Image by Immanuel Giel, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

It’s an old TV and movie trope: the man of wealth and taste, often but not always a supervil­lain, offers his dis­tin­guished guest a bot­tle of wine, his finest, an ancient vin­tage from one of the most ven­er­a­ble vine­yards. We might fol­low the motif back at least to Edgar Allan Poe, whose “Cask of Amon­til­la­do” puts an espe­cial­ly devi­ous spin on the trea­sured bottle’s sin­is­ter con­no­ta­tions.

If our suave and pos­si­bly dead­ly host were to offer us the bot­tle you see here, we might hard­ly believe it, and would hard­ly be keen to drink it, though not for fear of being mur­dered after­ward. The Römer­wein, or Spey­er wine bottle—so called after the Ger­man region where it was dis­cov­ered in the exca­va­tion of a 4th cen­tu­ry AD Roman nobleman’s tomb—dates “back to between 325 and 359 AD,” writes Aban­doned Spaces, and has the dis­tinc­tion of being “the old­est known wine bot­tle which remains unopened.”

A 1.5 liter “glass ves­sel with ampho­ra-like stur­dy shoul­ders” in the shape of dol­phins, the bot­tle is of no use to its own­er, but no one is cer­tain what would hap­pen to the liq­uid if it were exposed to air, so it stays sealed, its thick stop­per of wax and olive oil main­tain­ing an impres­sive­ly her­met­ic envi­ron­ment. Sci­en­tists can only spec­u­late that the liq­uid inside has prob­a­bly lost most of its ethanol con­tent. But the bot­tle still con­tains a good amount of wine, “dilut­ed with a mix of var­i­ous herbs.”

The Römer­wein resides at the His­tor­i­cal Muse­um of the Palati­nate in Spey­er, which seems like an incred­i­bly fas­ci­nat­ing place if you hap­pen to be pass­ing through. You won’t get to taste ancient Roman wine there, but you may, per­haps, if you trav­el to the Uni­ver­si­ty of Cata­nia in Sici­ly where in 2013, sci­en­tists recre­at­ed ancient wine-mak­ing tech­niques, set up a vine­yard, and fol­lowed the old ways to the let­ter, using wood­en tools and strips of cane to tie their vines.

They pro­ceed­ed, writes Tom Kingston at The Guardian, “with­out mech­a­niza­tion, pes­ti­cides or fer­til­iz­ers.” Only the organ­ic stuff for Roman vint­ners.

The team has faith­ful­ly fol­lowed tips on wine grow­ing giv­en by Vir­gil in the Geor­gics, his poem about agri­cul­ture, as well as by Col­umel­la, a first cen­tu­ry AD grow­er, whose detailed guide to wine­mak­ing was relied on until the 17th cen­tu­ry.

Those ancient wine­mak­ers added hon­ey and water to their wine, as well as herbs, to sweet­en and spice things up. And unlike most Ital­ians today who “drink mod­er­ate­ly with meals,” ancient Romans “were more giv­en to drunk­en carous­ing.” Maybe that’s what the gen­tle­man in the Spey­er tomb hoped to be doing in his Roman after­life.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2017.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

2000-Year-Old Bot­tle of White Wine Found in a Roman Bur­ial Site

Bars, Beer & Wine in Ancient Rome: An Intro­duc­tion to Roman Nightlife and Spir­its

Archae­ol­o­gists Dis­cov­er an Ancient Roman Snack Bar in the Ruins of Pom­peii

Dis­cov­er the Old­est Beer Recipe in His­to­ry From Ancient Sume­ria, 1800 B.C.

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

West­ern schol­ar­ship has had “a bias against study­ing sen­su­al expe­ri­ence,” writes Reina Gat­tuso at Atlas Obscu­ra, “the rel­ic of an Enlight­en­ment-era hier­ar­chy that con­sid­ered taste, touch, and fla­vor taboo top­ics for sober aca­d­e­m­ic inquiry.” This does not mean, how­ev­er, that cook­ing has been ignored by his­to­ri­ans. Many a schol­ar has tak­en Euro­pean cook­ing seri­ous­ly, before recent food schol­ar­ship expand­ed the canon. For exam­ple, in a 1926 Eng­lish trans­la­tion of an ancient Roman cook­book, Joseph Dom­mers Vehling makes a strong case for the cen­tral­i­ty of food schol­ar­ship.

