Theories of food

Before going into the nitty-gritty of medieval meals and their constituents, it is perhaps prudent to address some questions and points which frequently arise in discussions of medieval cooking. This means tackling not only the much discussed question of spices, but also the sophisticated and oddly logical system of what were termed humours, used in the composition of a balanced and - by the standards of the system - healthy meal. While the system itself seems very alien to modern thinking, it would appear to explain or at least rationalise a great deal about medieval cuisine.

Catering to the humours

The theory of humours can be traced back to Greek philosophies, which argued that all the world was made up of four basic elements - fire, air, water and earth - and each element was characterised by two of four basic humours. These humours, listed as moist, dry, cold and warm, were present also in foodstuffs, and communicated themselves to the consumer, promoting behaviour characteristic to the dominant humour. On a very basic level, it was a case of becoming what you eat.

The ideal humour for humans was determined as slightly moist and slightly warm, and according to the medical texts of the day had to be carefully maintained by an appropriate diet. The cook was advised to know the humours of each type of food, and to carefully calculate what was put before his master for an optimal balance. Ingredients were to be chopped and blended as finely as possible to allow the humours to mix sufficiently; also, the method of preparation had to be chosen according to the metaphysical properties of the ingredient. After all, no cook wished to inadvertently compromise the health of his lord.

Quaint and misguided as it may seem to modern thinking, the theory of humours can explain several features distinctive to medieval cooking. The rationale of mincing and pureeing has already been mentioned; Scully unhesitatingly attributes several other features, such as the frequent combination of vinegar and honey to this philosophy. Vinegar was a valued condiment (no doubt in part because even vinegary wine was too expensive to be wasted), but as it was by nature cold and extremely dry, it had to be tempered with honey, considered warm and moist in almost the exact same degree. Game meat was considered slightly dry, and therefore often prepared with lard, predictably considered moist; fish and waterfowl, on the other hand, were frequently cooked in wine so that their cold and moist tendencies might be rendered more palatable by the warm and dry properties of the wine.

According to Scully, this reasoning permeates medieval gastronomy to the degree that even religious fasting can be seen as an attempt to avoid humours unsuited to the pious. In fact, the system seems so smooth and comprehensive that the question arises whether it originally came about as a guide for a particular style of cooking, or merely a rationalisation of it. Whatever the case, if this system is accepted as a general governing principle, it would seem that the head of a medieval kitchen was as much an alchemist as a cook. Certainly it implies an entirely new degree of deliberation and professionalism in a style of cookery that - in reference to the frequent use of puree - has often been written off as "so much mush".

The question of spices

Over time, theories have abounded on the extensive use of spices in medieval dishes. The earliest, and sometimes still repeated theory attributes spicing to an attempt to cover up the taste of tainted meat; and indeed, in a time before refrigerators, keeping food fresh was a matter neither trivial nor simple. Today this theory is ruled incomplete at the least. Though fresh meat may have been a luxury to the poor, those who could afford spices to cover the taste of food gone off would certainly have had the wherewithal to skirt the entire problem by simply purchasing fresher meat, had that been the issue. Also, Mennell notes that spicing habits began to shift towards the more moderate renaissance tastes long before there was a marked improvement in methods of preservation.

More probable theories have latched on to the tendency towards ostentation in medieval feast foods. As spices were imported and therefore expensive, it has been suggested that their generous use served as a status symbol, an implication of the host's wealth. This theory can be tackled on grounds much the same as the previous; if the purpose of the meal is to impress, why spice it into inedibility? Scully points out that most recipes lack exact quantities for spices, and there are no grounds to assume that spices were used in particularly liberal quantities. In fact, some of the recipes that do have measurements count out the precise number of peppers to be used - a rather heavy argument against the idea that spices were used arbitrarily. Secondly, Black notes that importing spices was a time-consuming process, and that a certain degree of staleness in the merchandise is almost inevitable.

Finally, part of the solution may also lie in the medieval approach to spices, and food in general. Spices were frequently considered pseudomedicinal, especially when used in wines; on the other hand, the theory of humours greatly emphasises the importance of balancing elements in any given dish. It is not inconceivable that spices were considered part of this balancing act.