a dirty root was transforming the Irish into doglike creatures content to do nothing but sleep and fornicate. They dubbed it the "Lazy Root," a slur that lives on in phrases like couch potato and potato head. Even drinking its cooking water could cause irreversible moral damage, according to Cobbett, and when his suggestion that it be banned from England was ignored, he urged workers to overthrow their government to stop the spread of this "depraved food." At one point, protesting mobs of Londoners paraded before Parliament with potatoes stuck on sticks like political placards. This bizarre combination of anti-Irish racism and half-baked dietary philosophy may seem like lunacy, but as Larry Zuckerman points out in The Potato The Potato , the underlying situation was quite serious. A single acre of potatoes-the so-called "lazy bed"-provided an Irish family of six with enough to eat all year long. This gave the Irish peasant sufficient freedom from his gouging British landlords not only to enjoy life and make lots of little 'uns, but to wonder how he'd ended up a virtual slave in his own country. That combination boded ill for the British land barons who controlled Ireland. "So long as Ireland was only occupied by a million, or a million and a half, of starving wretches, it was a comparatively easy task to hold them in servitude," wrote the prestigious , the underlying situation was quite serious. A single acre of potatoes-the so-called "lazy bed"-provided an Irish family of six with enough to eat all year long. This gave the Irish peasant sufficient freedom from his gouging British landlords not only to enjoy life and make lots of little 'uns, but to wonder how he'd ended up a virtual slave in his own country. That combination boded ill for the British land barons who controlled Ireland. "So long as Ireland was only occupied by a million, or a million and a half, of starving wretches, it was a comparatively easy task to hold them in servitude," wrote the prestigious Edinburgh Review Edinburgh Review in June 1822. "But, thanks to the Potatoe and the Cottage System, Ireland contains at this moment nearly in June 1822. "But, thanks to the Potatoe and the Cottage System, Ireland contains at this moment nearly seven seven millions of inhabitants . . . ," making physical repression no longer practical. millions of inhabitants . . . ," making physical repression no longer practical.

Despite Cobbett's occasional racist rants, he actually sympathized with the Irish because, like his own father, they were mainly small farmers. This love of the independent farming life is a constant theme in his writing, particularly a series of travelogues called Cobbett's Rural Rides Cobbett's Rural Rides, that he penned while riding about England during the 1820s. The author jeers at ornamental bridges and the "unnatural" act of pruning trees. The "d.a.m.nable system of paper money" is often criticized. But most of all, Cobbett wrote, beware of "the blasphemous cant of sleek-headed sleek-headed Methodist thieves that would persuade you to live upon Methodist thieves that would persuade you to live upon Potatoes Potatoes." Near Crickdale, he reports seeing laborers living in hovels "the size of pig beds . . . digging up their little plots of potatoes potatoes. In my whole life I never saw Human Wretchedness equal to this." Soon afterward, he rides his horse through Kensington where "cherry trees are in full bloom" and the children are the fattest, cleanest, best-dressed brats he's ever seen. Why? "I have the very great pleasure to add, that I do not think I saw three acres of POTATOES in this whole tract of fine country." Lest we doubt the vegetables' deleterious affect on humanity, he reminds us it was the "devil himself . . . Sir Walter Raleigh, who (they say) first brought this root into England. He was beheaded at last! What a pity, since he was to be beheaded, the execution did not take place before he became such a mischievous devil. . . ."1 The story of Raleigh introducing the potato to England is probably rubbish-n.o.body knows how it got there-but Cobbett's nay-saying proved prophetic. By the early 1800s, over one-third of the Irish population had been reduced to surviving on nothing but potatoes, and in some places potatoes had replaced hard currency. Then in 1845 the peasants dug up their "lazy roots" to find only a putrid-smelling black ma.s.s of gooey flesh where their crops ought to have been. Within two years 90 percent of the nation's food supply lay rotting in the fields from potato blight, a previously unknown disease. The ensuing famine killed well over a million people. Another million fled the country. By the end of the century Ireland's population had been cut in half.

Cobbett did not live to see his prophecies fulfilled. After being elected twice to the same Parliament that had once imprisoned him for treason, he pa.s.sed away on his beloved farm in 1835. His obituary in the London Times London Times called him "in some respects, a more extraordinary man than any other of his time." called him "in some respects, a more extraordinary man than any other of his time."

