Anyone who mattered agreed that running a large city took personal qualities gained through upbringing and tradition. That was really true of any large polity. A village headman or ship’s captain might be chosen from the common run, but for anything really significant, you needed to call on people from the right families. Yes, there might be disagreements, even violence, but how was that different from what happened among kings and lords? That very likely was the attitude Konstantin von Lyskirchen, head of the faction of ‘friends’ and senior court official of the city of Cologne, took. The patrician families might fight amongst each other, but barely a generation ago, they had come together to bloodily show the uppity weavers’ guild who was in charge. Buoyed by a recent victory against the rival ‘griffin’ faction and this certainty, he may have been a little forceful in dissolving a gathering of Gaffel members, civic associations of the more common kind. But he had a meeting to go to, and this sort of thing needed discouraging.
He was probably quite surprised when, later that day, he and 100 fellow patricians found their gathering disturbed by hundreds of artisans and merchants. They had fetched their arms, brought the city’s war banner, and took the opportunity to lock up most of their natural governing class conveniently assembled in one place. It was 18 June 1396, and for Konstantin and his fellow Geschlechter, nothing would ever be the same again.
Germany is a country of innumerable cities, all of them with their own history and distinct traditions. Some are famous for their ancient roots, their ecclesiastical glory, or their association with powerful rulers. Others are known as centres of art or industry, learning or trade, remembered for their artisans’ skill or the acumen of their merchants. With Cologne, it is ‘And’.
Founded by a Roman emperor, the city is roughly a millennium older than Berlin, Hamburg, Munich, or Frankfurt. Its archiepiscopal see was one of the oldest in the Empire and included electoral rank, which meant its holder was one of just seven princes who chose a new emperor. The shrine of the Magi drew pilgrims from all over Christendom to its grand churches. Albertus Magnus and Thomas Aquinas had taught at its cathedral school. As the final port on the Rhine seagoing ships cold reach, it was a major commercial hub, trading wine, timber, and fish, and exporting the famous Cologne grey cloth the thousands of weavers in its oldest guild produced. When its merchants first attended an assembly of the Hanseatic League in 1383, they immediately demanded recognition as its leaders. For most of the medieval period, Cologne was the largest German-speaking city in existence, and it had an ego to match.
That was not to say its rise had been easy of peaceful. Much of its recorded history were dominated by the citizens’ struggle to escape the domineering power of their archbishops, and when they finally achieved this in 1258, urban self-government passed into the hands of the Geschlechter, the grand patrician families. Their club, the Richerzeche (literally ‘guild of the rich’) was treated as a de-facto organ of government. They dominated the economy, monopolised positions of authority, and created a convoluted system of decisionmaking that ensured little cold be done without every family agreeing. As far as it went, this was not an uncommon arrangement in larger cities, and it was very lucrative as long as there was no serious conflict among the Geschlechter.
Of course there was. We are not far off imagining the patrician families as a cross between noble hoses and mafia clans, and without external threats, they descended into internecine squabbles. In the meantime, the great majority of citizens outside this charmed circle were asked to support their decisions and finance the whole thing through their taxes. They, too, had their organisations. Artisans were assembled in craft guilds (called Ämter in Cologne, as in most Hansa towns) which were allowed some limited political role and strictly policed. When the butchers’ guild staged a protest in 1348, the council simply dissolved it.
Another form of organisation that shows up in the record in the 14th century were the Gaffeln. The name means ‘fork’ (Gabel in modern German), and it was a direct reference to their ostensible purpose: Sharing meals. That was not an unusual thing. Eating together – commensality if you are unlucky enough to have to do academic writing – established and strengthened social bonds and entrenched hierarchies. The word lord is etymologically related to bread, as is the word companion. One encapsulates the hierarchical order – the lord gives bread, the servant receives it – the other the egalitarian one – companions share bread. he Gaffeln were of the latter kind.
