Scurvy Ain't Groovy
What, for instance, is a vitamin? They're all tiny, there are different ones, and if you don't eat enough of them, you get weak or sick. We may know that, but to the 17th century sailor, the idea that he was missing some teeny, tiny something would have been as absurd as a landlubber trying to steer a man-o-war. And so, as Gratzer describes in his second chapter, old salts continued to suffer from the disgusting, painful, and generally fatal scurvy into the past century, despite it having been noted by seamen, doctors, and scientists since Vasco de Gama that fresh fruits and vegetables (in particular oranges, lemons, limes-all the fruits they would have called "citrus" if they'd known the word) prevented and rapidly cured scurvy.
So the reason that the navies of the world didn't just make sailors drink their lemonade was simply because, come on-a teeny, tiny something that's in a sugary drink but alleviates scurvy's notorious "bloody patches under the skin, extreme lassitude, [and] constipation so persistent that it often required the attentions of a surgeon"? It just seemed too outlandish to be worth trying.
Replete with anecdote, misadventure, implausible cures, and villainous fakers, Terrors of the Table, reminds us that we only have a vague and slowly developing understanding of what is good for us.
An example that I love-largely because it is so terrible-is the baby formula of the Industrial Revolution. Elixirs with names like Mother's Helper, Soothing Syrup, Atkinson's Royal Infants Preservative, and Dalby's Carminative were popular among the overworked mothers of the day. What was actually helping little Willie snooze peacefully? Healthy doses of morphine, laudanum, or, as in Godfrey's Cordial, "a dispersion of opium in treacle." Thank sweet heaven for the FDA!
Gratzer starts well before the creation of the FDA, when scientists were first tinkering with microbiology and biochemistry. Vague and broad and highly disputed ideas evolved about items called proteins and about various kinds of sugars and their structures. Opposed or encouraged, driven lab workers made the discoveries that have shaped how we currently understand the significance of the numbers on the side of a yogurt container.
But even with proofs, it was still hard to convince anyone that such epidemics as pellagra (a deficiency of niacin and protein that leads to mental deterioration), or beriberi (a deficiency of thiamine) were caused by what was eaten-or what was not eaten-by given populations. Experts and laymen seemed set on believing that physical conditions or genetic predisposition were the fundamental causes.
One of the interesting points in this book is how hard it is to believe something without a supporting theory that will tell you why it is the way it is. People like the woman I worked for in Istanbul, a high-powered banker who'd been told that if you eat fruit right after dinner it all "turns right into kilos" ? i.e. fat-will enthusiastically believe clearly incorrect claims without an appealing explanation of why things are the way they are.
And so, in 1747, when surgeon James Lind of the HMS Salisbury performed "the experiment that?is generally regarded as the first controlled clinical trial of all time" and found that oranges speedily dispersed scurvy, the idea was harshly ridiculed by both British scientific academia and the Admiralty alike. It just didn't make sense to people.
Gratzer writes with the assurance of a scientist and the ease and eloquence of a talented and practiced author. He's got a precise vocabulary and pulls many sweet turns of phrase. And he writes about Petri dishes and chicken dissections with equal readability.
But his best trait may be his simple common sense, as when he advises readers to follow "the Second-World War mantra, now seldom heard, that 'a little of what you fancy does you good.'" Amen.