Acetaria: A Discourse of Sallets — Reading Notes

The Art of Assembly

Evelyn's instructions for dressing a sallet are remarkably exact. He specifies that herbs should be 'exquiſitely pick'd, cleans'd, waſh'd' and then 'ſwing'd, and ſhaken gently' before being parcell'd on a napkin. The dressing—which he calls the Oxoleon—follows a strict ratio: three parts oil to one part vinegar, with optional infusions of horseradish or Guinea-pepper. He even notes the precise amount of mustard: 'as will lie upon an Half-Crown Piece.' The final step involves mashing two hard-boiled egg yolks into the dressing and pouring it over the herbs just before serving. This attention to detail suggests a cook who values both method and timing, treating the sallet as a crafted object rather than a casual mixture.

A Defense of the Herbaceous Diet

After the practical section, Evelyn pivots to a broader question: 'Whether the Uſe of Crude Herbs and Plants are ſo wholeſom as is pretended?' He marshals evidence from ancient physicians, the Bible, and contemporary reports of long-lived peoples who subsist on herbs and roots. He acknowledges counterarguments—such as the dampness of postdiluvian air and the putrid carcasses from the Flood—but ultimately defends the sallet as a healthful, even virtuous, choice. This section reveals Evelyn's dual identity as a natural philosopher and a moralist, using dietary debate to engage with larger questions about human longevity and the state of the earth.

Recurring Images: The Strainer and the Napkin

Throughout the practical instructions, Evelyn returns to two key tools: the strainer and the clean napkin. The strainer is used to swing and shake the herbs dry; the napkin serves as a clean surface for parcellin and mingling. These objects recur with a frequency that suggests they are not mere utensils but symbols of the care and cleanliness Evelyn insists upon. The napkin, in particular, evokes the domestic ritual of table preparation, while the strainer's gentle swinging implies a physical rhythm to the work. Together, they anchor the discourse in the tactile, sensory world of the kitchen, even as Evelyn ranges into theology and medicine.

Movement Between Kitchen and Study

Evelyn's text moves fluidly between the practical and the scholarly, often within a single paragraph. A note on the acidity of vinegar gives way to a Greek proverb—'Non est cuiusvis recte condire'—and then to a discussion of antediluvian diet. This movement is not haphazard but deliberate: Evelyn treats the sallet as a subject worthy of the same intellectual rigor as any branch of natural philosophy. The reader is expected to follow him from the garden to the library and back, recognizing that the proper dressing of a sallet is, for Evelyn, a small but significant act of learned cultivation.

Readers approaching Acetaria should be prepared for a text that resists easy categorization: part cookbook, part philosophical essay, part historical document. The 1699 edition's typography and spelling have been preserved, so the prose demands slow reading. Pay attention to the way Evelyn shifts between registers—from the precise to the speculative—and to the recurring objects that anchor his instructions. The sallet, for Evelyn, is never just a dish; it is a point of entry into a wider world of learning and debate.