#Binge Reviewing my previous Reads #Food History
When you open Cookery and Dining in Imperial Rome, you’re not just reading a cookbook—you’re stepping into the kitchens, marketplaces, and banquet halls of one of history’s most powerful empires.
Attributed to Apicius, a legendary Roman gourmand whose name became synonymous with extravagant eating, this text is our closest surviving window into the culinary life of the ancient world. Part recipe collection, part cultural document, it is at once alien and oddly familiar, reminding us that the act of dining has always been more than just about feeding the body; it has been about spectacle, status, memory, and meaning.
Rome’s empire was built not only on armies and laws but also on trade routes that brought exotic ingredients into the city. Pepper from India, garum (fermented fish sauce) from the coasts of Hispania, dates from the Middle East, and honey from the countryside—all found their way into Roman kitchens. What Apicius shows is how food became a microcosm of the empire. To eat in Rome was to eat the world.
At the same time, this book is a reminder that Roman food culture was deeply stratified. The elite dined in lavish triclinium halls on stuffed dormice and flamingo tongues, while the common people lived largely on bread, porridge, olives, and wine. Reading Apicius, you are immediately struck by the disconnect: this is not a people’s cookbook. It is the preserved indulgence of the 1%, an edible expression of power.
The recipes themselves can be startling. You’ll find directions for sow’s udder, jellyfish, and peacock; for sauces combining honey with fish brine; for meats stuffed with herbs, nuts, and sweet wine. Garum—ubiquitous, salty, pungent—threads its way through almost every dish. To the modern palate, some of these combinations sound bizarre, even grotesque. And yet, turn the page and you’ll find roast chicken, lentils with greens, or honey cakes that could have come straight out of a Mediterranean kitchen today.
That duality is part of the book’s charm. Food historians often talk about continuity and rupture, and Apicius offers both. You see the persistence of Mediterranean staples—olive oil, grains, legumes, herbs—right alongside the extravagances that could only belong to imperial Rome. Reading it, you realize how much of what we eat today has ancient echoes, and how much has been lost to time.
Most modern readers encounter Cookery and Dining in Imperial Rome through Joseph Dommers Vehling’s 1936 English translation. Vehling was a chef himself, and his introduction and commentary make the text not just readable but contextualized. He explains where the recipes come from, how they might have been prepared, and what they reveal about Roman society.
Vehling’s translation has been criticized for its occasional clunkiness and dated style, but it remains a pioneering work: the first attempt to make Apicius accessible to an English-speaking audience. His background in the culinary arts gives his commentary an immediacy that a purely academic translator might lack. For a food history reader, that blend of scholarship and chef’s intuition makes the book feel alive.
One of the striking lessons of Apicius is that Roman dining was theater. A feast was not just a meal but an event staged to impress, to outdo rivals, to demonstrate wealth and cultural capital. Exotic ingredients were prized not just for their flavor but for their rarity and cost. To serve pepper, imported from halfway across the known world, was to show you had access to global trade networks. To serve dormice or flamingo was to flaunt your ability to command luxury.
And yet, beneath the opulence lies the same impulse that drives us to host dinner parties today: the desire to gather, to impress, to create memories through food. That continuity makes Apicius oddly relatable. Strip away the flamingo tongues, and you’re left with the eternal human desire to break bread together and to be remembered for generosity at the table.
The Romans did not draw a strict line between diet and health. Many of the recipes in Apicius are flavored with herbs and spices believed to have medicinal properties. The idea of balance—hot and cold, dry and moist—comes straight from humoral theory, inherited from the Greeks. In that sense, Apicius is not just a cookbook but also a pharmacopeia. Food was a tool for maintaining health, for restoring equilibrium, for treating ailments.
Reading these passages, one is reminded of Harvey Levenstein’s Fear of Food, which charts modern food anxieties. Where we obsess over gluten, cholesterol, or GMOs, the Romans worried about digestion, humoral imbalance, and moral corruption through indulgence. The logic shifts, but the impulse—to worry about what we eat—remains constant across centuries.
One of the biggest surprises for a modern reader is the vagueness of the recipes. Apicius rarely gives exact quantities, times, or measurements. Instead, he lists ingredients and methods in broad strokes: “Take such-and-such, add this, cook until done.” For someone raised on Fannie Farmer’s standardized cups and spoons, this feels maddening. But it also tells us something about Roman cooking: it was an oral, experiential art. Recipes were reminders for cooks, not instructions for novices. Precision belonged to the modern kitchen, not the ancient one.
Why read Apicius today? Partly for the sheer curiosity of seeing what the Romans ate, but also because it forces us to question our assumptions about food. When we wrinkle our noses at sow’s udder or fish sauce with honey, we’re reminded that taste is cultural, not absolute. What is strange to us was delicacy to them; what is normal to us might be bizarre to someone two thousand years hence.
There is also something humbling about realizing that our food anxieties, our obsession with exotic flavours, and our love of dinner parties all have precedents in ancient Rome. Apicius becomes a mirror: we see ourselves reflected in these ancient banquets, both in continuity and in contrast.
In many ways, Apicius is the ancestor of the books I’ve been binge-reviewing. Rachel Laudan’s Cuisine and Empire charts the global spread of cooking traditions—Apicius shows us an early empire doing exactly that. Betty Fussell’s The Story of Corn reminds us of how a single crop shaped civilizations—Apicius reveals how wheat and barley were the backbone of Roman dining. Wayne Curtis’s And a Bottle of Rum tells the story of alcohol as history—Apicius gives us Roman wine, mixed with honey and herbs, as a precursor. Even Christopher Kimball’s Fannie’s Last Supper feels like an echo: just as Kimball reconstructed a Victorian banquet, Vehling reconstructed a Roman one for modern readers.
Food history is never linear. It is a tapestry of continuities and reinventions, and Apicius is one of its oldest surviving threads.
At over 400 surviving recipes, Cookery and Dining in Imperial Rome is not something you read cover to cover in a single sitting. It’s a book to dip into, to marvel at, to contextualize. Some recipes make you smile with their audacity; others make you pause at their familiarity. Vehling’s notes help, but part of the joy is the strangeness, the sense that you are eavesdropping on a conversation across two millennia.
Cookery and Dining in Imperial Rome is more than a cookbook. It is a cultural artifact, a time machine, a reminder that eating has always been one of the most profound ways humans express identity and power. Whether you read it as a historian, a cook, or a curious gourmand, it challenges you to rethink what food means.
For me, Apicius stands as a reminder that every meal carries history, that taste is never just about flavor but about context, and that the roots of our dining rituals go far deeper than we imagine. In the end, to read Apicius is to dine with ghosts—and to realize that across the centuries, the banquet never really ends.