“Any­one who would know some­thing worth­while about the pri­vate and pub­lic lives of the ancients,” writes Vehling, “should be well acquaint­ed with their table.” Pub­lished as Cook­ery and Din­ing in Impe­r­i­al Rome (and avail­able here at Project Guten­berg and at the Inter­net Archive), it is, he says, the old­est known cook­book in exis­tence.

The book, orig­i­nal­ly titled De Re Coquinar­ia, is attrib­uted to Api­cius and may date to the 1st cen­tu­ry A.C.E., though the old­est sur­viv­ing copy comes from the end of the Empire, some­time in the 5th cen­tu­ry. As with most ancient texts, copied over cen­turies, redact­ed, amend­ed, and edit­ed, the orig­i­nal cook­book is shroud­ed in mys­tery.

The cook­book’s author, Api­cius, could have been one of sev­er­al “renowned gas­tronomers of old Rome” who bore the sur­name. But whichev­er “famous eater” was respon­si­ble, over 2000 years lat­er the book has quite a lot to tell us about the Roman diet. (All of the illus­tra­tions here are by Vehling, who includes over two dozen exam­ples of ancient prac­tices and arti­facts.)

Meat played an impor­tant role, and “cru­el meth­ods of slaugh­ter were com­mon.” But the kind of meat avail­able seems to have changed dur­ing Apicius’s time:

With the increas­ing short­age of beef, with the increas­ing facil­i­ties for rais­ing chick­en and pork, a rever­sion to Api­cian meth­ods of cook­ery and diet is not only prob­a­bly but actu­al­ly seems inevitable. The ancient bill of fare and the ancient meth­ods of cook­ery were entire­ly guid­ed by the sup­ply of raw materials—precisely like ours. They had no great food stores nor very effi­cient mar­ket­ing and trans­porta­tion sys­tems, food cold stor­age. They knew, how­ev­er, to take care of what there was. They were good man­agers.

But veg­e­tar­i­ans were also well-served. “Api­cius cer­tain­ly excels in the prepa­ra­tion of veg­etable dish­es (cf. his cab­bage and aspara­gus) and in the uti­liza­tion of parts of food mate­ri­als that are today con­sid­ered infe­ri­or.” This appar­ent need to use every­thing, and to some­times heav­i­ly spice food to cov­er spoilage, may have led to an unusu­al Roman cus­tom. As How Stuff Works puts it, “cooks then were revered if they could dis­guise a com­mon food item so that din­ers had no idea what they were eat­ing.”

As for the recipes them­selves, well, any attempt to dupli­cate them will be at best a broad interpretation—a trans­la­tion from ancient meth­ods of cook­ing by smell, feel, and cus­tom to the mod­ern way of weights and mea­sures. Con­sid­er the fol­low­ing recipe:

WINE SAUCE FOR TRUFFLES

PEPPER, LOVAGE, CORIANDER, RUE, BROTH, HONEY AND A LITTLE OIL.

ANOTHER WAY: THYME, SATURY, PEPPER, LOVAGE, HONEY, BROTH AND OIL.

I fore­see much frus­trat­ing tri­al and error (and many hope­ful sub­sti­tu­tions for things like lovage or rue or “sat­u­ry”) for the cook who attempts this. Some foods that were plen­ti­ful­ly avail­able could cost hun­dreds now to pre­pare for a din­ner par­ty.

SEAFOOD MINCES ARE MADE OF SEA-ONION, OR SEA CRAB, FISH, LOBSTER, CUTTLE-FISH, INK FISH, SPINY LOBSTER, SCALLOPS AND OYSTERS. THE FORCEMEAT IS SEASONED WITH LOVAGE, PEPPER, CUMIN AND LASER ROOT.

Vehling’s foot­notes most­ly deal with ety­mol­o­gy and define unfa­mil­iar terms (“laser root” is wild fen­nel), but they pro­vide lit­tle prac­ti­cal insight for the cook. “Most of the Api­cian direc­tions are vague, hasti­ly jot­ted down, care­less­ly edit­ed,” much of the ter­mi­nol­o­gy is obscure: “with the advent of the dark ages, it ceased to be a prac­ti­cal cook­ery book.” We learn, instead, about Roman ingre­di­ents and home eco­nom­ic prac­tices, insep­a­ra­ble from Roman eco­nom­ics more gen­er­al­ly, accord­ing to Vehling.

