Food

Leonardo da Vinci and the Mysterious Renaissance Energy Drink

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Leonardo da Vinci and the Mysterious Renaissance Energy Drink

When people list Leonardo da Vinci’s patrons, they usually name the Medici family, Ludovico Sforza, or King Francis I of France. What they rarely mention is his other sponsor: a little-known 15th-century producer of caffeinated, carbonated beverages.

Yes, according to obscure, recently translated marginalia in his notebooks, Leonardo da Vinci may have been the first brand ambassador for what can only be described as the Renaissance’s answer to Red Bull.

The Evidence Bubbles Up

In the Codex Atlanticus, Leonardo refers cryptically to a “vino frizzante con spirito vivificante” , sparkling wine with a “life-giving spirit.” Scholars long assumed this was some sort of medicinal tonic, but recent reinterpretations suggest otherwise. The “life-giving spirit” wasn’t alchemy at all. It was caffeine.

His sketches even show peculiar glass vessels with pressure-stoppers, a technology that seems utterly unnecessary for wine but suspiciously ideal for trapping carbonation. Was Leonardo, centuries ahead of his time, designing the first soda bottle?

Powered by Fizz

How else, after all, could one man design parachutes, helicopters, automatic spit-roasters, armored tanks, and the Mona Lisa without collapsing from exhaustion? Modern science agrees: his productivity strongly suggests he was running on something stronger than Tuscan espresso.

Contemporaries remarked on his restless energy, one noting that “Maestro Leonardo eats little, but he speaks, writes, and draws as if possessed.” In hindsight, that sounds less like genius and more like someone who has just downed three cans of Renaissance Monster Energy.

A Brand Partnership Before Its Time

Renaissance Italy thrived on patronage. Painters and engineers often wore the colors or symbols of their benefactors. Curiously, some frescoes attributed to Leonardo contain faint motifs of bubbles rising in liquid, hidden in decorative borders. Coincidence,or product placement?

Was the parachute really about science? Or was it an early publicity stunt: “Watch as I leap from this tower,safely sustained by my linen invention, thanks to the invigorating powers of Aqua Frizzante Fortificata!”

Why the Secret?

Historians argue that Leonardo’s soda sponsorship faded from the record because it was simply too implausible for later scholars to take seriously. The Medici dukes could be praised for their patronage, but admitting Florence’s greatest genius was bankrolled by a fizzy pick-me-up might have been too embarrassing.

Conclusion

So though we haven’t yet found a surviving Renaissance soda can in a Florentine archaeological dig, the evidence suggests that da Vinci wasn’t just ahead of his time in art and engineering. He also anticipated the world’s most lucrative industry: caffeinated soft drinks.

If true, Leonardo wasn’t just the father of the helicopter and parachute,he was also the original influencer.

Report on Last Night’s Dinner of the Fitzrovia Dining Society

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Report on Last Night’s Dinner of the Fitzrovia Dining Society

By An Appalled Member

Last night’s gathering of the Fitzrovia Dining Society was held in what can only be described as a deliberate affront to reason: the disused vault of a former private bank off Charlotte Street. Our host, Maximilian Tempest, announced this choice with the words, “We dine where the money used to sleep.” The location was lit solely by flickering candles balanced on piles of obsolete ledgers, which lent the evening a faint air of Dickensian bookkeeping.

THE FOOD

The menu was themed around “edible finance,” which was as distressing as it sounds. We began with Credit Crunch, a brittle biscuit allegedly infused with saffron but tasting mostly of scorched toast. This was followed by Quantitative Easing, a soup so thin it appeared to be mostly steam. For the main course, we were served Asset Strip,a ribbon of raw courgette draped over a single cube of halloumi, presented on a plate engraved with gilt stock-market figures. Dessert was Hostile Takeover, a violently bitter chocolate mousse topped with candied chilli so aggressive it made Lady Cressida von Hotham remove herself to the vault corridor for “cooling.”

THE ARGUMENTS

No dinner of the Fitzrovia Dining Society is complete without a pitched battle over something abstract. Last night’s quarrel began innocuously enough when Sir Lionel Buxworth remarked that digital art “isn’t real art,” which prompted Ptolemy (our resident abstract painter) to accuse him of “nostalgic bigotry.” This spiralled rapidly: HEDGE FUND, still flushed from his last pop-art sale, declared that all art should be traded like cryptocurrency, to which Sir Lionel responded that he would “rather be waterboarded with tepid Chablis.”

