CAUGHT BETWEEN A ROCK AND A GLASS CASE: WHY THE CORRECT ANSWER DOESN'T MATTER

A Musse Bouche | Jordan Fee

---

As a student who finds himself at the crossroads of Museum Studies and Food Studies, I am lucky to work in a butcher’s shop. I will immediately acknowledge the fact that a business like this may not be everyone’s favourite– I myself have grappled many times with my own feelings about the agricultural industry. Nevertheless, I do find that this space gives me an opportunity to interact with people and develop an understanding of how people interact with what they eat.

Source (Note: This is not the store that I work in. This store is in Spain.)

Recently, I have begun to see that parts of my job involve practices and processes that also exist in cultural institutions. (Note: Check out another article published earlier in the week by Selin about different types of displays outside of the museum!) Like in a museum, we display items in glass cases that are then assessed by those who enter into the shop. People ask questions about where the products have come from and use their imaginations to devise an approach. I have also conducted a number of ‘tours’, where I take time to explain to customers what it is that we offer and how that relates to the business's philosophy. This essentially amounts to our mission statement, and like in a museum, most people working with me may call it forth in a matter of seconds.

Source. (Note: No furniture was harmed in the making of this article)

About one month ago, I had an interaction with a customer that I have since been unable to forget. A mother walked in with her young child and approached the section of the store where we sell poultry, amongst a few other things. The child saw something that she did not understand and pointing at this item, she asked what it was. Her mother, sensing that the answer to this question might disturb her child, provided her with an incorrect answer. I should clarify here that the mother was entirely aware of what the item actually was. She chose to provide the information that she felt comfortable providing, and I would never judge a person for doing that. I would never even question such a thing. However, all of a sudden, the child turned to me and asked me what it was.

Source.

Most of the time, we believe that authenticity and honesty are things that people expect from their visit to the museum – that there is a fundamental desire to see “the real thing”. We are happy to provide facts and talk at length about the assigned meaning of things. But is our mode of understanding these objects really better than others? Are the values assigned to these objects meaningful to everyone? Or is it possible that we have been fooling ourselves?

In the moment when I was asked by that child about this object on display, I was caught between what I knew to be true and what the mother wanted for her child. She wanted their day together to be characterized by happiness, not by confusion. To her, providing her child with the ‘correct’ answer was not important; what was important was their spending time together shopping at stores in the market. I would also like to note that, as the conversation progressed between the three of us, the young girl kept asking questions that seemed to imply that she knew that we were lying to her. Her line of reasoning was very logical, and we found it more and more difficult to obscure the truth.

In the end, both left the store with the true answer still left unsaid. But ultimately, I am happy that this interaction provided a pair of individuals with the opportunity to ask each other questions, and to further develop their own understanding of one another. In situations like this, the ‘authentic’, the ‘honest’ and the ‘correct’ are negligible. What is important is how these two acted out their own respective roles and had a conversation about the object. Both left the store content, and I have seen them both many times since. Had I felt the need to tell this young woman the ‘correct’ answer, this might not have been the case.

I believe that this story can serve as a lesson to museum professionals. Yes, it is true that the information that we possess in regard to our objects is both useful and meaningful. And yes, it is also true that a butcher's shop is ultimately quite different from a museum. However, we need to accept the fact that what we consider to be meaningful may actually be entirely meaningless to another person. If we can acknowledge this, then we can begin to incorporate it into our practices. Of course, I am not encouraging natural history museums to begin mislabelling specimens for the betterment of the public. I am simply saying that, as museum professionals, we have been given the opportunity to develop unique, complex – and sometimes illogical – relationships with the objects that we house in museums. Perhaps we should afford our visitors the same opportunity.

DEBATING THE AUTHENTICITY OF RESTORATION

Conservation Tips & Tricks | Selin Kahramanoglu

---

Welcome to the second article of my three-part series about different conservation methods! This week, I will discuss restoration practices, and use a recently reworked famous Italian painting as our case study. Cominciano!

The Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci, found at Santa Maria delle Grazie in Milan. Source.

What's the story?

