[Sca-cooks] Food in "Cries of London", was medieval fast food

[vicki shaw]

I am humbled, Milord!  'Tis more than once I have thought I do not belong on
this list, for by comparison with most of you, I am little better than a
scullion and have recently questioned how much I really have to offer.  I
laugh at my own presumption for I thought I was a cook!  Ha!  How much I
have learned both about my own limitations - which are legion - and from you
all.

I felt I had to say this, really.  I ask only that you let this little
temperamental fit slip by quietly with no fuss at all.  I thank you for the
honor of being allowed to participate and for the free education I am
getting.

Vicki (not Angharad here, but Vicki)



> There's an article in at least some editions of the Larousse
> Gastronomique about the Street Cries of Paris (and the vendors
> performing same). <snip>
>
> Adamantius
>
> Many composers wrote 'Cries', including Orlando Gibbons and (maybe) Thomas
> Morely. Here is the text from one such 'Cries of London':
>
> God give you good morrow my master, past three o'clock and a fair
> morning. New mussels, new lily white mussels. Hot codlings [cooking
apples],
> hot. New cockles, new great cockles. New great sprats, new. New fresh
> herrings. New haddocks, new. Now thornbacks new. Hot apple pies, hot. Hot
> pippin pies, hot. Fine pomegranates, fine. Hot mutton pies hot. Ha' ye any
> old bellows or trays to mend? Rosemary and bays, quick and gentle. Ripe
> chestnuts, ripe. Ripe smallnuts, ripe. White cabbage, white young cabbage,
> white. White turnips, white young turnips, white. . . parsnips. . .
lettuce.
> . . Buy any ink, will you buy any ink, very fine writing ink, will you buy
> any ink? Ha' ye any rats or mice to kill? I ha' ripe peascods, ripe.
> Oysters, oysters, oysters, threepence a peck at Bridewell dock, new
> Wallfleet oysters. Oyez! If any man or woman can tell any tidings of a
grey
> mare, with a long mane and a short tail, she halts [limps] down right
> before, and is stark lame behind, and was lost this thirtieth day of
> February. He that can tell any tidings of her, let him come to the Crier,
> and he shall have well for his hire. Ripe damsons, ripe fine damsons. Hard
> garlic, hard. Will ye buy any aqua vitae, mistress? I have ripe
> goose-berries, ripe. Buy a barrel of Samphire. What is't ye lack? Fine
> wrought shirts or smocks. Perfumed waistcoats, fine bone lace or edgings,
> sweet gloves, silk garters, very fine silk garters, fine combs or glasses.
> Or a poking stick with a silver handle. Old doublets, ha'ye any old
> doublets? Ha' ye any corns on your feet or toes? Fine potatoes, fine. Will
> ye buy any starch for a clear complexion, mistress? Poor naked bedlam,
Tom's
> a-cold, a small cut of thy bacon or a piece of thy sow's side, good Bess.
> God Almighty bless thy wits. Quick [live], periwinckles, quick, quick,
> quick. Buy a new almanac. Buy a fine washing ball. Buy any small coal?
Good
> gracious people, for the Lord's sake, pity the poor women, we lie cold and
> comfortless night and day on the cold boards in the dark dungeon in great
> misery. Hot oat cakes. Lanthorn and candlelight, hang out maids for all
> night.
> And so we make an end.
>
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