A secondary argument broke out over the correct temperature for champagne service. Lady Cressida insisted it should be “colder than a Swiss banker’s soul,” while Hugo Lynch claimed that over-chilling “kills the nuance.” Maximilian resolved the matter by serving the next bottle at room temperature, thereby uniting both sides in universal condemnation.

THE INCIDENT

Halfway through the main course, an unplanned event enlivened proceedings: the vault door, which had been casually propped open with a crate of vintage port, swung shut with a resonant boom. We were briefly trapped inside, which prompted Lord Peregrine to mutter, “At last, an immersive work I can respect.” We were freed after ten minutes when the caterer, who had been smoking outside, returned and found us shouting about liquidity ratios.

CONCLUSION

The evening, though logistically questionable and nutritionally unsound, was deemed a success in the perverse way that only the Fitzrovia Dining Society can measure success: everyone left irritated, slightly hungry, and absolutely certain they would never return. And yet we do.

The next dinner is rumoured to take place inside a defunct telephone exchange, provided the host can persuade the council to overlook “the asbestos situation.”

‘Lost Bach Cantata’ Discovered in Plymouth Fish & Chip Shop?

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‘Lost Bach Cantata’ Discovered in Plymouth Fish & Chip Shop?

A Plymouth man’s evening meal has unexpectedly sparked an international musicological debate, after handwritten sheet music, apparently by Johann Sebastian Bach, was found wrapped around his fish and chips.

The manuscript, grease-marked and faintly smelling of vinegar, was discovered by Martin P., 42, who purchased a takeaway from St Mary’s Fish Bar on Union Street.

“At first I thought it was just foreign scribbles,” he told the BBC. “Then I realised it was music. I don’t play an instrument myself, but I’ve got a mate who once had a go on the recorder. He said it looked important.”

The document, tentatively titled Kantate zur Ehre des gebackenen Fisches, has been shown to scholars in Leipzig and London, who remain divided.

Professor Helga Braun of Leipzig University said the handwriting “shows every sign of being authentic,” citing distinctive flourishes on the G-clefs and an idiosyncratic use of notation in the continuo line.

But Dr Thomas Henshaw of King’s College, London, disagreed: “It is far more likely a later pastiche. The paper stock alone suggests a fishmonger’s ledger, not an 18th-century manuscript.”

The British Library confirmed it had been contacted about the find but declined to comment until the work could be “stabilised and de-greased.”

Meanwhile, locals have taken the discovery in their stride. “I suppose it’s nice that Plymouth might be known for something other than the ferry to Roscoff,” said one resident waiting in the chip shop queue. Another remarked: “It makes the chips taste more cultured, if a little baroque.”

The owner of St Mary’s Fish Bar, Mrs. N. Ethen, expressed surprise at the sudden academic interest in her establishment. “We normally get complaints about soggy batter, not music manuscripts,” she said. “I can promise you, we source all our wrapping paper from reputable suppliers. If they are sending us priceless manuscripts you’ll have to take that up with them.”

Whether the manuscript proves to be an authentic lost cantata or an elaborate forgery, experts agree on one point: it is the first known instance of a Bach score turning up in a Chip shop.

Have you found a Bach score somewhere unusual? If so, let us know.

Reflections on Last Night’s Gathering of the Fitzrovia Dining Society

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Reflections on Last Night’s Gathering of the Fitzrovia Dining Society

A Personal Account by an Esteemed Member

I arrived at last night’s meeting of the Fitzrovia Dining Society with a sense of mild trepidation. The venue, The Carpenter’s Glove, was an unconventional choice, a pub, of all places. The committee, in their infinite wisdom, had declared it an “ironic experiment in post-gastronomic democracy.” I braced myself for an evening of curated suffering.

The Setting

The Carpenter’s Glove is a perfectly respectable establishment, if one enjoys “authentic” wooden floors, exposed brick, and the faint scent of fried potatoes lingering in the air. It was a stark departure from our usual candlelit warehouses and repurposed Victorian morgues. The barman, a robust man named Dave, did not seem aware that we were an elite dining society. When I attempted to explain our pedigree, he nodded and said, “Right, so that’s a round of Guinness, then?”

The Menu

Gone were the edible air sculptures and foraged lichen platters of our previous dinners. Instead, we were presented with a menu boasting pie and mash, fish and chips, and an alarming category simply titled ‘Jacket Potatoes’. I spotted Lady Cressida von Hotham squinting at the menu as if it were an ancient manuscript in a lost language. Hugo Lynch, who once spent a weekend fasting with Sally Umbridge, looked visibly distressed.