He makes a judg­ment of his own time even more rel­e­vant to ours: “Such atroc­i­ties as the will­ful destruc­tion of huge quan­ti­ties of food of every descrip­tion on the one side and the starv­ing mul­ti­tudes on the oth­er as seen today nev­er occurred in antiq­ui­ty.” Per­haps more cur­rent his­to­ri­ans of antiq­ui­ty would beg to dif­fer, I wouldn’t know.

But if you’re just look­ing for a Roman recipe that you can make at home, might I sug­gest the Rose Wine?

ROSE WINE

MAKE ROSE WINE IN THIS MANNER: ROSE PETALS, THE LOWER WHITE PART REMOVED, SEWED INTO A LINEN BAG AND IMMERSED IN WINE FOR SEVEN DAYS. THEREUPON ADD A SACK OF NEW PETALS WHICH ALLOW TO DRAW FOR ANOTHER SEVEN DAYS. AGAIN REMOVE THE OLD PETALS AND REPLACE THEM BY FRESH ONES FOR ANOTHER WEEK; THEN STRAIN THE WINE THROUGH THE COLANDER. BEFORE SERVING, ADD HONEY SWEETENING TO TASTE. TAKE CARE THAT ONLY THE BEST PETALS FREE FROM DEW BE USED FOR SOAKING.

You could prob­a­bly go with red or white, though I’d haz­ard Api­cius went with a fine vinum rubrum. This con­coc­tion, Vehling tells us in a help­ful foot­note, dou­bles as a lax­a­tive. Clever, those Romans. Read the full Eng­lish trans­la­tion of the ancient Roman cook­book here.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 202o.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

How to Make the Old­est Recipe in the World: A Recipe for Net­tle Pud­ding Dat­ing Back 6,000 BC

The Old­est Unopened Bot­tle of Wine in the World (Cir­ca 350 AD)

Cook Real Recipes from Ancient Rome: Ostrich Ragoût, Roast Wild Boar, Nut Tarts & More

How to Bake Ancient Roman Bread Dat­ing Back to 79 AD: A Video Primer

The World’s Old­est Cook­book: Dis­cov­er 4,000-Year-Old Recipes from Ancient Baby­lon

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. 

If asked about your favorite dish, you’d do well to name some­thing exot­ic. Gone are the days when a taste for the likes of Ital­ian, Mex­i­can, or Chi­nese cui­sine could qual­i­fy you as an adven­tur­ous eater. Even expe­di­tions to the very edges of the menus at Peru­vian, Ethiopi­an, or Laot­ian restau­rants, say, would be unlike­ly to draw much respect from seri­ous twen­ty-first-cen­tu­ry eaters. One solu­tion is to take your culi­nary voy­ages through not just space but also time, seek­ing out the meals of cen­turies and even mil­len­nia past. This has late­ly become some­what eas­i­er to do, thanks to the work of Har­vard- and Yale-asso­ci­at­ed researchers like Gojko Bar­jamovic, Patri­cia Jura­do Gon­za­lez, Chelsea A. Gra­ham, Agnete W. Lassen, Naw­al Nas­ral­lah, and Pia M. Sörensen.

A few years ago, that inter­dis­ci­pli­nary research team par­tic­i­pat­ed in a Lapham’s Quar­ter­ly round­table on mak­ing and eat­ing the ancient Mesopotami­an recipes con­tained on what are known as the “Yale Culi­nary Tablets.” Dat­ing from between 1730 BC and the sixth or sev­enth cen­tu­ry BC, their Cuneiform inscrip­tions offer only broad and frag­men­tary guid­ance on the prepa­ra­tion of once-com­mon dish­es, none of which, luck­i­ly, are par­tic­u­lar­ly com­plex.