Potato Wars It's hardly surprising that at the same time the English wanted to ban the potato, their cousins in France were making its consumption a patriotic duty. The French government published all-potato cookbooks. They made planting it mandatory. Marie Antoinette even tried to give it some chic by wearing potato flowers in her hair. The most successful ploy, however, came from Auguste Parmentier. The eighteenth-century scientist, who dedicated his life to the potato, realized that while the peasants would never accept a tuber as a gift, they'd be more than happy to steal them. So he put a field of potatoes under twenty-four-hour guard. When the plants were ripe for transplanting, Parmentier ordered the guards to leave the field unattended overnight. The peasants swarmed in, stealing every plant and replanting them in their own gardens. The birth of the french fry. Parmentier's efforts are memorialized in dishes like potatoes Parmentier, but it wasn't until the tail end of the twentieth century that his beloved became truly fashionable via the puree de pommes puree de pommes de terre de terre (mashed potatoes) of Chef Joel Robuchon. Thanks to Robuchon, mashed potatoes became a "thing" among the French. Chefs like Jacques Barbery, of Paris's Le Cafe Marly, came forward to proclaim their version superior because it was 49 percent b.u.t.ter and cream, compared to Robuchon's miserly 25 percent, and had olive oil besides. The three-star chef of Burgundy's La Cote D'Or, Bernard Loiseau, pointed out that he had been serving all-potato menus years before Robuchon. One French company started selling (mashed potatoes) of Chef Joel Robuchon. Thanks to Robuchon, mashed potatoes became a "thing" among the French. Chefs like Jacques Barbery, of Paris's Le Cafe Marly, came forward to proclaim their version superior because it was 49 percent b.u.t.ter and cream, compared to Robuchon's miserly 25 percent, and had olive oil besides. The three-star chef of Burgundy's La Cote D'Or, Bernard Loiseau, pointed out that he had been serving all-potato menus years before Robuchon. One French company started selling pommes de terre pommes de terre nurtured on seaweed for 3,000 francs a kilo (about $250 a pound). Robuchon's Paris atelier closed in 1996, but his mashed potatoes live on at j.a.pan's Taillevent-Robuchon, where local gourmands enjoy the dish in a Loire chateau transported stone by stone all the way from France. nurtured on seaweed for 3,000 francs a kilo (about $250 a pound). Robuchon's Paris atelier closed in 1996, but his mashed potatoes live on at j.a.pan's Taillevent-Robuchon, where local gourmands enjoy the dish in a Loire chateau transported stone by stone all the way from France.

While some have suggested that the secret to the following version of Robuchon's dish is its copious amounts of b.u.t.ter, the key is really the la ratte la ratte potato. Traditionally grown only in northern France, this breed became available in North America under the name potato. Traditionally grown only in northern France, this breed became available in North America under the name la princesse la princesse in 1996. (Check the Endnotes for suppliers.) in 1996. (Check the Endnotes for suppliers.) Two pounds of potatoes, preferably la princesse (la ratte), all approximately the same size Sea salt One cup unsalted b.u.t.ter, chilled and cut into pieces One cup whole milk Wash the potatoes with their skins on and put them, whole, into a large pot. Cover with cold water, making sure to cover by at least an inch. Add salt, approximately one tablespoon per quart of water.

Simmer, uncovered, until done (about thirty minutes, or until a knife inserted into potato comes out easily).

Drain immediately and peel while still warm. Pa.s.s through a food mill set at the finest grind into a large saucepan set over low heat (alternatively, mash well and pa.s.s though a fine sieve, although this is not as good).

Stir vigorously to dry with a wooden spatula for five minutes and then start adding the b.u.t.ter piece by piece, stirring until each piece is incorporated, rather like making a beurre blanc beurre blanc sauce. The b.u.t.ter should be very cold. sauce. The b.u.t.ter should be very cold.

Bring the milk to a boil and take off heat immediately. Incorporate into the puree slowly, stirring vigorously all the while until it is completely absorbed.

If you want the puree even finer, pa.s.s though a finemesh drum sieve. If stiff, add more hot milk and b.u.t.ter. Season to taste. Can be made an hour or so in advance. Keep warm in a double boiler.

