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Trimalchio’s Banquet Redux: Mario Batali Meets Meat Packing Head On

Satyi

Trimalchio’s Banquet Redux: Mario Battali Meets Meat Packing Head On.

Or, Chelsea Market Goes Empire, Roman Style

One of the most talked about culinary events of the year (other than Michelin poking its Gaulois nez into Gotham gossip) is no doubt the opening of Mario Batali’s Del Posto, on the ever glammifying avenue 10.

Do not think simple. Do not think of the celebrated understatement of a Passard. Instead, think excess. Think Trimalchio’s Banquet.

Note: Nothing announces an Empire like excessive feasting.

Too Much is Never Enough:
In a time when many well-respected chefs such as Rick Moonen (now in Las Vegas), who serves only sustainable seafood and Passard, who raises exquisite vegetables as the main attraction, Batali is serving up an entire rack of lamb. When a respectable cut of Kobe beef fetches over $60 at most Gotham tables, Batali is offering an entire loin. Instead of one endangered sea bass, Batali could, if he were so inclined, serve an entire school, along with the roe and fried hatchlings as garnish; or he could stuff a sow with her own roasted sucklings; or he could roast an
entire bison and have diners eat their way through it, and give a prize on the other side.

The possibilities are endless. Just stuff yourself until you have to regurgitate in the exquisitely tiled bathroom, gilded and temperature controlled, with mood lighting and scented with rare flowers. Why not? Is it not the right of every American to wallow in well-earned excess, to bedeck and bejewel and bestuff ourselves to the point of projectile vomiting?

Note: “Vomitorium” is not a Roman word for “a place to vomit”. It is architectural term for “passageway”.

Yes, Too much is Too Much:
The disturbing thing about the excess of an entire rack of veal is that there is no reason for it; after one has satisfied immediate taste requirements, how much does one need to fill ones belly? Do any of us really need to eat that many lamb chops to feel sated, especially when other foods are on the table, and in gargantuan portions?
Does any diner really have to have a hecatomb slaughtered for his or her own sake? Are we so hubristic that we need temple-sized portions in order to satisfy some gloriosis need?

Apparently, we are and we do and we will, like a bunch of petty nobles, surge through the doors of Batali’s new temple to excess in order to experience Trimalchio’s Banquet Redux .

Misnomer:
Instead of Del Posto, he should have called it “Apud Gluttonem” or “Dedecorus Decem”, Chez the Glutton or Dedecadent 10, respectively.

Excerpt from “The Banquet of Trimalchio” from the Satyricon by Petronious Arbiter:

At last we went to recline at table where boys from Alexandria poured snow water on our hands, while others, turning their attention to our feet, picked our nails – not silently, but singing the entire time. I wanted to see if the whole group could sing, and so I shouted for a drink, and a boy, ready and willing, brought me one, along with a peppy tune; but no matter what you asked for it was all the same song.

The first course was served and it was fairly well done; we all had a close and personal view of the table, except for Trimalchio - the place of honor had been reserved for him (keeping in step with the latest fashion). The first treats brought out included a little donkey made of Corinthian bronze, complete with saddle bags – one filled with white olives and the other with black. Over the donkey were two silver platters, engraved on the edges with Trimalchio's name – and the price tag for the silver. Dormice seasoned with honey and poppies were plated on little iron bridges; there were also steaming sausages carried in on a silver grate, covering a selection of imported Syrian plums and pomegranate grains.

As we were enjoying these treats, Trimalchio was carried in with a burst of music. The servers laid him down on a pile of pillows, very carefully; and then some of then some of the servers broke out in giggles, little wonder since Trimalchio’sbald head was peeping out at us from a under a red cape; and his neck was all wrapped up; and he was wearing a robe with a wide purple stripe, with tassels and fringes dangling all over him.

He picked at his teeth with a silver toothpick and said, "My friends, I really didn't want to have dinner so early, but I was afraid my absence would cause too great a delay, so I denied myself the pleasure I was at; well, anyway, I hope you'll let me finish my game." A slave followed, carrying a pine checkerboard complete with crystal dice; but the one thing that struck me as really remarkable was that he had gold and silver coins instead of the regular black and red plastic pieces. While he was cursing like a sailor over the game and we were moving on to the lighter dishes, a basket was brought in on a tray, with a wooden hen in it, her wings spread out , as if she were hatching.

Then two slaves came with their eternal singing, and began searching the straw, and pulled out some peahen's
eggs, and gave them to the guests. Trimalchio turned
around and said," Friends, I had some peahen's eggs placed under a hen, and so help me Hercules! I hope they're not hatched out; we'd better try if they're still tasty." And so we picked up our spoons (not less than six ounces of silver) and broke open the eggs – they were made of rich pastry. Good thing, too, because I was just about to throw mine away, thinking it had a chick in it, and I heard a regular say, "There must be something good in this," I explored it a little deeper and found a very fat fig-pecker inside, surrounded by peppered egg yolk.

At this point Trimalchio stopped playing checkers and demanded the same dishes; raising his voice he declared that if anyone wanted more liquor they just had to ask for it. All at once the band started playing, and the servers started singing as they removed the first course. In the mayhem, a plate crashed to the floor, and when a boy bent down to pick it up, Trimalchio smacked him a few times and then told him to "throw it down again", just so that a slave could come in and sweep up the silver platter along with the rest of the garbage. After that two long-haired Ethiopians entered with little jugs, like the ones used in the arena in the amphitheater, but instead of water they poured wine on our hands. Then wine was brought in, still corked, and with a note on the neck of each bottle, reading thus: " Opimian Falernia, One hundred years old. "

Tags:   10th avenue, excess, feasting, glam, gotham gossip, mario batali, meat packing, satyricon, tenth ave, trimalchio