Named after the carving fork they used to serve portions of meat – forks were not commonly used for eating until the seventeenth century in Germany – these clubs united artisans and merchants, including many who had become wealthy, but were excluded from patrician circles. A Gaffel would establish itself in a given neighbourhood, draw on local people for membership, and effectively become a local community organisations. These were not charities; Members had to fund their meals, after all. But many more could afford to join them than the Richerzeche, and the Gaffel was open to all.
I know of no meal plans for the Gaffeln of the 1390s surviving, but regulations for similar organisations from cities throughout Germany still exist, and the picture is relatively homogenous. The food signalled status, not luxury, but it was never cheap. Often, dishes were defined precisely to ensure members could not compete for leadership by giving more than the rules stipulated. Hosts were elected or determined by rote, and their status was limited to the meal they gave.
The key element in a proper meal was meat or, if the rules of the church did not allow it, fish. In Cologne, there was both locally caught freshwater fish and preserved sea fish like herring, cod, and sole brought in for trade. The market also provided locally butchered beef, pork, and mutton. For both fish and meat, roasted was considered the best, to the point that the word braten came to mean a main dish in general. A roast of meat was also what you used the carving fork on and why it had more symbolic power than a spoon or a bowl. In addition, there was always fine bread and drinks, wine, beer, or both, depending on geography. Cologne had both a brewing tradition and access to wine in large quantities. Butter and salt would accompany every such meal unless it was a strict fast day, and often there was cheese, fruit, and condiments like vinegar, mustard, and other sauces. Side dishes of vegetables are rarely specified, but probably also existed.
After the meal, people lingered to drink, talk, and nibble on snacks such as fritters, nuts, and fruit. One such dish that is still popular in winter, but really good throughout the year, is roast apples. Today, they are known as Bratapfel. Many surviving recipes are very complex, but there is one from a manuscript produced in the Rhineland in 1444 that resembles the modern version and probably also comes closer to what the non-rich were eating:
65 Take figs, raisins and honey. Chop it together with spices and other good things, fill it into apples and close them again with a wooden skewer. Bake them in a thick-walled container (degel) with wine, that turns out courtly.
We know of similar treats from stories, often made very basically by roasting apples or pears in the ashes. Some surviving recipes tend towards the other extreme with parti-coloured fillings and dough or batter coatings for apples deep-fried whole. Simply filling one with dried fruit, spices, and honey represents a happy medium. It would have been affordable to the Gaffel members and also fit their idea of respectable wealth without excess.
From sharing the food to seating and speaking order, an egalitarian ethos suffused every aspect of such gatherings. This was a place where you could talk among equals, air grievances, and possibly hatch plans. We do not know how far the revolt of 1396 was planned. Later historians claimed it was spontaneous, and that is not impossible; citizens had weapons in their homes to defend the city if needed, and the numbers and spaces were small enough you could communicate by running and shouting. But it seems unlikely nobody ever at least considered the possibility.
In the event, things ended reasonably well for everyone involved. The patricians got to keep their heads, their citizenship, and their property, which was remarkably generous all things considered. The government of the city was re-ordered, the privileges of the Geschlechter revoked, and the new system was based on 22 Gaffeln. Some of them were simply the old craft guilds while others represented neighbourhoods. All citizens were required to enroll in one. The Gaffel organised defence and civic obligations, and elected representatives to the council, as well as an expanded advisory body for special cases because in the old Empire, simple government was just unthinkable. The councillors had term limits of one year and were paid in wine. They elected two mayors and two Rentmeister finance officials, also limited to one year in office. It was designed deliberately to ensure nobody got to monopolise power again.
Success was limited, but real. It turned out that rich and connected people had a way of getting into positions of power more often than statistically likely and would help each other stick to their respective seats. Soon enough, old patricians managed to rotate between terms as mayor and Rentmeister, freezing out the rest. In 1481 and again in 1512, there were violent uprisings against these machinations, and in each case the constitution was amended. But in principle, it worked, and until the end of its independence in the Napoleonic wars, Cologne remained a city governed by civic dinner clubs. There surely were worse ways of doing that.