The Last Drop On the day of his funeral, men stood weeping on street corners. Some stockpiled supplies against the coming Holocaust. Others gave away their most cherished possessions, and ten thousand people lined the streets to watch the pallbearers carrying the coffin to where America's most famous preacher waited to deliver the eulogy. But the most distraught of the mourners was a single man dressed as Lucifer, who stood by the great man's coffin weeping and throwing himself to the ground in despair. "Good-bye John," began the Reverend Billy Sunday at midnight. "You were the Devil's best friend. I hate you with a perfect hatred. . . . The reign of tears is over! The slum will soon be a memory. We can soon turn the prisons into factories and our jails into storehouses and corn cribs. Men may walk upright, women will smile, and the children will laugh."

The "man" in the coffin was John Barleycorn, the nickname for hard liquor, who "died" on January 17, 1920, the day the United States banned all forms of alcohol (that being the treasure men had been h.o.a.rding or giving away). Love or hate Prohibition, the fact that it happened verged on the miraculous. Westerners worship wine and adore beer, literally, because like all people we once believed that inebriating foods derived their power from resident spirits who would possess the imbiber. Hence our nickname "spirits" for hard liquor. This liquid divinity has been considered largely benign, if not divine, since the wine-drinking Dionysian cults of ancient Greece. Most cultures agreed on some level-ancient Babylonian law required the poor be supplied with "food to eat, and beer to drink"-but Europeans took it the furthest. Not only did they incorporate alcohol into all religious rites, but they made it a dietary staple comparable to milk. Beer thickened with eggs and poured over bread was the original continental breakfast and remained common in Germany until the mid-1700s. Beer for breakfast, ale for lunch, stout with dinner, and a few mugs in between. "People," wrote Placutomus in 1551, "subsist more on this drink than they do on food." The average northern European, including women and children, drank three liters of beer a day. That's roughly two six-packs. People in positions of power, like the police, drank much more. Finnish soldiers enjoyed a ration of five liters of strong ale a day (the alcoholic equivalent of about six to eight six-packs, or about forty cans); monks in Suss.e.x made do with twelve cans' worth. Orgiastic drinking contests were part of most religious festivals and occurred almost twice a week. "They must swallow half, then all of a drink in one gulp without stopping to take a single breath," wrote one German in 1599, "until they sink into a complete stupor . . . [then] the two heroes emerge and guzzle in compet.i.tion with one another." Drinking and toasting became so excessive that the British created a semi-official ban in the late 1700s that inspired the lyrics "drink to me only with thine eyes . . . and I'll not ask for wine. . . ."

The fact that the most abusive drinking was in northern Europe led to a short-lived temperance movement there in the 1500s-a group of Germans who limited themselves to a mere seven gla.s.ses of wine per meal-but most of Europe staggered along as it always had. Doctors advised patients to drink themselves unconscious at least "once a month . . . as it stimulates general well-being," and booze was so respectable that churches would ring their bells at ten and two to let workers know it was time for a drink. It wasn't until the obviously horrible effects of alcohol on Native Americans that the first "dry state" was created by an Algonquin Indian leader in Canada; Chief Little Turtle of the Cherokee later convinced Thomas Jefferson to outlaw selling whiskey to his tribe. Although both these bans eventually failed, Christian leaders used these models, along with the image of the "murderous drunk" Indian, to promote the idea of an alcohol-free nation. This racial twist on Prohibition was amplified by sociologists like Arthur MacDonald, who claimed that white Americans, largely of northern European stock, "stand about midway between the maximum susceptibility of the American Indian [to liquor] and the minimum susceptibility of the Latin races" and thus required stringent laws to control their drinking.

The point argued most vigorously by American Prohibitionists was that banning alcohol would lead to a new era of prosperity. Worker production would increase, absenteeism would plummet, and, as Sunday said in his eulogy, "the slums would become a memory." It seemed to work at first. Drinking decreased by as much as 80 percent in the early 1920s. After this initial drop, however, it started climbing again and, by the end of the ban a decade later, was approaching pre-Prohibition levels. Only now, people drank less beer because its bulk made it more difficult to hide. Illegal gin became the drink of choice, but it was of such poor quality that there was a 400 percent increase in deaths due to alcohol poisoning. "The government used to murder by the bullet," commented comedian Will Rogers on the situation. "Now it's by the quart."

