3) Viper Soup
Here we have another Georgian creation, this time taken from Charlotte Mason’s The Lady’s Assistant for Regulating and Supplying the Table (1787). Reading Ms Mason’s recipe, it’s hard to say whether she’s describing part of the cookery process or one of the twelve labours of Hercules. First, she writes, “take vipers, alive,” (from where she doesn’t specify) “and skin them, and cut off their heads; then cut them in pieces, about two Inches in length, and boil them, with their Hearts, in about one Gallon of Water to eight vipers, if they are pretty large.”
The jury’s out over what’s worse: the recipe’s violence or Ms Mason’s blatant disregard for correct comma and capital letter usage. What’s beyond dispute however is the mind-boggling popularity of this dish. It’s known to us from several eighteenth century sources, all of which unsurprisingly suggest adding either white wine or liquor to the broth. But before you gag, Ms Mason does suggest garnishing the soup with various herbs and spices, not to mention slices of lemon. So it’s all good.
So how did this exotic delicacy find its way to English shores during the eighteenth century? The answer, unsurprisingly, lies with Britain’s Empire. Viper soups seem to have come from China, where snake skin was revered for its remedial benefits. A snake’s natural flexibility was thought to offset our stiff, arthritic joints; its regular shedding of skin was thought to serve dermatological purposes; and its strong venom was believed to inject a spot of that manly vigour so important to Georgian culture.
This explains why various viper soups or broths were recommended to cure (or at least alleviate the symptoms of) a number of ailments. And the predominant belief of the age that an animal’s sudden and violent added to the potency of its healing powers goes some way in explaining the palpable violence of Ms Mason’s recipe and why the vipers had to be alive in the first place.