According to a report by The Independent in 2012, The Last Supper was restored out of Leonardo da Vinci's modern studio, by Pinin Brambilla Barcilon and Pietro Marani. The painting had particular damage from grime and also suffered from bad restoration techniques in the past. In 1999, the artwork was finally revealed after twenty years of conservation efforts, but not everyone was pleased.

In situ, the 1498 painting is located on the wall of the Santa Maria delle Grazie in Milan. In true Leonardo da Vinci fashion, the tempera painting is on top of sealed stone, which is prone to discolouration and deterioration, especially when exposed to humid climates overtime. However, some people think that the recent restoration overwhelms the painting, and the original work is barely present. People start asking the question: Is it even a Leonardo da Vinci anymore?

Source.

Why bother with restoration?

As mentioned in my previous article of this series, humidity is a major threat to historical artifacts and sites! In this case, there were only two options: 1) The conservators intervene and restore the painting, or 2) The painting continues to deteriorate naturally. What do we do when it comes to an original Leonardo da Vinci masterpiece? Most conservators will choose to rescue it.

The choice to restore a piece of history is not an easy one. For The Last Supper, there isn't much to think about, because the painting was produced from a famous artist. It is culturally valuable, and thus deserves conservation efforts. Yet, other artifacts are not so smussato - for example, some pieces may be ancient and historically interesting, but not too publicized, and often overlooked by the general public. Both scholars and the average person needs to be able to find the object culturally important, so that the artifact is worth the money, labour, and resources for conservation.

Source.

Focus on the good!

Apart from saving an artifact from completely disappearing off the face of the earth, restoration is useful for two related reasons: First, a restored piece gives the impression that it is one "whole." From the outside, a good restoration job means that you can't tell between the original and the recent reworkings. The artifact gives the illusion that it has not been slowly deteriorating, but instead seems visually complete and untouched. Molto bene!

Second, a restored artifact (especially a Leonardo da Vinci work) attracts tourists. It is the same idea when something new and sparkly comes on display at a jewelry store. When a historical objects comes out of storage for the first time in years, the public wants to see it - in its entirety. Speaking from experience, visitors don't typically enjoy seeing a tiny fragment of an object, while the rest of the item is lost, or fading to dust.

Source.

We can't ignore the bad...

Restoration involves intervention. In my opinion, the moment you alter an artifact, it is no longer 100% original. The Last Supper, for example, is still an authentic work, but the object's identity now has an added layer. Despite efforts to replicate the item as smooth and exact as possible, the object's biography changes, and we add a chapter of restoration to its history. 

Not only this, restoration resources are expensive, difficult to acquire, and need advanced expertise - not the easiest to come by! Mi dispiace, but you need a large amount of funding and support to get a restoration project approved and completed. Moreover, in the past, a bad restoration job is often met with a fierce public outcry and have not always been fixable.

Source.

I'll leave the decision up to you! Which do you prefer, restoration or natural deterioration? It's a bit of a debate among conservators, but one thing is for sure - as long as the conservation technique is reversible without causing damage, why not give it a try? Arrivederci amici!

Additional References

The Independent. (November 26, 2011). "Last Supper restoration May 28, 1999."

Clark, N. (March 14, 2012). "A demanding, daunting - and in some cases destructive - profession." The Independent. 

Alberge, D. (March 14, 2012). "Have art restorers ruined Leonardo's masterpiece?" The Independent.

Richmond, A. (2016). "All restoration is not the same." ICON: The Institute of Conservation.

Where are Sue and Mike. [Bloggers] (n.d.). "Old Milan and Leonardo."

BUT WHAT IF WE DON'T LIKE IT?: COOKING ROMAN STAPLES AND THE DILEMMA OF AUTHENTICITY

HISTORIC KITCHEN

BY: LEAH MONCADA

Selected Classical Recipes
Layered Cheesecake - The Classical Cookbook
Fish in Coriander Crust - The Classical Cookbook
Nut Cake - Roman Cookery

For a full bibliography of cookbooks used in the Classical journey of Historic Kitchen, please see this post.

When making the array of 'Roman staples' (of which many didn't make it into the post), I encountered a problem. I frequently didn't like them. However, I'd bought the ingredients, I was hungry, I was darn well going to eat them.

