Looking out over the undulating patchwork of vineyards and olive-groves, I listen to the sound of the wind in the pine trees and to the tones of the satyrs' music; it was a long time before mortals accepted my divinity. Now, after centuries of devotion and frenzied worship I have retired. There is no truth; there are only moments such as these, for moments like this are never lost...



[1]

No history can approximate to the tangled web Clio weaves. Neither the gods, nor Clio herself, can ever aspire to the lofty heights striven for by the historian. There remains then, only the question of why it is that mortals should persist in trying to record the ruses of this devious muse. With such names as Herodotus, Tacitus and Livy, they have inaugurated the annals of a clerical discipline. Dryly such authors speak of cause and effect, action and reaction - but of the living moments that lie behind these words, they say nothing. The libraries of the world are full of such books, books that in trying to follow the twists and turns of fate, betray the glory of the moment and the triumph of the consciousness that once relished it. Yet deep down, in the cool, damp cavities of the earth, the annals of another history are maturing. Silently in the darkness, the nectar of the past is ripened, so that one day, it may live again. Hewn from tufaceous rock, the endless corridors and countless chambers of these archives offer the ideal conditions for storing the casks, amphorae and bottles that contain the fermented texts of by-gone summers. This is a living library, of aromas, tastes and colours, where the subtle palate may discern nuances no historian could describe. What documents can better reflect the world of ancient Rome than its Falerner, Massiker, Surrentine and Caecuber wines? In the sharp, fiery taste of the Falerner I have her rise, in the light dryness of the Surrentine, the caution and level-headedness that maintained her throughout the centuries; while in the Massiker and Caecuber wines, one can taste the sweet decadence that preceded the fall. Here, once seals have been broken and jars drained, time's continuum no longer holds sway but is dissolved as the moments of yesterday re-emerge to mix and mingle with the present. In amphorae of medium-dry imported from Chios, there are the achievements of the Greeks, in the distinctive fiaschi of Chianti, the genius of the Renaissance. Of course, I also have Champagnes and Riojas, Chardonnays and Rieslings, bottles of Chateaux Lacave from Brazil and Tiarras from South Africa. But this geographical diversity is nothing compared to the historical richness with which my enoteca is endowed. Every spring, through the action of the sun and the rain, the moods of time are absorbed into the stalks and leaves of the vine. Slowly, clustered nodules are formed, which then bulge and ripen, concentrating the essence of that time into the flavour of a fruit. For the nuances of this flavour to become distinguishable though, the grapes must first be pressed and fermented, before being placed in the coolness of a dark cellar. There, with the passing of decades, the wine will gradually become articulate, so that on opening, it will reveal to the initiate, the story of a summer long past. In these cellars, in the juxtaposition of aromas and bouquets, bodies and flavours, lies my story.



[2]

Although all plants absorb of the atmosphere surrounding them, few of the fruits which they produce can be stored over long periods of time, while none can infuse the human consciousness quite so soothingly as wine. Pine trees, though slow in soaking up the ambience of their environment, produce particularly potent secretions. Thus it was that the Greeks and Romans would try to improve the flavour of insipid wines by dissolving in them the resin of this tree. Ivy berries too, were fermented to make an intoxicating beer. But it was the Etruscans who knew how the secrets of the past become written into the liver of the animal that eats of strongly chronophilous plants. They also knew that the past is the key to the future and developed a system of prediction, based on studying the livers of sheep and goats. Previously the Greeks had simply sacrificed animals that had eaten of the vine; but with the Rasenna, as they called themselves, these sacrifices developed into a complex science and the haruspix came to be a much respected figure. Nowadays the Etruscans are simply dismissed as emigrant Lydians or as an anomalous mixture of indigenous peoples; the fact that their origins lie in the retinue I brought back with me from the East, has been conveniently glossed over. Fufluns they called me, but you will know me as Bacchus, God of wine and spirit of pine-cones.



[3]

Crowding around me, the satyrs and maenads push and shove excitedly as I make up the fire of the kitchen stove. They are fascinated by fire. Consumed with curiosity their gnarled faces show glee and excitement; but as I throw in the first log, some sparks fly and they retreat a few paces before edging cautiously forward again - they are terrified of being singed. With the next log a hoof slips on the tiled floor and the unlucky one inevitably succeeds in bringing down two more in his struggles to maintain balance. It is always like that. By the time they are all standing again, I will have finished.