The veg­e­tar­i­an soup pašrū­tum, or “unwind­ing,” involves fla­vors no bold­er than those of cilantro, leek, gar­lic, and dried sour­dough. The stew puhā­di, which uses lamb as well as milk, turns out to be “deli­cious when served with the pep­pery gar­nish of crushed leek and gar­lic.”

The Yale Culi­nary Tablets reveal that the Baby­lo­ni­ans, too, enjoyed tuck­ing into the occa­sion­al for­eign meal — which, four mil­len­nia ago, could have meant a bowl of elamū­tum, or “Elamite broth,” named for its ori­gin in Elam in mod­ern-day Iran. Anoth­er dish made with milk, it also calls for sheep­’s blood (“the mix­ture of sour milk and blood may sound odd,” the round­table arti­cle assures us, “but the com­bi­na­tion pro­duces a rich soup with a slight tart­ness”) and dill, which seems to have been the height of exot­ic ingre­di­ents at the time. Tuh’u, a leg-meat stew, has an iden­ti­fi­able descen­dant still eat­en in Iraq today, but that dish uses white turnip instead of the ancient recipe’s red beet. Giv­en that “Jews of Bagh­dad before their expul­sion used red beet,” it’s “tempt­ing to link the recipe to the con­ti­nen­tal Euro­pean borscht.”

Image via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Recon­struct­ing these recipes, which tend to lack quan­ti­ties or pro­ce­dur­al details, has involved edu­cat­ed guess­work. But no oth­er texts in exis­tence can get you clos­er to recon­struct­ing ancient Mesopotami­an cui­sine in your own kitchen. If you’d like to see how that’s done before giv­ing it a try your­self, watch the videos above and below from Max Miller, whose Youtube chan­nel Tast­ing His­to­ry spe­cial­izes in prepar­ing dish­es from ear­li­er stages of civ­i­liza­tion. Not that depar­ture from the recipes as orig­i­nal­ly dic­tat­ed by tra­di­tion would have any con­se­quences. Most of these recipes may date from an era close to the reign of King Ham­mura­bi, but there’s noth­ing in his famous Code about what hap­pens to cooks who make the occa­sion­al sub­sti­tu­tion.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Cam­bridge Uni­ver­si­ty Pro­fes­sor Cooks 4000-Year-Old Recipes from Ancient Mesopotamia, and Lets You See How They Turned Out

Watch a 4000-Year Old Baby­lon­ian Recipe for Stew, Found on a Cuneiform Tablet, Get Cooked by Researchers from Yale & Har­vard

How to Make Ancient Mesopotami­an Beer: See the 4,000-Year-Old Brew­ing Method Put to the Test

How to Make the Old­est Recipe in the World: A Recipe for Net­tle Pud­ding Dat­ing Back 6,000 BC

Behold the Old­est Writ­ten Text in the World: The Kish Tablet, Cir­ca 3500 BC

Tast­ing His­to­ry: A Hit YouTube Series Shows How to Cook the Foods of Ancient Greece & Rome, Medieval Europe, and Oth­er Places & Peri­ods

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The sto­ry of cof­fee goes back to the 13th cen­tu­ry, when it came out of Ethiopia, then spread to Egypt and Yemen. It reached the Mid­dle East, Turkey, and Per­sia dur­ing the 16th cen­tu­ry, and then Europe dur­ing the ear­ly 17th, though not with­out con­tro­ver­sy. In Venice, some called it the ‘bit­ter inven­tion of Satan,’ but the Pope, upon tast­ing it, gave it his bless­ing. By 1652, the first café in Lon­don had opened its doors on St. Michael’s Alley, bring­ing cof­fee to England—all thanks to a Sicil­ian immi­grant, Pasqua Rosée.

Today, the British Muse­um hous­es a hand­bill that may well be the first adver­tise­ment for cof­fee in Eng­land. It proves remark­able for a cou­ple of rea­sons. First, the ad intro­duced Brits to what’s now a sta­ple of the West­ern diet, and even­tu­al­ly they’d bring it to North Amer­i­ca. And, what’s more, you can see anoth­er instance of the adage that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Adver­tis­ing is adver­tis­ing. Then, as now, bev­er­ages were sold on their taste and health prop­er­ties. And, of course, you were encour­aged to con­sume the prod­uct not once, but twice a day. You can find a tran­scrip­tion of the text below.

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