I have been lucky to have so much choice in selecting recipes. I could have easily chosen only items I know I would like. But I forced myself to step outside my boundaries -and heavily resisted the inclination to adjust the recipes to my taste. Making food I like wasn't the point (but was usually an added benefit). The point was seeing if I could learn something new about the Greeks and Romans through their food. But how much can you learn if it isn't authentic?

The topic of authenticity in museum spheres has inspired much discussion, experimentation, and debate. When is something considered real or fake? When should we care? Can ‘fake’ be just as useful as it is harmful? Visitors increasingly want to 'experience' the past in immersive ways. But as I have discovered, 'filling in the gaps' can be done -or interpreted- as 'necessary substitutions' or conversely, as 'complete fabrication'.

An 'authentic' roman kitchen. Believe it or not, my kitchen does not look like this. Source.

To what degree are we beholden to following old recipes if we don't like them? An interesting conversation on this matter is found within The Culinary Chronicles (#22, Autumn 1999. Kindly sent my way by the Culinary Historians of Canada). It concludes that in a museum setting one should always have respect for:

1. the original recipe – as an artifact;
2. the original author – who wrote and developed the recipe as intended; and
3. the museum (or blog) visitor – who should not be lied to, mislead, or cheated out of an education in gastronomic history 

Time for some quick self examination! In comparing those tips with my own posts:

Am I upfront about all substitutions and assumptions? Check.
Do I make inferences rather than knowings, unless further backed by textual documents? Almost always.

I did notice two other things. Putting aside that I have an alarming ability to sometimes sound like a time travel tourism ad, I fail to provide the original document in full (from my futile attempt at limiting word count). I have described the changes made, but hindered further comparison. Unfortunately, some of these recipes are adapted from lengthy passages. (See this Garlic and Herb Spread, in case you doubt me.)

Going forward I will quote the original, or link were possible.

A Macedonian Banquet. Sadly, this is not how I usually ate my meals. No authenticity in dining experience. Source.

Has my experience been 'authentic'? Some would say it is as much as possible, others would argue that it has not gone far enough. Due to my inability to acquire certain herbs (looking at you, spikenard), as well as my use of modern technology (because the Romans totally had blenders), it is impossible to know how accurate my creations taste. And we cannot forget, culinary historians adapted these recipes while lacking quantities or verbs in many of the original documents. It is safe to say that most of these recipes are the product of much educated guess-work. From the beginning I have mentioned that authenticity is never entirely possible in historic recipes, because I introduce many inaccuracies. Things are quite different today: the way we process our flour, the geographical location where we cultivate our foods, the technology we use to cook items, the preservation methods, and the spices we have access to in our markets.

My creations are based upon ancient sources, yes. But they are undeniably modern adaptations. For my purposes, does that matter? I argue not. I am conservative when drawing inferences on preparation (even on volume of aroma), as my methods are different. And yet many times I use the differences as learning points. I ask myself "How has modern production affected the behaviour of a particular ingredient? Why for the life of me can I not find these herbs? How long will it take to de-fumigate the apartment of anchovy?" Practical things like that.

In this way, and many others, recreations can be extremely useful. Even when 'fake', recreations can inspire previously unforeseen topics of discussion and research. And if palates differ, changing things so that it meets your own preferences defeats the point. Think of it instead as an educational experience! (That you never have to taste again. That would be you, Vitellian Peas.)

The Recipes

Layered Cheesecake (Placenta) - The Classical Cookbook, Sally Grainger and Andrew Dalby
Cato, On Agriculture 76

Layered Cheesecake. I like to think that the crispy tips make it a little more authentic hmm? Photo: Leah Moncada.

1/3 cup semolina

1 ½ cups all purpose flour

340g ricotta cheese

3 tbsp plus ½ cup clear honey

bay leaves

Just cover the semolina with cool water. Let sit for 1 hour. 

Sift 3/4 cups of the flour into a bowl. Add 2 tbsp cold water and knead into a dough. Let rest. 

Strain the semolina, removing as much water as possible. In a bowl, knead 1/3 cup flour into the semolina. Knead into a dough and let rest.

Beat the cheese, adding 3 tbsp honey. Set aside.

Divide the semolina dough into 6 equal pieces, rolling each piece into 20cm circles. You will have to pull with your hands after rolling. Cut into even circles and discard the edges. Lay to dry on a lightly floured surface.

