"If you eat with another," runs an old book on etiquette, "turn the nicest pieces to him, and do not go picking out the finest and largest for yourself"—words that would be applied to children to-day rather than to grown-up folk.
It is amusing to note, in passing, the evolution of the modern pie. The medieval cook was fond of serving up birds in their coffins. Thus a peacock, still retaining the glory of its plumage, was brought to table in a coffin of paste with neck erect, tail expanded above the crust, and comb richly gilded. Brought into the hall on a silver dish, heralded by the blast of many trumpets, it was placed before some knight whose prowess had won the laurels of the day. Rising, he broke the crust, vowing the while that he would rescue some captive lady from some mythical monster or die, though his vows, like the pie-crust before him, were made to be broken.
Our ancestors loved strong flavours. Porpoise or sea swine, whale, and sea wolf were favourite dishes at this time; but, while the tables of the thirteenth century were literally loaded with flesh, fish, and fowl, vegetables were so scarce that it was customary to salt them for keeping. Potatoes were of course unheard of, and cabbages were