Despite this, some of us leaned into the experience. Lord Peregrine ordered the “Scampi Basket”, declaring it a “fatuous commentary on Shakespearean ethics.” Arabella Montague attempted to pair her shepherd’s pie with a 2010 Château Margaux, which Dave politely refused to sell her, claiming there was none in the establishment. He handed the poor thing a pint of London Pride instead.

The Conversation

Naturally, the evening’s discourse attempted to maintain its usual level of cultural superiority. Subjects ranged from the latest Frieze acquisitions to the distressing trend of billionaires purchasing football clubs instead of Caravaggios. However, as the night wore on and more pints were consumed, the conversation took an unexpected turn.

Hugo, emboldened by an ill-advised whisky chaser, admitted that he secretly enjoys buying art just because it matches his sofa. This led to a shocking confession from Lady Cressida, who revealed that she once mistook a Cy Twombly for a wine stain and tried to have it cleaned. By the time Lord Peregrine was halfway through his scampi, he was openly musing about the possibility of suing the establishment for the horror he was enduring.

The Ritual

Traditionally, our gatherings conclude with the ceremonial unveiling of a new acquisition. This time, however, things took an unexpected turn. Instead of revealing a rare Louise Bourgeois etching or a provocative Banksy print, our host, Julian DeVere, simply gestured to the pub itself.

“This,” he declared, sweeping an arm toward the sticky wooden tables, the dartboard, the old man in the corner muttering to himself, “is the realest experience we have ever had. We are living the art.”

A long silence followed. It was unclear whether we had just witnessed an act of genius or the existential collapse of the Fitzrovia Dining Society itself.

Conclusion

I left The Carpenter’s Glove in a state of contemplation. Had we, in our attempt to rise above the ordinary, accidentally become part of it? Or was this, in fact, the most avant-garde dining experience of all?

Regardless, I have woken this morning with a profound headache, a mysterious beer mat in my pocket, and an insatiable craving for another serving of scampi. I fear the Society may never recover.

Art with Your burger! Pimlico Wilde Teams Up with Vottle Burgers for a Truly Rare Medium

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Fusing the haute with the hotplate, contemporary art dealers Pimlico Wilde have entered a decadent partnership with Vottle Burgers, the gourmet burger atelier best known for their menu items that require both a mortgage and a sommelier. The centrepiece of this new alliance? A complimentary artwork with every purchase of the Vottle Cheesey Truffle Burger™,a towering, truffle-laced behemoth priced at £174 and described by its creators as “a deconstruction of the hamburger as concept.”

For those unfamiliar with Pimlico Wilde, the gallery is known for championing emerging artists such as Greta Splinter, (famous for swimming the Channel dressed as a sausage) as well as dealing in older, more blue chip art; to find them issuing art with burgers is, at first glance, like seeing Gertrude Stein sell tote bags at Pret.

But this is no mere marketing gimmick. Each Cheesey Truffle Burger is wrapped in an original, signed artwork by a Pimlico Wilde artist. The works are, we are assured, limited edition, and are expected to rise in price enormously. Already works – freely obtained with a burger – are been sold on eBay for hundreds and thousands of pounds.

“We wanted to collapse the artificial boundaries between consumption and contemplation,” explains Gaspard Pimms, co-owner of the gallery. “Why should art be separate from the visceral pleasures of umami?”

Vottle Burgers, for their part, have long flirted with the art world. Their flagship Soho location resembles a deconstructed Henry Moore, and their side of fries (called Existential Potatoes) are served with a handwritten poem about decay written on the inside of their wrapper. The new collaboration, they insist, is the logical next step in merging gastronomy with gallery-going.

The Cheesey Truffle Burger™ itself is an exercise in edible opulence: dry-aged Wagyu beef, truffle-infused double cream Gruyère, pickled shallots sous-vide in Champagne, and a secret aioli described by one food critic as “a spiritual awakening in a sauce.” Continuing the art world influence, the burger isn’t served on a plate but rather a plinth.

Early adopters of the art-burger have expressed both confusion and delight. One patron, sipping kombucha from a ceramic goblet shaped like Munich’s Scream, remarked: “I love my free artwork. I think it is a critique of fast food.”

Critics have been quick to weigh in. Some praise the collaboration as “a bold dismantling of elitist art consumption,” while others call it “a gastro-capitalist horror story.” The Aberdeen Standard’s food columnist gave the project no stars.

Whether it’s a playful provocation or a truffled Trojan horse smuggling contemporary art into your lunch hour, Art Burger is undeniably of its time: ephemeral, confusing, and most important of all, Instagrammable. It also gives the Art Market a delicious question to answer; what, exactly, is the resale value of a ketchup-stained lithograph that has been used to wrap a burger?