The prophesied death of sloth and crime proved equally elusive. While Prohibitionists crowed that they had stamped out "Blue Monday," the day hungover workers would supposedly report sick en ma.s.se, it turned out that for some inexplicable reason, worker productivity actually increased increased with heavier drinking. The antic.i.p.ated growth in savings accounts overflowing with money not spent on tipple also failed to materialize. Instead of creating more jobs and greater prosperity, Prohibition destroyed legitimate work situations and decimated the government's tax revenues, according to sociologist Mark Thornton. Not that those people didn't find work elsewhere: Prohibition was the midwife to serious organized crime in this country. In the first year of Prohibition, overall crime jumped 25 percent; by the end, violent crime rates had increased over 50 percent, largely because of crimes related to illegal drinking. As soon as the law was repealed in 1933, the crime level dropped back to pre-Prohibition levels. Instead of turning "the jails into corn cribs," as Reverend Sunday had promised, the head of the Bureau of Prohibition, Henry Anderson, acknowledged that Prohibition had created "public disregard not only for this law, but for all laws." The only industry that benefited was the prison system. Inmate populations jumped by 30 percent in the first two years, and, by 1930, half of all prisoners were doing time for drinking violations. Not surprisingly, the cost of the federal prison system budget rose 1,000 percent. It all sounds so strangely familiar. with heavier drinking. The antic.i.p.ated growth in savings accounts overflowing with money not spent on tipple also failed to materialize. Instead of creating more jobs and greater prosperity, Prohibition destroyed legitimate work situations and decimated the government's tax revenues, according to sociologist Mark Thornton. Not that those people didn't find work elsewhere: Prohibition was the midwife to serious organized crime in this country. In the first year of Prohibition, overall crime jumped 25 percent; by the end, violent crime rates had increased over 50 percent, largely because of crimes related to illegal drinking. As soon as the law was repealed in 1933, the crime level dropped back to pre-Prohibition levels. Instead of turning "the jails into corn cribs," as Reverend Sunday had promised, the head of the Bureau of Prohibition, Henry Anderson, acknowledged that Prohibition had created "public disregard not only for this law, but for all laws." The only industry that benefited was the prison system. Inmate populations jumped by 30 percent in the first two years, and, by 1930, half of all prisoners were doing time for drinking violations. Not surprisingly, the cost of the federal prison system budget rose 1,000 percent. It all sounds so strangely familiar.

In one sense, however, Reverend Sunday was dead right about Prohibition's positive effect on national productivity. The first successful temperance societies in the 1800s were female church groups like the Women's Christian Temperance Union. Although it was considered "unladylike" to be involved with politics, anti-alcohol campaigning was considered appropriate because it came from a "motherly" urge to protect children against drunken husbands. This union was eventually taken over by Frances Willard who, in 1875, connected temperance with a woman's right to vote by arguing that "since women are the greatest sufferers of the rum curse, she ought to have the right [political power] to close the dram shop over her home." Female Christian groups like these had long opposed giving themselves the vote, but when the wily Willard put the question to them in the so-called Home Protection Ballot, they bit. She then doubled the group's membership, making it the largest in the world, and used its clout to make females fully enfranchised members of society.

In the Green Hour Jeff and I stared doubtfully at the liquid dripping slowly into the gla.s.s.

"Does that look like it's turning green to you?" I asked.

"Well, no," Jeffrey drawled, "but maybe if we drank some more, it would."

"Sounds like a plan." I looked around. It was New Year's Eve, 1999, and we had ended up at a party thrown by a painter friend in the East Village of Manhattan. A small affair, good fun, but the libations weren't flowing with quite the fecundity one a.s.sociates with the festivity in question, and we'd both become parched, particularly Jeff, who, as leader/singer of the renowned Lefty Jones Band, often suffers from inexplicable bouts of thirst. So we'd taken it upon ourselves to rummage through our host's personal belongings, and there, toward the back of the top shelf in a remote cupboard, we'd stumbled upon a bottle with its cork half-eaten away. "Absinthe," "Absinthe," read the moldy label. read the moldy label. "New "New Orleans, 1898." Orleans, 1898." I almost shrieked with delight. I'd been trying to get ahold of a bottle of the brew for over a year. The fact that it had been illegal worldwide for almost a century had made it a hard find. And there it was, perhaps one of only a few thousand bottles left in the world. I almost shrieked with delight. I'd been trying to get ahold of a bottle of the brew for over a year. The fact that it had been illegal worldwide for almost a century had made it a hard find. And there it was, perhaps one of only a few thousand bottles left in the world.