Sheep's Paunch and Pluck	2 Lemons
200g Black Olives	1 Tbsp. Salt
400g Oats or Spelt	1 Tbsp. Cardamom
500g Suet

Soak the paunch in salt water for several hours before turning inside out and washing thoroughly. Separate the parts of the pluck and trim away excess fat and tissue. Then wash the liver, immerse in cold water and boil for 1 1/2 hours. Wash the heart and lights and after 3/4 hour, boil with the liver for the remaining 3/4 hour. Chop half the liver coarsely and the other half finely. Finely chop the heart and lights. Mix the chopped pluck together with the oatmeal, suet, olives and cardamom. Add the juice and zest of the lemons and loosely stuff the mixture into the paunch, allowing for the fact that the paunch will contract considerably. Tie up the ends with string and immerse in boiling water or hang over the red embers of a fire and cook slowly for three hours, pricking occasionally with a needle so as to allow the steam to escape. Any remaining haggis mixture can be cooked in a jar.
In the early days, the killing of an animal was a rare event and the offal, if it was not to be wasted, had to be cooked and eaten quickly. For hunters far from home, an ideal solution to this problem was to stuff the offal into the stomach of the animal and cook it over a fire. At sacrifices, while the meat of the animal sacrificed was offered to the god to whom the sacrifice was addressed, the liver was customarily offered to all the gods. To see whether a sacrifice was valid or not and whether the offering of the liver was likely to be accepted, the entrails of the animal were examined. If diagnosed as healthy the sacrifice was regarded as legitimate and the liver could be used as the basis of a prognostication before being placed on the sacrificial fire. If the entrails of the animal were in any way unhealthy, the sacrifice was invalidated and the reading of the liver and the offering of it to the gods would have to be abandoned.

[4]

The illegitimate child of Zeus and the nymph Semele, my father, to protect me from his wife's anger, wisely changed me into a goat for the period of my childhood. And it was as a goat, nibbling my way through the undergrowth of Mount Nysa, that I discovered the effects of eating ivy berries and became intrigued by the smell of pine trees. Later as a youth, restored to human form, I could not help seeing echoes of these memories in the skins of the grapes that the nymphs and the satyrs ate. Their deep purple colour reminded me of the ivy berries I had grown up on; while often, just before a ripe grape falls to the ground, a sweet sticky substance is secreted at the point where the fruit joins the stalk, and this I could not help associating with the resin of pine trees. And yet, beneath the leathery skin there was for me, always a disappointment. Although pleasant enough the expectations aroused by my memories of the ivy plants were never met. If only the rich colour of the skin could be dissolved in the sweet flesh of the inside I thought... But no, the skins refused to dissolve, obstinately floating on the surface. On coming back the next day however, I was surprised to find the earthen-ware jar a hive of activity. A froth had formed on the surface and the juice was emitting a new smell. After a few days I removed the grape skins that were floating on the surface. The brew was dark red and though still cloudy, I drank of it, allowing an unknown and yet familiar power to grip my stomach before rising rapidly to my head.

Lamb	Red Wine
Bread	Milk
Sheep's Cheese	Honey
1 Onion	Olive Oil
Garlic	Myrtle Berries
Pine Kernels	Rosemary
Rose Hips
Raisins

Make cuts in a joint of lamb and insert slices of garlic in each. Baste with olive oil, sprinkle over some crushed young myrtle berries and rosemary. Then drizzle over some honey and roast with a glass of red wine.
While the roast is cooking, break bread into pieces and dip in milk, then with some olive oil, mix in pine kernels, diced onion and some cubes of sheep's cheese. Roll the mixture into balls which can either be fried or baked for half an hour with the roast. Lastly, cut the tops and bottoms off some rose hips, removing the seed and hairs with the aid of a pair of scissors. Fry them together with the raisins and when both are tender, insert the raisins into the rose hip casings. Serve with the sweet juices from the roast.
Myrtle, growing near the sea, has always been an emblem of Venus, as has the rose. It was by accepting a rose Harpocrates became god of silence, when Cupid bribed him into remaining silent concerning the armours of his mistress. In due course, I too received a rose, on the condition that what was said sub vino, was not to be repeated sub dive and thereafter my ceremonies were often initiated with my celebrants consuming either rose hips or the petals of the flower. Later, roses were carved onto the ceilings of banqueting halls, in order to remind guests that anything said sub rosa was uttered in the strictest confidence.