Once dry, roll, press, and pull the flour dough into a 45cm circle.

Grease a baking tray with olive oil and cover with 4-5 bay leaves. Place the flour dough disk onto the leaves. Spread 1tbsp of the cheese mixture into the middle of the dough. Place one semolina disk on top of the cheese mixture. Continue layering cheese and semolina mixtures, finishing with a layer of semolina. There should be about 13cm of flour dough around the semolina layers.

Starting on the far side, fold up the pastry, moving clockwise. If there is any excess on top, twist it off.

Bake at 425F for 45-60m, until golden brown.

Let cool slightly. Serve with plenty of warmed honey drizzled over the slice.

Not your modern cheesecake. Here we have a verbose food connoisseur and a straight talker discussing placenta:

“The streams of the tawny bee, mixed with the clotted river of bleating she-goats, placed upon a flat receptacle of the virgin daughter of Zeus, delighting in ten thousand veils – or shall I simply say cake?”

“I’m for cake.”

-Athenaeus X 449b-c

A rather bland recipe, I had to resist adding herbs to make it more flavourful. Placenta was served at banquets but it perhaps better known as a common religious offering at temple altars. In an unnamed Horace source, Grainger describes how a temple slave, sick of honeyed placenta, ran away looking for some plain bread! I sympathized.

It is interesting to note that the ratios of Cato’s text are unusable. The resulting dough would misbehave, as well as be many feet across when rolled out.


Fish in Coriander Crust – The Classical Cookbook, Sally Grainger and Andrew Dalby
Apicius 10, 1, 4, 436

Photo: Leah Moncada.

2 tbsp coriander seeds 

1 tsp salt 

2 fillets of cod, haddock, or plaice 

white wine vinegar 

Roast the coriander seeds in a dry frying pan for a few minutes. Cool slightly, then pound in a mortar with the salt until it is well broken. Pat fillets dry and check for small bones. Roll fillets in the spice mixture. Place in a well oiled casserole dish and cover with a lid. Bake for 15-20 minutes (at a temperature determined by the fillet). Sprinkle liberally with white wine vinegar (critical!) and serve immediately. 

I could talk about the importance of fish in the greek and roman diets, as that would make much more sense given my post topic. However, I want to bring up a delightful fellow that Grainger and Dalby mention in the preface to this chapter by the name of Archistratus. Possibly the oldest recorded food critic, his writings are snappy and full of interesting little cultural tidbits. I mention him specifically because he and our two authors spend an entirely necessary length of time discussing an eminently important topic: WINE. To compliment this dish, they recommend a white, preferably from Sicily. Enjoy. (You're welcome.)


Nut Cake (Gastris) - Roman Cookery, Mark Grant
Athenaeus, The Partying Professors 14.647f-648a

Nut cake. Hard to believe this was outlawed! Photo: Leah Moncada.

100g poppy seeds

100g ground walnuts

100g ground hazelnuts

100g ground almonds

100g dried and stoned dates

100g dried figs

150g sesame seeds

75g clear honey

1/2 tsp black pepper

flour

In the oven, briefly grill the poppy seeds and ground nuts. Turn frequently to prevent burning. 

Puree the fruits. Add the nut mixture and pepper, blend until it forms a sticky dough. 

In a pan, bring the honey to slow boil. Simmer for three minutes, or until it darkens. Blend 1/3 of the honey into the fruit and nut mixture. In a separate bowl, mix the remainder of the honey in with the sesame seeds. Flour your hands. Divide the sesame mixture into two equal balls. Flatten one ball onto a paper covered plate, in a 25cm disc. Place the fruit and nut mixture on top, spreading evenly to cover all the sesame seeds. Flour your hands again, and flatten the remaining sesame ball on top of the cake. Let sit while the honey cools and hardens.

According to Grant, gastris is a rare example of a particularly elaborate branch of Roman cooking. This recipe was apparently banned under Roman law - on the grounds of extravagant ingredients! It is so tantalizing to think about what kinds of dishes this so-called branch of cooking included, that we will likely never experience.


Historic Kitchen returns in the Fall with a tour of Late Medieval & Renaissance Europe