Absinthe was the cocaine of the fin de siecle and had as many nicknames as the White Lady herself. Opaline. Le Fee Le Fee Vert. Vert. The Green Fairy. The Emerald h.e.l.l. Oscar Wilde eulogized it, Vincent van Gogh painted it, Toulouse Lautrec dedicated his liver to it. Absinthe is a 120-proof liqueur steeped with hallucinogenic herbs. Psychedelic vodka. But beautiful. One takes absinthe by suspending a sugar cube over a goblet on a special slotted spoon and then trickling water drop by drop onto the cube. As the sugar water hits the liqueur in the gla.s.s, it turns a dreamy opalescent green. The Green Fairy. The Emerald h.e.l.l. Oscar Wilde eulogized it, Vincent van Gogh painted it, Toulouse Lautrec dedicated his liver to it. Absinthe is a 120-proof liqueur steeped with hallucinogenic herbs. Psychedelic vodka. But beautiful. One takes absinthe by suspending a sugar cube over a goblet on a special slotted spoon and then trickling water drop by drop onto the cube. As the sugar water hits the liqueur in the gla.s.s, it turns a dreamy opalescent green.

Green changed to white, emerald to opal: Nothing has changed.

The man let the water trickle gently into his gla.s.s, and as the green clouded, a mist fell from his mind.

Then he drank Opaline . . .

He saw blue vistas of undiscovered countries, high prospects and a quiet caressing sea.

Green changed to white, emerald to opal; nothing had changed.

Written by Oscar Wilde groupie Ernest Dowson, the poem "Absinthia Taetra" gives a good picture as to why the Impressionists so loved the stuff. But everyone drank it. France went through about 36 million liters a year, and, by the late 1800s, what we now call happy hour was known as l'heure vert l'heure vert, "the green hour," for the top hattoting absintheurs absintheurs who spent hours in the cafes of Paris lingering over a gla.s.s. Then habitues began to develop odd quirks. The poet Paul Verlaine, who once drank a hundred gla.s.ses in two days, set his wife's hair ablaze. The less artistic settled for dementia and spasms. Scientists reported that a few cups transformed a puppy into a monster with "convulsed face and twisted lips covered with foam, its eyes wide open, haggard, convulsive, mad, in which one reads an impulse to kill!" Politicians labeled it madness in a bottle. "Absinthe," wrote the newspaper who spent hours in the cafes of Paris lingering over a gla.s.s. Then habitues began to develop odd quirks. The poet Paul Verlaine, who once drank a hundred gla.s.ses in two days, set his wife's hair ablaze. The less artistic settled for dementia and spasms. Scientists reported that a few cups transformed a puppy into a monster with "convulsed face and twisted lips covered with foam, its eyes wide open, haggard, convulsive, mad, in which one reads an impulse to kill!" Politicians labeled it madness in a bottle. "Absinthe," wrote the newspaper Gazette de Laussane Gazette de Laussane in a typical editorial from the time, "is the premier cause of bloodthirsty crimes in this country." Then in 1905 a Swiss peasant named Jean Lanfray brutally murdered his wife and two children. He was dead drunk at the time-like many peasants, Lanfray drank up to five liters of wine a day-but the police blamed his behavior on the two gla.s.ses of absinthe he'd taken earlier that day. Three years later the Swiss outlawed the brew. Holland followed suit in 1910 and the United States in 1912. France, the world's greatest consumer, held out until the beginning of World War I. It's been illegal worldwide ever since. in a typical editorial from the time, "is the premier cause of bloodthirsty crimes in this country." Then in 1905 a Swiss peasant named Jean Lanfray brutally murdered his wife and two children. He was dead drunk at the time-like many peasants, Lanfray drank up to five liters of wine a day-but the police blamed his behavior on the two gla.s.ses of absinthe he'd taken earlier that day. Three years later the Swiss outlawed the brew. Holland followed suit in 1910 and the United States in 1912. France, the world's greatest consumer, held out until the beginning of World War I. It's been illegal worldwide ever since.

Absinthe's repression helped set the stage for the American Prohibition, but its psychoactive herbs make it something of a separate case. The main villain in the