[5]

In the beginning, of course, I was systematic and my amphorae were proudly arranged according to origin. But after a few centuries, the areas allocated to the different regions were overflowing and there was the problem of new products springing up all over the civilised world. Consequently, the geographical system began to acquire idiosyncrasies; until, with the expansion of the Roman Empire under Caesar, it could no longer cope and I was forced to start again. Working out from the pre-Julian chaos, I decided to arrange the incoming wines according to sweetness and age. Younger wines were deposited outside older ones, so that on the return journey through the cellars, there would be less distance to carry the well matured vintages I enjoy so much. Sweetness on the other hand, went round in a circle. In passing from North to East and on round to the Southern and Western sides, one went from the very dry to the very sweet. Austerum, tenue, praedulce. At first this worked well. But then, almost inevitably, geographical groupings started to re-appear as sub-categories. These initially harmless sub-orderings, soon however, developed into self-contained microcosms as my helpers repeatedly misunderstood the scheme of classification and simply started depositing the new wines according to the geographical system of whichever one of the sub-sections they happened to be in. Thus geography returned, but with even more idiosyncrasies than before. From out of the shattered microcosms of the Roman Empire, certain regions developed, some of which, still to this day stick like fingers into the uncharted depths of the labyrinth. Needless to say, these fingers no longer bear any geographical relation to each other. California is next to Moldavia, the Basque region borders with Transylvania, Australia with the Camargue and so on. The scale of sweetness meanwhile, has practically disappeared, being only extant in the regions where both sweet and dry wines are produced. Such then is the state of the archives whose inception began with my erratic foragings through the undergrowth of Mount Nysa.



[6]

It is with the aid of a ball and string that I find my way around, or rather, find my way back, for one is always returning to one's favourite wines. From them, with this practical invention of my wife's, I venture out into the newly stocked regions of the labyrinth, with which I am less familiar. Never a week goes by when new crates do not arrive and the sap of the present forces me deeper and deeper into the cavities of the past. Then I am compelled to take the ball, and having tied the end to some familiar label I venture out into the nectar-filled cavities of the more recent years. Eventually they peter out and I am confronted with the empty hollows the present demands. After selecting a suitable chamber, I put down the crate or bottles I have brought and secure the ball of string. Then I make my way back to summon the help of the satyrs. I guide them to the point where I first tied the string and then leave them to follow its course through the darkness. Too wild to be trusted with fire, these lively beasts have nevertheless learnt to follow the string with the clefts of their cloven hooves. They deposit the crates, amphorae, barrels, or whatever I have entrusted them with and return to me. Lightened of their load and keen to return to the fresh air, it is only their horns which prevent them from bruising their heads on the low ceilings of the tunnels. On returning them to daylight, I go back to make sure that all has been carried out according to my instructions and to wind up the ball of string.
After laying down a particularly good vintage, we often celebrate with a feast. Today is such a day. The satyrs and maenads are in the kitchen, stirring the mixture for the chestnut biscuits which they always bake on such occasions. As is their custom, the ground chestnuts, olive oil and water, are being kneaded together to the accompaniment of flutes. They are creatures of the earth and the preparation of these flat loaves, sprinkled with raisins and pine seeds, are a cause of great excitement. And indeed, in their Castagnaccio Toscano there is something of them and something of the landscape in which they belong. Their joy is the simple one of knowing and asserting their origins. But I am a god and my pleasures are more complex. Even when I desire simplicity, as I do now, it is not with the straightforward innocence of the satyrs but is in the manner of one who has known and tired of excess. It has been a long journey since molehill-like heaps first marked the spots where jars of crushed grapes stood fermenting in the ground. Now I wish only to return to this rustic harmony. I have tired of over-complicated concoctions and stifling etiquettes. In the satyr's Castagnaccio the chestnut earth is brought into balance with the olive's elixir and the sacred fruit of the vine. To compliment the viticulture of the past with the bounties of the present is to ensure, that in the future, it will be remembered with the fondness of an Etruscan smile.

1/2 kg Chestnut flour	1/8 Glass Olive Oil
Pine Kernels	2 Tbsp. Honey
Raisins	1 Pinch of Salt
1 Litre Water

To make chestnut flour: gather freshly fallen chestnuts and dry them in a warm, dry room for forty days. Then remove the skins and grind into as fine a flour as possible.
Spoon by spoon, add water to the flour, stirring to make a creamy liquid and taking care that no lumps are formed. Mix in the other ingredients and pour into a buttered backing tray to a depth not exceeding 1 cm. Sprinkle some raisins and pine kernels on top and then bake for an hour at medium heat, basting the top surface with olive oil after half an hour to prevent drying out. As a variation rosemary may also be sprinkled over the surface or added to the mixture. When ready the biscuits should be of a dark chestnut brown colour, with deep cracks, while from the oven a smell of nuts and chocolate should emerge.
Named after the town of Castanis in Thessaly, where they grew in abundance, the chestnut was one of the many things that I brought back with me from the East. Although in the West it was later to become the food of poor people, in the East the chestnut was prized by the nobility and Xenophon correctly records that Persian nobles were fattened on its fruits.

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Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | References | Bacchus Table of Contents